Prisoner of Conscience (23 page)

“I would that you were right, Darmon or Cittrops.” It was a peculiar tone of voice; and a peculiar expression on the torturer’s face, as well. “But when they visit me at night I know each one of them, and all too well. But never a Shopes Ban among them. Believe me. I would know.”

People were taken from work-crew all the time; and always it was assumed that they’d been taken to the torture. If Koscuisko was telling the truth, it was someone else who had tortured Ceelie Porlich. Darmon had been a good judge of character, in his time. He believed that Koscuisko was telling him the truth.

“They took Shopes Ban away,”
he insisted. There was something gone wrong here, and he hadn’t quite caught it by the mane. “Eleven, twelve days ago. Who took him away? Where did he go?”

“And why does it matter?” Koscuisko mocked at him; but there was a serious question beneath Koscuisko’s belittling jeer. “Because he was the only one who could have identified you as War-leader Darmon?”

For a moment sheer outrage and disgust possessed Darmon entirely. “Listen, someone took Ban. If he was killed it was by you or by prison security. If he wasn’t killed he’d be back on work-crew till he died. And you’re the Writ here, don’t tell me you don’t know what’s going on. You killed him. Or he was murdered — ”

Wait, that was almost funny. To be tortured to death by Koscuisko was different from being murdered? Well, in the eyes of the Bench it was, for a fact.

But Koscuisko had gone to an instruments-case that he let down from the wall to reveal an array of whips, with a flail, and a knout, and divers other lashes. Thinking about what Darmon was saying, perhaps. But more likely just deciding which of his toys he wanted to play with, just now.

“Take care before you make such accusations,”
Koscuisko warned, turning toward him with a whip in his hand. Darmon knew the sort of whip it was; it was the same sort that had killed his uncle Lijon, years ago. “I will not suffer my Writ to be dishonored. Not more than in its exercise itself. You are the war-leader of Darmon, and you have information that I require. Let us begin to controvert together.”

Controvert.

That was a funny word for torture.

Darmon felt the first burning caress of the whip, and closed his eyes, and wondered.

Who had murdered Ceelie?

Could he convince Koscuisko someone had?

If Koscuisko knew that referrals were being obtained unlawfully, by prison guards and torture outside Koscuisko’s Writ — would Koscuisko take steps to avenge that poor young man?

The impact of the whip was a steady insult, and the fiery lines of aching torment it laid down with every stroke were maddening.

Darmon fixed his mind on Ceelie Porlich as a touchstone.

Shopes Ban.

He had to remember Ceelie was Shopes Ban.

And if he could concentrate on something extraneous to him, perhaps he would keep the torturer from the victory, this time.

Chapter Nine

Administrator Geltoi was interviewing the Pyana housekeeper Eps Murey when Belan arrived with the kitchen-master. Letting himself in quietly, he gestured for the kitchen-master to step through before he closed the door again behind them.

“What’s changed up there recently, Murey? Anything?” Geltoi asked. He sounded angry; but it was just his way of interacting with subordinates. Belan had long since stopped feeling that it was personally directed.

“Well. There’s the woman. The bed-linen to change more often. Seems to have taken an interest in her, with the Administrator’s permission.”

Belan winced. What a thing to say, a crude reference to Koscuisko’s personal relations with the woman from the service house. It could have been worse, of course. Murey could have been Nurail: Then the Administrator would have been disgusted at his forwardness, as well as his crudeness of speech.

As it was, Geltoi splayed his fingers wide with a gesture as if deflecting a noisome insect. “Oh, very good indeed, Murey. I need different information from you. Has Koscuisko said anything in your hearing? Any gossip amongst his Security? Anything you’ve heard from that Chief Warrant?”

They’d considered putting in snoop-sensors when they’d built the penthouse, and only refrained at the end because it would be difficult to justify should the Inquisitor find out they were there. Geltoi was obviously feeling the lack, now.

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing. The officer complains of the documentation he has to process. The Chief Warrant Officer ensures that Muat completes his physical therapy, Muat protests that the officer is not completing his. They play relki. The officer would rather not put in his laps and the Warrant Officer sees to it that he does. I’ve heard nothing to report to you, Administrator.”

So either Koscuisko didn’t have a hidden agenda, or he was keeping it to himself. Why should he share his concerns with his Security? One might as well ask a Pyana to unburden himself to a Nurail. It wasn’t done.

