CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT - THE FATHER-BIRD

Vyuli rubbed his hands together, blowing gently on them for warmth. He remained very still otherwise, and he almost seemed... priestly, with his bowed head, his solemn expression, his ritualised warming of the hands, his black clothes... even the throne of ancient, blackened hams could be interpreted as something symbolic, even if she was fairly confident it wasn't. And, of course, the hammer. The hammer, mounted on a spear piercing the eye of a wolf. A mobile altar. Tanner tried to keep her breathing steady, and a strange... hm. Was this how martyrs felt? The venerated self-sacrifices that sprung up with every bloody turning of the wheel of history, the few who willingly threw themselves into the grinding mechanisms, weeping joyfully as they did so. Confident that they were going to die, and... detached from the world as a consequence. An eerie calm swept through her. Well. Most of her. Her stomach was riddled with spasm upon spasm, like her innards were fighting to escape a doomed vessel. Her mind, though, was calm and still, icy and focused. And if she focused enough, this could spread outwards, chilling her limbs, freezing her heart... even as there remained a warm core of fear, aching to be released, to flood her body with adrenaline at all costs.

Not yet. Not yet. If she was going to die here, and she probably was, then she'd go out with some bloody dignity.

That was it. That was the last, most meaningful choice she could make. Die well, or die poorly.

Pleasingly simple, in a way.

"If you're going to kill me, could I ask a few questions?"

The old man looked over sightlessly for a moment, before awareness clambered its way back into his eyes, brightening them, agitating them into motion. This was a man who had to ration everything - too old to do everything at once, had to parcel out his vitality only when it was needed. Idly, she imagined there was probably an application process for that, going on inside his head. From: Eyes. To: Brain. Request for awareness distribution. Urgency: medium. Reason: been asked a question. Filled out in triplicate, of course. Cerebureaucracy was a serious business, with high standards.

Shut up, Tanner. Daft old sow.

"If you like."

"I'd... just rather not die ignorant. Given that knowing too much is why I'm here, I'd at least-"

"Don't need to justify yourself, young lady. Just ask."

Tanner swallowed. The old man stared at her.

And she began, even as her hands, in a last-ditch effort, fumbled for the sharp thing hidden up her sleeve.

"How much did I get right?"

He hummed thoughtfully, scratching his chin, the sound of a nail rasping over dry skin unpleasantly loud in the cloistered silence.

"Assuming that my intensely silly daughter told me the truth..."

Tanner blinked, and instinctively interrupted.

"Tom-Tom is-"

A note of danger entered Vyuli's voice, cracking out like a whip.

"Pyulmila. Her name isn't... Tom-Tom. I picked a proper name for her, before she was born, and gave it to her when she was crawling in her mother's entrails. Pyulmila. Not Tom-Tom."

Tanner blinked. Processing things quickly. Well. Tom-Tom had... in the very last stages of that ill-fated interrogation, there'd been a significant change in her demeanour. Very significant indeed. When Tanner had begun, Tom-Tom had been utterly terrified. Genuinely breaking down, and Tanner was convinced that she'd breached some crucial barrier, really gotten under her skin. Then she'd laid out her interpretation of Tom-Tom's place in the grand scheme of things and... click. Back to the usual lies, too smooth, too convenient. Like she'd seen an escape route, and took it immediately, anything to avoid confronting the unvarnished truth. Tanner had betrayed that she didn't know about Vyuli, the hammer, anything. Knew enough to be dangerous. But... well, landslides and bullets were both dangerous, but a landslide wasn't accurate, nor was it a good way to perform an assassination.

Her mistake had been assuming that more of this was up to a natural, passive process - individual weakness, corruption festering in the corners, the sort of decay which accompanied any kind of growth. What had the governor said? Right - in Herxiel, they saw sin as something which everyone eventually succumbed to. The soul was a machine, and sin was the impurities that built up over time, jamming gears, interrupting function, and eventually... collapse. She'd seen it that way.

Clearly things had been more deliberate.

Even planned.

"Pyulmila, then. Assuming she... told you the truth about the interrogation?"

She spoke gently, avoiding offence, prodding him back to the point. The old man sniffed, and... removed his tie, folding it slowly and deliberately as he spoke.

"I have no doubt she lied about some points. Evading responsibility, evading punishment. No doubt about that. But assuming she told the truth in the broader areas... you understood a great deal. But you lacked the final leap of logic. It's to be understood - we've been fairly careful, until now."

