Chapter 42
CAZE PALEDAN HAD seen some horrific things in his Coalition career, but outside of the debris of battle, this might just be the worst. He looked at Jakel, noting the gleam in the man’s eyes that told him he had enjoyed this. He looked like a man turned loose in a treasure room, only his avarice was for cruelty and inflicting pain. He was taking in deep breaths, as if savoring the smell of blood. Men like this, who took a perverse pleasure in simply hurting others, were useful tools. But if you let the leash run out too far, it was likely to snap, freeing them to turn on you. He wondered if Ordam had ever even considered that.
He looked again at the man chained to the wall. He wasn’t standing—clearly he was far beyond that—he was hanging from the cuffs that dug into his wrists, fresh blood running down his arms. His face was so battered, his body so bruised and burned and bloody, he was barely recognizable as the taproom keeper. Paledan wondered idly who was looking out for those troublemaking twins. Likely the sister.
He turned back to the perpetrator of this torture.
“Does the administrator ever require subtlety or nuance from you?” he asked with a raised brow.
“What?” The man looked utterly puzzled, as if the words were from some alien language.
“I thought not,” Paledan said. “Leave. And leave me the keys to those chains.”
Jakel frowned. With his heavy brows and rather simian face, it was an expression that came closer to making him laugh than cower.
“Have you not incapacitated him? You’ve had him for hours; surely you’ve been able to render him no threat by now.”
The frown deepened. Paledan didn’t know if it was because he again didn’t understand the words, or didn’t wish to give up his fun. Either way, he did not care.
“He hasn’t confessed yet,” Jakel protested. “He hasn’t said a single word.” A look of blissful satisfaction flashed across brutal features. “He screamed, though. He’ll break.”
“Out,” Paledan ordered sharply.
For a long moment, Jakel just stared at him. Paledan didn’t move, merely stood, holding the man’s beady gaze. He could read clearly in the man’s expression that he was sizing him up, wondering. He didn’t like having men like this around. Brutal men had their place, but not if they weren’t controllable. But then, that was a reflection of Ordam as much as Jakel.
He almost wished the beast would try.
“I want him back,” Jakel said finally, and there was clear warning in his tone. “I haven’t finished yet.”
Yes, you have. “I’m sure you do. Now go.”
He did, reluctantly, handing over the keys with even greater reluctance. With a last glance cast over his shoulder at his victim, Jakel left the dank, dark room. Probably to run to Ordam.
“Think . . . you could take him.”
He spun around to look at what was left of Drake Davorin. His face was bloody and swollen from Jakel’s fists and cudgels. He could barely see one eye; the other was swollen shut. Blood from countless cuts and splits in his flesh streamed over his body here, had clotted in a darkening mass there. What skin he could see was either reddened from burns, or pale, too pale, and from the rasping breaths, he suspected the internal damage was substantial.
He hasn’t said a single word. . . .
And yet he had spoken now.
Paledan walked to the wall and unlocked the chains from the wall. He eased the man down to the floor, aware there wasn’t an undamaged spot on him to grab. He heard a breath rush out of him, the tiniest expression of relief, coupled with a barely audible groan at what had to be horrible pain from his shoulders.
“I think one day I will have to,” he answered, crouching beside Davorin.
“Watch . . . his left.”
He was almost amused. “I’ve noticed he is ambidextrous in his strength.”
“With a brain . . . he might be dangerous.”
He truly was amused then. And admiring. The man had to be in agony, his every breath harsh and wet, yet he joked. “As he is, he is merely hazardous, in the way of an angry slimehog.”
“You insult slimehogs.”
Paledan couldn’t help himself, he laughed. But at the same time, he was assessing. “If you had come over to the Coalition, you would be a general by now.”
The battered head came up then. Paledan couldn’t imagine the strength of will that simple act had taken.
“I’d have nothing to fight for. And nothing in me to fight with.”
What was he admitting, this broken, bloodied man, the taproom keeper he had always suspected was something more? It made no sense, that he would resist through Jakel’s torture only to speak to him without any coercion at all.
“I am sorry to see the Raider end like this,” he said on impulse, something he rarely succumbed to. “Had I been the one to capture you, you would have been treated with the respect he has earned.”
Davorin laughed. Despite it all, he laughed. And when he spoke, his voice got stronger. “Even if I were . . . the one you seek, it would not end. The Raider is not one man. He is an idea. An idea you will never be able to kill.”
Paledan saw the man’s eyes close, and realized he had slipped out of consciousness after that effort. He straightened, and stood there studying the prisoner. The strength he’d exhibited here had proven what he’d always suspected—there were hidden depths to this man. But at most, he’d thought he might be aiding the notorious fighter. But now he was considering a bigger possibility.
