Silver Blades: Dread Handed

Part 1, Section 4 - Stronghold of The Hand

Riposte.

Not yet midday and already I'd been arrested for desecrating a holy place and defiling a corpse. It was a terrible day to be sober.

"My men found you," a red-faced, pockmarked inquisitor howled, "in the act of embracing the body!" His voice cracked as it pierced falsetto strata that would have done choir boys proud. "You were covered in blood and committing unspeakable acts of profanity and defilement—in the very nave of The One's Holy Church!"

I probably looked, to him, like someone who enjoyed being slathered in smelly human gore, but this guy's hysterics would have driven anyone mad. In the mood I was in, I wanted to rip out his throat. Rage roiled and seethed at the edges of my vision, making it unusually difficult to defend myself.

"There was no profanity," I growled, fighting to maintain control of each word I spat in his direction. "I told you—the body fell. Onto. Me."

If my wrists were free, I would have fought free of the stifling stone room, with its yawning fireplace and iron instruments, dangling chains and random clusters of vaguely threatening spikes and winches. The manacles were definitely there for his protection.

"You still expect me to believe that you were searching for evidence of an unnatural creature dwelling in Di Bobra's corpse?" As if such a thing were implausible.

"Not dwelling," I corrected. "I killed it yesterday."

"You killed Vitoli Di Bobra, you mean," he snarled, "nephew of a lord of Dollif, in an illegal duel and by means that witnesses report as both cruel and barbaric."

"Yes, him too," I admitted. I wondered why I was still taking space in The Hand's interrogation chamber instead of its dungeon. Clearly it wasn't my eloquence.

"Perverted and brazen," the inquisitor muttered to himself, studying me like a wild animal, skeptical of bait in a trap. "It's not hard now to see which of the Riposte Tales are true."

"Hardly any of them are true," I said. "Especially not whatever your men told you happened this morning."

"The red stain on your arms to the elbows would seem to say otherwise," he mocked. "I suppose you didn't threaten Lord Leocci's nephew with a knife?"

Duke Leocci?

"Almost took you to the warden myself," my misshapen interrogator said, "but Illus Leocci is a staunch supporter of Church and King, and will no doubt have some opinion about what should be done to someone who threatens his nephew Aldus and his ... friends."

Aldus Leocci? Why did that sound familiar?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I grumped. "I don't even know this Aldus Leo..." Then it struck me. The Twedge Club boy—Di Bobra's second—was the duke's nephew.

"Oh," I said. This isn't going to go well. One side of the inquisitor's lips curled upwards as he saw comprehension spreading over my face.

I wondered what the going punishment was for threatening near-royalty. Death was always popular, but I wasn't afraid of death; it was another way to end my misery. Slavery had been outlawed by royal decree in '41 ... hot pokers, maybe? Branding? Eternal incarceration? I wasn't a fan of those alternatives, I found. Now exile I could live with. Tyella isn't in Dragoskala anyway.

I must have missed something. The inquisitor's gnarled hand shot out to grab my chin and shoved my head back so I was forced to pay attention. More painful was the reek of garlic and unutterable intensity of his body odor.