He finished folding his tie, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

"As you observed. This colony was established. It required a population. They wanted to bring Rekidans... but the Rekidans wouldn't come. Quotas needed to be met. So, there was a spot of corruption. Send up as many Rekidans as possible... and anyone else, to patch up the numbers. The Colonial Office is its own kingdom. It guards its work jealously, refuses to give a hint of it to other departments. Easy enough for the documents to be... fudged, if you'll forgive the expression. Never understood why fudged ought to mean botched... in my day, fudge was gold, a delicacy like no other."

He sighed, weary at the follies of the world. Tanner felt a spark of sympathy. Irrational sympathy, but... well, nice to know that other people had reasonable opinions on certain matters. Like the nonsense of the word 'fudged'. Or the word 'ungulate'. A word one letter removed from 'undulate' somehow referred to deer? Animals which couldn't undulate if their lives depended on it? Absurd. Wonder if Vyuli shared her... come on, Tanner. Stop it. Focus.

"...anyhow. Anyhow. That was how it began."

"Mr. Gulyai."

"Quite. A secretive sort of swine. Basically no thoughts in his head, but he remains silent enough to convince people that there are. He's a locked chest containing nothing but air. Initially, he looked for Rekidans. Almost none came. Most refused to even identify themselves as Rekidans - their parents didn't teach them to love their old home. Surely, there are many Rekidans in the world still, but their red hair fades with each generation, the last traces of their culture... and they gladly forsake it. Only a few, perhaps, have any deep connection to their homeland. Once the quotas failed to be met, Mr. Gulyai panicked. His head was on the block - if he failed to deliver the necessary bodies... well. He started fudging documents. But still - how do you convince people to come here? A snow-blasted wasteland, poor and isolated, a city you have no connection to... why come?"

He paused, spreading his palms as if waiting for an answer. Tanner stared in silence. She had suspicions, but... anyway. The man sighed once more, and... removed his jacket, laying it beside him. Each word he spoke made the cloth of his shirt flap slightly as his hollow chest and stomach pulsated with the effort of speech... but she could see the muscles in his arms cording, saw how little fat clung to his frame. For all his age, he was still strong.

"That's where my people came in. You want to know what you do, when you have nothing left, when your city burns and your land turns poisonous, when you possess only what can be carried?"

His eyes sharpened, almost burning with intensity.

"You hold tightly to whatever you have. And you never let go."

"...cartels."

"Hm?"

"I... one term I heard used was cartels. With relation to the cast-iron decorations. An organisation united around-"

"I know what cartel means, young lady. It's appropriate. Well. Nalser produced many such cartels. The long journey south, if you were alone, you died. If your group fought amongst itself, it died. Only the toughest, the strongest, the most enduring cartels made it south, and retained a sense of themselves. The Rekidans... they'd escaped bondage in this rotten place, and their culture was so rooted in the city that once it was gone, the culture died. Their gods died. Now... wooden cages and red hair. Last remnant. Even their accent dissolved into the cesspool of the shantytowner dialect. The others weren't much better. Yanmayans without their towers, nor their tower-lords, Skerndisti with stained glass windows, but no temples to put them in... and so on. The Nalseri... we endured. Our cartels endured. We remembered the hammer and the eye. We remembered. We carried our gods with us. Even in the muck and the mire, we still had dignity."

He paused, taking a deep breath, restraining his feelings. A very light speckle of sweat was twinkling on his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his deeply tanned hand.

"Apologies. Been some time since I talked to an outsider so... openly."

Tanner smiled very faintly, even as she wormed the sharp thing out of her sleeve, grazing the ropes...

"It's quite alright. Take your time."

"Hm."

Vyuli leant back, then forwards, his joints cracking... and he started to unlace his shoes, even as he kept talking. Moving with intense slowness and deliberation, like he had to answer a riddle inside his head before he could move the long black strings of his laces.

"...and we endured. We endured. When we heard of this... stuffed-shirt empty-headed corrupt little bureaucrat, we found a market for our services. People owed us money, many people. Bound to us by debts. We forged documents for them, helped them escape the shantytown, helped them forget their criminal records, helped them out of spots of bother... protected their businesses, arranged for proper doctors to see to their injuries, not the hacksaw quacks who peddle down there in the riverbed. Sometimes, we'd give them... whole new identities, if we could manage it. Debts... well. The goal was never to make our money back from them, you understand. It was to bind them to us, and us to them. And we made an offer to Mr. Gulyai. We'll give you bodies. Nalseri bodies. Willing to do anything to expunge their debt. Come north, and all debts are forgiven, all misdeeds erased. Come north, and acquire status in the cartel. Come north, and all's well."