That he was himself the Raider.
Was it possible for a man to lead such a double life? And yet, what a perfect disguise—a beaten, cowed taproom keeper. But that keeper had a family he was responsible for, and Paledan knew firsthand he took that responsibility seriously.
It seemed impossible, and implausible. And yet . . .
Davorin had already proven, with his resistance to Jakel’s brutal methods, that there was amazing strength in him. And his words about the Raider had been those of a believer, despite the accepted certainty that the taproom keeper had long ago surrendered such thoughts, if he’d ever had them to begin with.
But if he was the Raider, how in hades had he let himself be captured by the likes of Jakel?
There was more to this. He was certain of it.
He stepped out into the hallway. The guard outside the door snapped to attention. Paledan pondered for a moment giving in to the odd urge he felt to order a medic to aid the prisoner, but he knew too well that would draw far too much attention of the wrong kind. And it was likely too late anyway. If Davorin lasted the night, he would be surprised.
But he could at least stop the damage here. “If Jakel returns, keep him out of there.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Parameters, sir?”
Paledan gave him a wry smile. “Necessary force.”
The man gulped, but nodded. Paledan started down the hall toward the outer door, but then turned back. “And that does not mean you are required to bleed before taking action.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
He issued an order into his handheld comm link, and by the time he got back to his office, the trooper he’d summoned was already there. Standing at attention and saluting despite being only half in uniform.
“I caught you after your duty shift,” Paledan said, noting his attire.
“Yes, sir.” The trooper swallowed. “I thought a quick response was more important than a perfect turnout.”
“Good decision,” Paledan said mildly, noting the man’s name; he was always glad to know who in his command had some sense of their own. That went against Coalition policy, but he had always believed not allowing their able people to think for themselves would cost them in the end.
Clearly relieved, Trooper Gratt took the seat indicated. Paledan took his own chair behind the desk. He did not waste time with formalities.
“You were there when Davorin was captured,” he began.
“Yes, sir. Although . . .” His voice trailed off and he lowered his gaze.
“Honesty,” Paledan said, “would also be a good decision.”
Gratt drew in a deep breath. “Yes, sir. It wasn’t exactly a capture, Major. He surrendered.”
Paledan leaned back. “Did he?” he murmured.
“It was an exchange, sir.”
Understanding began to dawn. “An exchange?”
“May we go off the record, sir?”
“As far as I’m concerned, we have been,” Paledan said. “This is my own inquiry, not the Coalition’s.”
Gratt visibly relaxed. “Jakel,” he said, his distaste clear in his tone, “had Davorin’s sister.”
And there it was, Paledan thought. The piece that made it all make sense. “Which one?” he asked.
Gratt blinked. “Sir?”
“Which sister? There are two.”
“Oh. Uh . . . the pretty one? The blonde—I don’t know her name,” he added regretfully, like a man who wished he knew more than just the woman’s name.
Not Lux, then, Paledan thought, since Gratt did not show any evidence of being the twisted type who would think so of a child. For a moment, the memory of one who had had such perverted tastes shot through his mind, but for only a moment. In his view, Ulic Mordred had gotten exactly what he deserved and was not worthy of even that much thought.
“So Jakel took the sister?”
“He grabbed her in the taproom. Ordered everyone out. I think he’s been watching her for a long time.”
“And Davorin traded himself for her?”
“Yes, sir. He was who Jakel really wanted.”
“I see.”
“I think he just wanted the chance to torture Davorin. I heard he’s hated him since they were children. And I think he believes he’s working with the Raider.”
“And what do you think?” Paledan asked.
“I think that’s unlikely. I’ve spent some time in that taproom, and the man’s hardly the type.”
Or he’s very good at hiding.
Brakely’s voice cracked through the comm link on the desk. “Major Paledan.”
He leaned over and tapped the transmit key. “Go ahead.”
“Sir, the river guard post has been hit. Three troopers down and a crate of hand bombs missing.”
Paledan went very still. “And?”
“Sir . . . it was the Raider.”
“They’re certain of that?”
“He was seen. Helmet, coat, and all. And he left the calling card.”
Paledan glanced at Gratt. The trooper said nothing, but his expression was that of a man who’d been proven right.
“Thank you, Brakely,” he said into the comm link. “Send the senior officer on duty there to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back in his chair once more. “It would appear,” he said, “that you were right. That will be all, Gratt.”
The question was, he thought after the man had gone, was whether appearances mattered at all when it came to the Raider.