Dennet Mordain was not prepared to admit that he existed. If he admitted to himself that he was still real, and not dead, he would have to try to escape. That would end with more torture, and it would only serve to prove the one thing that he was trying hard to run away from: that he was really, truly, completely helpless. Just remembering that he had no limbs was bad enough, but having to live with the reality of it, when he most desperately needed to fight or flee, was worse.

So he refused to believe that this was real, that he was awake, indeed refused to believe that he existed at all, so that he wouldn’t suffer. He just kind of existed in a half-state where nothing was quite real, and whatever his body did in reaction to the sharp pains of the inquisitor’s knives… it wasn’t up to him. It wasn’t actually working, but it was better. It didn’t take much to be better than the Inquisitor.

The irony of being on the wrong end of the Inquisitor’s tender mercies was not lost on him.

Chandra had once been in this room. The Inquisitor had done Roan a favor and demonstrated a few choice tortures, but in the end, Dennet had declined the use of him. His binding spells required Chandra’s mind to be in slightly better shape than it would be, if he had continued.

Now, knowing that the Inquisitor was here to drag secrets out of him, he wished that the man had learned that lesson earlier. If he was to be questioned, it should be done before he lost his mind, right?

That thought kept coming back to Dennet, again and again. He looked up at the masked face of the Inquisitor. It was a common mask, a black sack of cloth that covered the head loosely, showing nothing. There were not even holes for the eyes and mouth, just thinner areas of cloth, so that he could see out. The rest of his garb was the same: nondescript, loose-fitting, and covering everything. Nobody even knew the color of the inquisitor’s skin, let alone his eyes.

Nor did the inquisitor ever speak, nor write. An attendant would normally be here, asking questions in place of the inquisitor. But he had dismissed them all, and barred the entrance to the room. Nobody else could come. Nobody else could ask questions. And in Dennet’s mouth was a simple leather thong, so that he could not bite off his own tongue. It was not quite enough that he could not talk, but it was close.

“I wuh taak, I wuh taak,” pleaded Dennet again, when the Inquisitor let up on the knives for a moment. “I kuh bruuk tuh spull, tuh guul wuul bue ukeh.”

The inquisitor seemed to fix Dennet with a stare. Finally, after a moment, he simply removed the thong from Dennet’s mouth and waited.

“Th… the girl… she is, now, a spy for the King, but he is not--was not--hostile. He needed a spy. She will still be loyal to Roan, and to the house, it’s only… any member of the King’s Own may command her. If he stays on the King’s good side… you must see, I have done no harm, so please… let this be over…”

The head of the inquisitor seemed to stay fixed on him for a long time. Finally, a voice that Dennet did not expect came forth--the voice of an older woman, raspy from disuse, pausing constantly to take heavy breaths. “You would... betray the King?”

The question terrified him, more than he could express. This was a question with more than one wrong answer. But he had no choice, not with the Inquisitor standing over him.

“Yes,” he said, breathlessly. “I will… side with the house, against the King.”

The inquisitor judged him for a long time, minutes perhaps. Until, eventually, the inquisitor leaned down over him, the cloth sack was just over his face, and her voice rasped directly in his ear.

“You may not... betray the King.”

His heart leaping in his chest, Dennet nodded immediately. “Yes… yes, I won’t. I won’t tell them anything, I promise.”

“You will serve… the King.”

“Of course, Lady, I mean Mistress, I mean… ah…”

“You will die… before betraying... the King.”

“I will not betray him! I swear it!” Dennet pleaded with his eyes. He was here on the King’s business. If this was a spy, a plant, perhaps…

“The one… that you met. That one... knows.”

Dennet paused, not quite able to piece together what that was supposed to mean. Even if Margarit had been told… what was he to do about it, now?

“You will serve… the King.” The Inquisitor loosened the straps binding Dennet, but did not release him. “You will know... what is required.”

Dennet felt relief flooding him. So much so, in fact, that it was hard to remain conscious, but a series of quick, rough, deliberate touches to open wounds brought him back immediately.

“Yes! Yes. What… how may I serve… the king.”

“They need… the girl. Her mind… a secret.”

Dennet paused. He had not considered that the Jackal slave was actually worth anything to anyone. Had Roan left her with some information that was required?

“It should… be fine. The bonds can be removed, but she should respond to any command. Her mind… she is forbidden from being free, but she is not lost. She is only made to serve.”

“Her mind…” the inquisitor picked up a knife and slammed it down no more than a hair’s breadth away from Dennet’s neck. He made an involuntary noise, and she waited for him to quiet down. “...must remain.”

“I… yes. I…” Dennet, realizing that he was babbling, tried to take a breath. He hadn’t really been able to process anything that was going on, so far. He had only said what he needed to say to survive. But the Inquisitor was asking for a guarantee. So he forced himself to breathe, tried to struggle through a mental map of the sorcery he had designed to control Chandra.

It… actually wasn’t all that promising.

He had restored the bindings that Roan had requested. Chandra was a mage-assassin, one of the Ti-mana of the north sea, and so forcing her into servitude meant getting her as close to brain-death as… well, as he was from dying now, what with the blood loss, trauma, torturer, and the knife that cut into his neck if he wriggled the wrong way. If he had done his job right, then she was not really a person anymore.

But she had recovered once. She had become a person, again. The question was whether she had been unlocking her old memories, or whether she was becoming a new person. If she had been able to restore her old self, then whatever secret they thought she held might still be there. But if no shadow of her old self had remained…

“Okay,” he breathed. “There is a word… a phrase. I know you won’t let me do it. You may need to write it down.”

The Inquisitor stared at him, without moving. Dennet waited too long for her to make some move, and she started to twist the knife that lay just next to his neck.

“Alright! Okay. The phrase will let you know if she can be saved. Listen… you probably remember… she was an assassin. You were there for part of it.” Dennet watched the mask, but she made no movement. “Roan… thought he would need to turn her against her employers. There was a spell. She would recover her old thoughts, but remain in service. K’annam d’uordvek zininaam, k’ultuurva medivh konsharm’a. If that spell doesn’t work anymore, there’s nothing else I can do. Maybe a master of mind magic could do more.”

The Inquisitor stared at him, unmoving, for long minutes. Finally, she removed the knife from the table and replaced it in a nearby rack.

Then she picked up her giant, razer-sharp headsman’s axe, placed it tenderly against his neck, and whispered in his ear.

“You have never… heard… my voice.”

“No… no. No… master, sir, inquisitor. I understand.” And he did. He had never heard of someone hearing the Inquisitor’s voice. And the Inquisitor popped up in many people’s dungeons.

“I will allow… the servants… to ask. You will not… reveal… that you know… the questions.”

“Yes! Yes. I understand.” Dennet felt his heart leap into his throat, thinking this was at an end.

“I will assist… by resuming… my duties… upon you.” By the end of the sentence, Dennet could hear, for the first time, a spark of life in the Inquisitor’s voice. It almost sounded like… joy.

Dennet felt the blood drain out of his face, even as the Inquisitor, hidden deep in the folds of black cloth, picked up the massive razor sharp axe as though it were a child’s toy, and racked it against the wall.