He smiled humourlessly.

"We had more bodies than we knew what to do with. But... there were other cartels. Other groups. All of them competing for a slice of the pie."

"The governor... he wasn't around then, was he?"

"Different governor. Lazier. More incompetent. Not... useless, but easier to hoodwink. There were wars, back then. Wars for this place. Silent, yes, but... well. The Erlize had trained us well. Trained us to keep quiet when we fought."

"And then the... late governor came, and..."

He finished untying his shoes, and slipped them off, placing them with military precision on the fur-strewn ground. Thick wool socks settled down, and Vyuli hummed thoughtfully.

"And he sorted things out. Damn fine man. Damn fine soldier. Wished I could've spoken with him openly. A part of me... liked to imagine a world where both of us would be old, old men, outliving everyone around us, and then, only then, could we speak frankly. Like to think we'd get along. There were... three cartels when he arrived. Within a year, it was just me and my own. He went in from multiple levels. Demolished buildings, rebuilt them to his own designs. Regulated more effectively. Gulyai, the man we'd used to bring ourselves in? He used him to bring in the first door-guards. You caused problems, he'd exile you. Last governor was hesitant - every exile had to be reported, justified. The new man, he was better. Much better. Wasn't chained by bureaucracy - but he was happy to use it to chain others."

The missing pages in the migration ledger. Concealment of all the exiles made... maybe just concealing the number of departures. She could see how the corruption there might've unfolded - exile someone, have it reported differently, use someone like Mr. Canima to cover it all up... he could exile as many people as he wanted, without letting Fidelizh know that something was happening. A quiet war - so quiet that the homeland couldn't even detect a whisper.

"And, of course, we helped. We'd silence people. Kill them, if it came down to it. We survived because we were the most subtle, the most... efficient. This colony always had two governors. One to face the outside world. And one to live underground, and manage how things really were. Without both of us..."

He shrugged, and his gnarled hand unbound the top button of his shirt.

Tanner stared.

Blinked.

Could see the whole pattern. The whole damn pattern. Already knew why the cartels had never been found, or at least solidly found, reported on, regulated... maybe the governor thought he'd gotten rid of every last one. Maybe he understood, tacitly, that a comfortable status quo had been reached. And, ultimately, he couldn't move decisively. He'd blackmailed himself. The methods that this cartel used - the manipulation of documents, the subtle removal of opposition, all of it, they were methods the governor used too. Expose one, expose the other. An interlocking system of control - no wonder she hadn't found out about this group. The door-guards were cartel-affiliated, but the governor had brought them in to begin with. Only one issue remained.

"Why?"

Tanner's voice was small. Almost timid.

Vyuli stared down at her, and his fingers moved to another button, slipping it free idly.

His eyes boiled.

"Because my home is gone. Because... Nalser is further north. Much further. There's nothing there, not any more. The mutants tore it apart, right down to the foundations. No-one's going to settle it. Not for generations. Maybe never. And my children... they speak with shantytown accents. They dress like they're from Fidelizh. They act like they're from Fidelizh. My first wife was Nalseri, and you knew she was Nalseri. Had the accent. Had the demeanour. Had the... mind. My second wife was Nalseri. But the accent was softer. She revered the hammer and the eye a little differently, had different emphases. And my third wife, my last wife... she was Nalseri."

The boiling in his eyes seemed to reach a fever pitch, and tiny drops of moisture prickled at the corners.

"And sometimes, I'd look at her, and I wouldn't see a countryman. I'd see someone else. No accent. No gods. Nothing. That was our future. And all our bonds would mean nothing. That stinking slum was killing us. Turning us into the same damn people. Turning our culture into... into meaningless slop. A way to divide ourselves from peoples that rightfully should've been thousands of miles away from us. We were dying. I could see it. And I'd sacrificed to keep my people alive, to keep my family alive."

He grimaced, showing... showing white, flawless teeth... that tapered to very slight points.

"My first daughter, she was born on the journey south. Killed her mother to do it. No fires out there, too much chance of being seen... we cut my wife to pieces when she died. Cut into strips to eat. Had to chew pieces of her, feed them to my little girl like a bird, given that she had no teeth of her own. Then we arrive, and we're stuffed into this slum, this damn slum, and we cling tightly to it, because it's ours. And if we leave, we might never find another spot. But years go by... and Pyulmila, little Pyulmila, she barely sounds Nalseri. Treats culture as a costume, something to put on or take off at a moment's notice."

