Excerpt: The Bellicus Isles

Maria stood firm, her hands delicately clasped before her, one eyebrow precisely raised.

“Leave us,” she said.

The guards looked askance, but at their commander’s nod, filed out of the room. Moving smoothly and surely despite the pain in her body from the day’s exertions, she stepped forward and, tracing a spell in the air, enchanted the back of her skirts to solidify to be used as a seat of sorts. Settling herself calmly, Maria placed her hands on her lap and looked steadily at the prisoner. The man met the gaze, bravely. Brashly. Foolishly young, Maria decided. He thought he was invincible.

She smiled, politely, not a trace of ill-will in the expression.

“And how is he?” she asked, in perfect tradespeak.

The prisoner’s eyes widened, ever so slightly. He struggled for a moment, then asked, “Who?”

“Whoever you would like to tell me about,” she said. “The prince. A friend of yours. Your leader.”

That arrogant grin came back, albeit weaker than before. “I am not a traitor. And soon, I will be home.”

“Home?”

“Dead.”

Maria smiled. “Ah, but you are wrong. You are already a traitor. You have told me much.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yes. I can see what you are thinking, right at this very moment. You think I am lying, but I am not. You say so much, without ever speaking.” She paused, allowing this to sink in. “Would you like me to tell you what I have learned?”

Sullen silence.

"Ah, I thought not, but I will tell you. Your hair, your eyes, your skin, so… Arescan. But that, young man, would be clear to any fool looking. What I see is this.” She tapped his bound wrist with a finger. “Tribal marks, intact, unburnt. Easily mistaken for the slave marks, from a distance, and no scarring. You were never taken as a slave, nor were you born in captivity. If I am not mistaken—and I so rarely am—you are a full-blooded Auster tribesman, raised in the traditional mode from birth and surviving your adulthood ritual.” With the tip of her fan, she tapped another tattooed band, showing through a tear in the sleeve on the man’s upper arm. “That would be this one.”

She didn’t need to ask whether she was correct so far. The man’s simmering anger was answer enough.

“Naturally, your intact and complete tribal marks, coupled with your presence in this palace and your reticence to offer information, says that you are an active warrior, sent from Arescus. My guess would be that you were secreted in among a Haud’s cargo, or hidden in an imported group of slaves. The latter would be more likely if you and your allies arrived at once, but the method does not actually matter. You were sent, you were not alone, and you have a leader. You, I understand from the status implied by your marks,” she tapped his hand this time, pointing to the nearly-indecipherable lines of characters running between the first two knuckles of his three middle fingers, “were the leader of this group. I suspect, though this is purely speculation, that you considered yourself a noble leader, and you and your fellow captured man remained behind to give your fellows time to escape with the prize. However, you are certainly not the mastermind of this operation, else you would never have permitted yourself to be captured.”

“Fuck you,” the tribesman growled. Maria’s smile returned.

“I see my suspicions are correct. Thank you for confirming them,” she said. Momentarily, the prisoner looked horrified for having said anything at all, before clearing his expressions and gritting his teeth.

“However, interesting though this may be, your origin is not my sole concern. What I need from you is a simple yes or no.” The duchess leaned forward, locking eyes, pale blue with dark brown. “Are you affiliated with the rebel group under the man known as A.V?”

Had she not been only inches from the man, she would have missed the infinitesimal twitch of his left eye. It was tiny, but it was a tell, and she caught it. He kept his mouth shut. After a very long moment, she drew back.

“You learn quickly,” Maria said, a note of approval in her voice. She stood, and with a flick of her wrist and a quick symbol, returned her skirts to their flexible former selves. Another symbol erased the wrinkles from the fine grey cloth. Reaching into her pocket, Maria produced a small, corked glass vial, filled to the top with dark liquid. She held it up.

“This is laudanum. I am going to watch you drink this, and then I am going to leave. When you spit it out, my guards will force another dose down your throat. If you do not drink it, the process will repeat until you do. My guards will not kill you, and you cannot trick them into doing so. If you cooperate, you will be permitted a painless, peaceful sleep, and medical care. If you do not cooperate, then you will likely receive an overdose and have a frightful night, and you will receive medical care anyway.” The duchess uncorked the vial and stood, poised. “I hope I have made my point clear.”

For the first time since she had seen him, the prisoner looked like what he was: a young man, trapped, injured, bleeding, helpless and hopeless. It was a victory, though a hollow one. The tribesman was beaten and broken now, easily manipulated, but there was fire in him. He would fight back, he would be beaten, and eventually, he would talk. The man swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Why?” he asked.

The duchess tilted her head slightly. “You may wish to finish your sentence if you would like an answer.”

His nails scraped against the wood of the chair arms as he clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes shut. “…Why won’t you kill me?”

Maria’s face felt tight as she smiled, no merriment in her eyes. She took a step closer. “Because this,” she said, putting the vial to his unresisting lips, “is the worst thing that could ever happen to you.”

He didn’t open his eyes as he swallowed the opiate and clamped his jaw. Maria waited, patiently, as the man’s body went limp, and then she left.