Froth appeared at the corners of his mouth, foaming up like a rabid animal, and his eyes flashed with inner fire.

"My home is gone. The Rekidans weren't using theirs. It's empty here. Dead. Here, we have a new home. Here, we have a place to call ours. To become Nalseri again, and not... not whatever Fidelizh was turning us into. The anonymous mush the slum was processing us down to. The sort of chewed mush that you feed to toothless children. No, at least that nourishes someone."

He spat. Removed another button, exposing a dark carpet of hair that lay over his hollow chest.

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"I'm sorry."

Tanner's voice was low and soft, and her face was flat, no hint of fear on it - no matter what the rest of her body was telling her. The sharp object was slicing away at the rope, but it was slow, she had no idea how much headway she was making, no idea what she'd do even if she succeeded, but... the old man stared at her.

"Hm?"

"I'm... sorry that happened to you. All of that. And I understand why you chose to come here, I... can't dispute your motives."

He smiled bleakly.

"You're not Fidelizhi, are you?"

"No, sir. Mahar Jovan."

"Which one?"

She blinked in surprise. Not many people bothered with the distinction, not outside of the cities, anyway.

"...both. Jovanite father, Maharite mother."

"How about that. Well. The sympathy is appreciated."

"But... why did you kill Lam and Tyer? Why did they need to die?"

The old man sighed.

"...damn fool daughter of mine. Lam was decent. But we didn't know anything about him. Didn't vet him. He came up at the governor's request, meaning, we didn't have him saddled with debt, we didn't have him bound to us. Had to take care of that, didn't we? And Tyer... Tyer was similar. Unbound. Colonial lad, not much connection to us. What's worse, his sister works for Mr. Gulyai. Secretary. No clue if she ever talked about the scam we were running, but he was a possible leak. Needed to bind him to us, and shut him up. I'm old. Have to delegate things. Daughter moved without my say-so, without my authorisation. Damn fool of a girl. She tried to handle too much, overcomplicated the whole wretched thing, turned it into a bloodbath. Then, when it all went to hell, tried to blame it on other people. When I was picking through the rubble, picking lies from truths... seems like Tyer went berserk after getting framed. Three people dead, because my daughter inherited her mother's brains."

He rolled his shoulders, the joints popping as he did so.

"Damn fool of a girl. Got her on a tight leash now."

Tanner blinked.

Tom-Tom had done this? Tom-Tom had just... messed everything up, provoked a... no, no. Tanner knew something. Something the old man might not. Tyer had said 'please' before he died. And Lyur had just cracked his skull open with cold efficiency. She just couldn't... say that Tyer was a violent man always on the brink of lashing out, hell, maybe Vyuli had never known Tyer personally, and that had changed things, or... she had no idea.

"May I ask the specifics?"

He grunted irritably, and his speech became faster, almost military in its cadence.

"Daughter said that she tried to handle two problems at once, while also getting to know you. Intimidate Lam using his daughter, get him to back her up when she framed Tyer. Simple... and then got far too complicated. Had some cock-and-bull story, said Lam was out here looking for revenge after that ugly business, like that man was some sort of contract killer, said the cartel could help keep him safe. Framed him, took him in... meant to bind him to us. Hid him under one of the other cold-houses. Stupid plan. Stupid plan. Meant to bind both men to us, keep them loyal for different reasons... daughter said that you would investigate, and wouldn't find anything."

Another gobbet of spit, and another undone button.

"Wouldn't find anything..."

Tanner blinked.

She'd... well, she hadn't. She'd had suspicions, but nothing that could really add to something more than a hunch. She had the account of an ex-lover, and someone bribed for information by Marana. It'd taken huge amounts of research in the governor's mansion to piece things together, and if the governor had been alive, she had no doubt that there'd be no such investigation. He'd see the vulnerabilities, and act to nip them in the bud, stop her from uncovering anything overly sensitive. And by protecting himself, he'd protect the cartel. The old man powered on, passion entering his voice once again.

"You alarmed us. You, with your damn flat face. Sniffing around the cold-house, asking questions about the tunnels, finding weak points and exploiting them... we had no idea how much you suspected, what you'd already found, what you weren't saying... we know how to work with Erlize. You bribe them, you don't say anything you don't need to, you blind them with bureaucracy. This place only has one Erlize officer, his assistants have been ours for years, and Canima listens to his master, knows to keep his nose out of certain pieces of business. Judges, we know how to control them, too. Bribery, obfuscation... but judges have always been nastier. Too... religious."

Tanner bristled internally.

They weren't religious. They had no gods, no prayers, nothing. Yes, they had a temple, but that was really just a name. But they were utterly secular. A universe with gods and a universe without gods could both sustain judges and the Golden Law. Feh.

"And you, you, we didn't know you, you didn't talk to others... you stay indoors, you walk alone, you don't drink heavily, you don't seek companionship, you're austere in all your tastes, you barely smile, let alone show anything else, and your damn silence is enough to make people reveal too much."

Uh.

Ah.

Hm.

She... she didn't talk because she was bad at talking. She stayed indoors because it was easier and warmer. She didn't drink because alcohol didn't affect her. She didn't seek companionship because she wasn't vulgar, and she really didn't know how to. She wasn't austere, she just didn't like indulging in luxury too often, blame her upbringing. When she was nervous, her face became flat and stoic. And she was always nervous. And silence...

Sometimes she didn't know what to say, and just stayed schtum until someone else spoke.

The old man snapped his fingers at her, face twisting with irritation.

"There! You see! You're doing it again! No clue what's happening behind those eyes. Maybe it's nothing, but I certainly doubt it. And in the silence, I create sound, I am compelled to speak. While you sit there, huge, strong, face as unmoving as a damn cliff. You frighten people, young lady. You frighten people."

Oh. Oh no. Tanner didn't want to frighten people, she didn't. Not at all. She felt awful when people were frightened by her, she really did...

She just wanted to do a good job as a judge. To live up to the expectations placed on her. That was all she wanted.

Stayed silent, though.

Maybe that was for the best.

Kept working at the ropes. But the little thing... it was sliding over the strands, she couldn't get purchase, just couldn't... if she really sawed away, maybe she'd get somewhere, but she was terrified of breaking the little bone implement, or giving her plan away, or... well, she wasn't sure what her plan was. Would she hold the old man hostage? How long would that work?

"...are my companions still alive?"

The old man blinked.

"Hm? Oh, yes. The soldiers, the souse, that Rekidan girl..."

He shrugged.

"Would you believe me if I said they were? Or that they were free, or that they were in that room over there, bound and gagged? Doesn't matter either way."

"I would... appreciate knowing."

"I'm sure you would. Fine. They escaped us, and are holed up in the governor's mansion. They're bound and gagged a room over. We killed them all. We killed some, and captured others, and others escaped. Doesn't matter."

He pushed a hand through his thinning hair.

"The point, young lady, is that you provoked us. Over and over. When you investigated Tyer, you found out about too much. Maybe that's why the people involved panicked and acted like fools. Then you kept investigating, we tried to bump you off, failed... no idea what you were doing in that mansion of yours. Had to step in myself, give you some bait to chew on, work on a plan to kill you for good. Then you just... ran out of the mansion, ran into the wilderness, no idea where you went, no way of following you or killing you out there, then you came back and asked a whole range of odd questions, then took my daughter... if we hadn't been watching her like a hawk, we might've missed you taking her. Had to be clumsy, had to assault you in broad daylight to shut you up. The mess this has made, the mess... and it almost damn well failed. You were close, very close. We sent a pack of door-guards to take care of you, and you managed to beat three to a pulp, had to dose you with enough sedatives for a bull. A woman, a judge, a poisoned, ascetic academic, and she was able to beat three grown men into submission... ridiculous."

...she'd been terrified the whole time.

Barely aware of the idea of 'winning'. Just... thought she was losing slower. Her voice was soft.

"How did you get Dyen out?"

"Hm? Oh. That. Tunnels."

Tanner blinked.

"Tunnels?"

"Mansion's riddled with the blasted things. We knew about them, but Canima didn't. We used them to get Dyen out... can't use those tunnels again, not ever."

"But they tore the room apart, they-"

"Who's they?"

Sersa Bayai and his boys, Mr. Canima probably getting involved... ah. Ah. Oh, that was clever. Take Dyen out using a way that Mr. Canima would instinctually try and cover up, filling in the hidden passages, effectively doing the cartel's work for them. If he was open about the passages, he'd be revealing a closely-held card to a number of people he might not fully trust. If... hold on. Passages. And these tunnels..."

"Did you build all of these tunnels? It seems... elaborate."

"No. Most of them are old. Very old. City used to be full of the things... their sewers are gigantic, ridiculous things. Can walk around in them easily, they link houses together... me, I think it was for intrigues. When you're all isolated up here, nothing to do but plot and scheme over every patch of dust. Tunnels going through the whole damn county, if you look hard enough."

"And then you... siphon resources from the cold-houses to supply yourself, and anyone else you keep down here. People like Dyen."

"Hm. Quite. Some folk are kept here permanently. Too risky to let them walk around. Easier to sit them here."

Tanner tilted her head to one side.

"One thing. Why were you clearing out so many people? Why kill them, or intimidate them? You controlled how many people came, so-"

He undid another button - he was practically sitting there with an open shirt at this point, and he spoke gruffly as he worked on the cufflinks - simple iron things, heavy and plain.

"Sometimes people slip through. Genuine Rekidans. People from other spots. Fidelizhi citizens. We can't just send in our own debt-burdened folk all the time. Quotas have to be met. When people come in, and we can't integrate them into our system... well. It's slow. Gradual. Fidelizhi folk sometimes get integrated. Sometimes we get rid of them, install some of our own with documents that register them as Fidelizhi. Or just hope the next arrival is more... pliable. It's gradual. Policy of consistent removal of problem elements. Keeps the colony safe. Keeps the cartel secure. And bit by bit, we're winning. When the time comes, when this place is self-sufficient, then we can work more openly. Thought the governor would be dead at that point, replaced with some easily bought cretin."

And there was the crux of the issue.

Tanner leaned forwards, stared him directly in the eye, and asked.

"Why did you kill the governor?"

It made no sense. The governor was part of the cartel's plans. Someone else might spot their corruption, and be able to act on it. Someone else might be too clumsy, too haphazard. Someone else might relax all the systems the cartel needed to survive and prosper while remaining hidden from the authorities. This whole set-up felt like a very delicate equilibrium, dependent on a very specific status quo, and very competent participants. Tom-Tom cocking up one of these jobs was enough to start a landslide. That meant they'd spent years doing things perfectly, taking care of leaks, furthering their plans... any shift could potentially ruin things. Any shift. Mr. Gulyai could be changed out for someone less corruptible, more of a stickler for the rules. An investigation by the Erlize could maybe uncover evidence of the goings-on. The governor could be replaced with someone who had no reason to conceal these old, shady dealings, could easily just ride roughshod over the status quo and expose everything. Mr. Canima could be replaced with an Erlize officer more willing to act independently of his master, not just helping him cover things up. The old man could die, and be replaced with someone less competent. The cartel could fracture. New cartels could come along.

It was a miracle this equilibrium had been maintained for so long. Testament to the skills of the people involved, maybe. Though... then again, it'd hardly been like this had been planned from the start. A particular environment had arisen that favoured a particular type of group, and that group had then flourished. Maybe that group would split over time, be opposed by other groups that learned to fill the same niche...

Evolutionary. That was the phrase. Evolutionary. Could look at a human, and never think that, presumably, once upon a time, there was only a small group of these creatures, living in some isolated corner of the world. Refined by chance and circumstance, and... then exploding outwards. A conclusion reached by trial and error. Two other cartels had once been here. This cartel was the last one left. Fitting itself more quickly into the world the governor had built around him.

Miracle.

And it was a miracle that when the breaking point came, it was such a catastrophic one, such an irreplaceable one.

The old man looked down. Looked back up, no smile on his face.

"We didn't."

Tanner froze. Paused in her subtle, gentle sawing.

"You didn't?"

"Didn't lay a hand on the man. I've gone through every last person in my organisation. Interrogated them personally. The governor was a good man, a great man, I respected him as an unknowing collaborator, and as a damn good leader. Would never have killed him. And not so indecently. Trust me. I've peeled everyone who could've had a reason to kill him down to the bone, and found nothing."

He sighed.

"There's bloodshed brewing. Red tide's foaming up around our ankles. No idea if we'll survive. Might have to do some damn nasty things to endure... especially after you got so close. Others might follow you. Find what you found. If word gets out... this whole community is doomed. We might need to kill every last Fidelizhi wretch in town, might need to string Mr. Canima up, write a whole raft of stories to cover up the massacre. Maybe even kill some of our own to make it stick. There's a letter in my pocket which orders the death of Mr. Gulyai, even. To burn his whole building to the ground. We might need to. And don't think I won't, if it comes down to it."

They hadn't killed him.

They hadn't killed the governor.

Then...

Then who had?

And then the old man removed his shirt entirely. And she had to ask.

"Why are-"

"I don't like getting my suit dirty. Don't worry - these are my work trousers."

He removed his socks, and placed them in a neat pile.

Stepped down from the mound of blackened hams.

He wasn't very tall. But he was dense. And his eyes had an unflinching relentlessness to them which unnerved her.

Almost as much as the black box he drew out from behind the mound.

A box he opened... to reveal a great number of knives. Knives of varying length and sharpness. Some so bright they were blinding. Some dull. Dull and rusted to the point of being almost black. Some long and thin. Some wide. Some curved. Some with serrated edges. Pliers. Irons. Needles. Matches. Hooks. A single pack of cigarettes.

Tanner's eyes widened.

"I... can tell you things, I promise, I have no intention of... my interest was in the governor's death, that's paramount, maybe..."

She swallowed. The sight of those tools was enough to make her resolve crack. She didn't want to die here. She didn't want to die screaming, she didn't. Oh, gods. At this moment, faced with the prospect of pain, of real, unendurable pain, she... expectations faded, she just wanted to claw her way to see another day. Took a moment to suppress the urge. To grit her teeth, to prevent any further confessions. Coward. Marana and Yan-Lam might already be dead. Might've been tortured. Coward. Her companions might be dead, and here she was, ready to weep. She'd gotten closer than anyone else to the truth. Did she think martyrdom happened quickly and cleanly? She didn't want to die here. She was expected to die here. She sawed desperately at her bonds, but... but it was a lost cause. The ropes were too thick. The instrument too blunt. Her range of motion too confined. And the old man placidly walked around her back...

And plucked it out of her hands.

It'd been a tooth. She'd been scraping with the end of a root, broken and sharp. He didn't smile.

"I should've done that at the start. Apologies."

She could've wept. Didn't... no, no. Be strong. Don't scream. Don't cry. Don't beg. Nothing would...

"Judges don't torture for a reason. It doesn't provide good information."

Her voice was flat with panic.

Vyuli stumped over, his bare feet sinking deeply into the furs.

"I'm aware."

"Then-"

He spoke with grim detachment. He'd done worse before. He'd done much worse in order to survive. What had Lyur said? Always leave a route open for an enemy to escape, otherwise they have no way out but through you. And if they have nothing left to lose, they'll gladly carve a path out, no matter how bloody it became. This was a man who saw no way out but through his enemies. And he'd gone through worse than her.

"I don't want good information. Torture isn't about extracting a single truth. It's about extracting every truth. Bleed someone, and they give you stories. One after the other. They tell you what you want to hear. They tell you lies. Truths. A hundred truths. They give everything. I don't want you to tell me the truth - I want you to tell me every truth. Every story you have, until you have nothing left. Then, I'll sift through it."

He was still unsmiling, even as he drew a long, long knife out of the box, brushing the blade down with a small grey cloth.

"At this stage, I'm interested in quantity. Not quality."

A pause.

"But once we're finished, I'll kill you. Don't worry about that. We're quite alone here, too - I'll say you bore the experience as well as anyone else."

Tanner stared at him.

He smiled very faintly, but there was no joy in it.

"I don't like torture. I'll enjoy none of this. I have no doubt I'll see you in my dreams for some time. But when the choice lies between a painful death and disturbed dreams on one side, and the destruction of my organisation, the end of our homeland..."

He shrugged.

"Let's begin."

Tanner's voice was almost a whisper.

"Please."

"You'll want to save your voice."

"Please."

He didn't reply. Tanner kept going. She didn't want to die down here. She was meant to. But she didn't want to. She wanted to run into the snow, she wanted to go home, she wanted her mother, her father, she wanted Eygi, she wanted Halima, she wanted the temple and years and years of silence, she didn't want this. But... but they'd think well of her, after her death. A few... hours? Days? Weeks of pain? A week. A week of intense, unrelenting, horrific pain, and she'd be remembered well for the rest of time. She'd be honoured. She'd be mourned. People would forget everything else about her but that, in the end, Tanner Magg did what she was meant to. Tanner had risen on the back of... of her mother's cousin, Lirana, dying in a strange, savage country. Risen on the back of the entire expedition dying. She'd benefited from the ending of several lives, from the loneliness which had deprived them of any inheritors but herself. A handful of people had been lonely enough and unlucky enough to make a great deal of money, die, and then have no-one else for it to go to. If Ms. vo Anka hadn't been kind, she wouldn't have become a judge. Everything she was was built on the charity of others. Tanner had offered nothing to her friendship with Eygi, Eygi had been condescending to her level, reaching down and plucking her up. Everything she did was built on charity. She had to repay that, didn't she? That was how it worked, she repaid charity, she couldn't be a disappointment.

She didn't want to die here.

Oh, gods, she didn't want to die.

She started to strain against her bonds.

The knife came closer.

Closer.

It gleamed brighter than the sun.

She struggled, feeling the ropes dig painfully into her skin...

"Please. I have-"

"I have a family too. Friends."

"What... are you just going to cut me?"

The man tilted his head to one side, studying her. She just wanted to know. Didn't want to go into the unknown. At least give her something to dread. Some kind of... of game plan, some schedule. She was grasping at straws, just needed something. And... and she was buying seconds. Anything. Every second was beautiful. Every second was a chance to buy another second. If she kept doing that... if she kept doing that...

"There are other methods. More intrusive. There are things I could do which would offend every sense. There are things I've seen done, and cannot forget. The knives are a start. You understand, I don't want to convince you of anything. I have no cause to convert you to. I just want stories. Where your notes are kept. How many you made. Who knows what you knew. What you did when you left the city. What my daughter told you. Everything. I don't care how many variations you tell. Only that you tell them."

He leaned close. She could feel his breath on her skin. Could even taste the ash of a cigarette he might've smoked before he came here.

"The knives are a start."

It approached.

Tanner gritted her teeth.

She'd...

She'd never been pushed like this. Never placed so obviously in the face of not just death, but extended torture. Never before in her life had horror loomed at her so completely - even the mutants didn't torture. She had no doubt that the wolf-thing in the snow would've just killed her, torn her throat out and moved on. There was no malice in a mutant. Only hunger. Survival. In front of her... she saw an old man. An old, bitter man. And for all his words... no-one could do this without malice. She refused to believe that.

Tanner strained.

The ropes were tight. Bound over and over and over. Like they were trying to keep a bull in place.

Her muscles ached as she forced them to greater limits. Didn't care if they ripped and tore. Didn't care if she broke bones.

Had to get out of here.

The knife came closer. She could feel the metal whispering against... oh, gods, he was going to cut the soft flesh of her upper arms, a long, thin slice... she had an image of him slicing her over and over, bleeding her gradually, never letting her pass out... the handle of the knife was well-worn. He'd know how to do it. Had a vision of him cutting her dress off with each individual slice he made. Losing every barrier between herself and him.

She'd scream. She knew she would. She'd scream, and cry, and beg for him to stop.

She'd be a wreck within the hour.

She wasn't strong enough for this.

Her skin was tearing where she was pulling against the ropes, and she didn't notice the pain. Only felt dampness as blood flowed, and she could...

She could wriggle her hands more freely than before. The passage eased by her own blood.

She tore harder, ignoring the pain. Her face remained completely still, but her eyes were darting around like a wild animal.

The old man stooped to get a better grip, remaining prudently away from her teeth, her head, anything she could somewhat move freely.

The blood was flowing freely and soaking into the furs...

His eyes twitched. He could see what she was doing.

Tanner's teeth were locked so tightly together that she thought they might break. Shatter into bitter, razor-sharp shards.

And even so... a low, low growl escaped her tightly pressed lips. A groan of exertion. Of suppressed pain.

The knife kissed her skin.

Slid through the fabric of her sleeve with ease. She barely felt it for a moment. Just coldness. And a light, light tug...

Before the pain began.

A long, thin, red smile along her upper left arm. Curling around and around... bleeding very slightly, not enough to make her feel faint.

Something snapped in her as she looked at the wound.

Saw what it promised. Dozens more like it. She saw the pliers in the box. The cigarettes. The matches. The hooks. The rust.

Tanner moved.

Tanner tore.

And the growl lurking in the depths of her throat exploded outwards.

A roar as she ripped the ropes apart, blood falling freely from the the ragged friction.

The old man immediately scuttled backwards, uncannily fast...

One bond down. But it gave her purchase. Leverage. Once one broke, the others weren't far behind.

And once she had hands, she could grab one of the knives.

Not dissimilar to the one she used back when she gutting fish for a living after school.

A flick, and her ankles were free.

The old man wasn't in the room. Fled immediately. Knew how to move quickly when it suited him.

Tanner didn't have long.

She felt raw. Lethal. Felt every muscle burning, felt her heart pounding, felt every last inch of her skin in such detail...

Without thinking, she began to run. Already, her arms were feeling numb, bruises were lancing up and down like spreading gangrene, the wounds were ragged and refused to stop bleeding... she could barely feel her hands.

Didn't know where she'd go. Didn't know, didn't care.

But right now, Tanner Magg only wanted one thing.

To live another second.