“Complains of documentation, you say.” Administrator Geltoi did not seem to have come to the same conclusion. “Anything specific? Think, Murey. I’m half convinced Koscuisko is out to cause trouble for all of us.”

“Only about having a backlog on his desk, sir. I’d have spoken to Administrator Belan direct if I had heard anything that might point to a problem.”

Koscuisko’s documentation was backlogged because Koscuisko didn’t spend much time in his office. He got up, got his laps in, had his fast-meal, went to work; then up to bed late, usually after having his mid-meal at least and sometimes his third-meal as well in the cells with his clients. Prisoners.

Victims; but that was a Nurail thought. The Pyana word was better, clients. It helped disguise the precise nature of the services Koscuisko provided. And glossed over the helpless suffering of the prisoners entirely.

Geltoi drew a dish of vellme closer to him across the surface of the desk-table, glaring irritably at the light reflected in the milky liquid. “Very well, Murey, but I rather hoped for a more complete report. See if you can’t get something out of the woman. And maybe you’ll report to Belan every day or so whether there’s news or not. I don’t want any surprises like the kitchen audit.”

Murey hadn’t known about the kitchen audit, from his reaction. And would have loved to have had the details, exactly what Koscuisko wanted; but had been dismissed in a fairly obvious manner. Murey bowed with reluctance and went out of the room, eyeing Belan with a mixture of curious greed and hostile resentment as he passed.

Belan was used to it. There wasn’t a single Pyana in all of the Domitt Prison who wasn’t convinced that they had more right than he did to stand next to Administrator Geltoi in the order of things.

“The kitchen audit, Administrator. We have an appointment to review it with you before we submit it to the Writ.”

It was hard to tell if Geltoi was listening. Dabbing a forefinger into the dish of vellme in a contemplative manner, now, Geltoi sucked the drops of fluid from the wet fingertip thoroughly before he spoke.

“Absolutely, Merig. I’m not taking any chances. Koscuisko hasn’t shared any concerns with me, if he has any, and that would have been the normal thing to do. Still, I may be overreacting. Let’s have a look at the audit, then.”

Belan agreed, if only within his own private thoughts. Geltoi was overreacting. Belan had read up on the formal relationship between a Writ on site and the prison administration. The Writ was responsible to the Bench for reasonable and prudent measures to ensure that prisoners were housed and fed, and the Protocols respected. The kitchen audit was just another item on the list of things an Inquisitor might do to fulfill his formal responsibilities.

Also Geltoi was not overreacting a bit. If Koscuisko realized that prisoners were not being fed full rations even when they were on work-crew, Koscuisko could cry failure of Writ at the Domitt Prison.

The kitchen-master laid the six required reports out on the Administrator’s desk-table in careful array. “Stores and disbursements, showing rations received, Administrator. The audit standard says on average an under-run of two in eighty up to a cumulative overrun of eleven in eighty is acceptable variation. It was hard to decide how to determine what population figure to use, though.”

The Domitt Prison was at its full lawful capacity with the new arrivals from Eild’s collections and the aftermath of that siege. Belan knew that it had been at more than full legal capacity for longer than that. It hadn’t been an issue earlier, when the prison was being built; they’d received prisoners without manifest, and that meant nobody really knew how many of them there were.

That one riot had taken a lot of the pressure off, as well, one hundred and seventy-four killed trying to reach the gate, surely as many again wounded, and the offending parties gathered — living and dead — and buried all at once in the pit that had anchored one of the materials-cranes that they’d been using to hoist heavy items up to the upper floors of the prison.

Dead and alive together.

Belan kept his eyes focused on the audit report by an act of will. Outside the Administration Building, beside the outer wall of the Domitt Prison, safely shielded from any curious eye in Port Rudistal by the containment wall, and the pit already there and ready to be filled in. He could still hear the screaming as the accelerant was broadcast onto living flesh, screaming that muted only gradually as earthmovers pushed the excavated dirt back into the pit.

It didn’t matter.

They were dead.

He was Assistant Administrator Belan. He had a position of privilege and influence, even amongst these Pyana.

Pyana had done so well as they had over the years in just such a manner, why should he have nightmares? It was the Pyana way. Feeling guilty only indulged his own inferior Nurail nature.

“You’ve gotten the traffic reports from the landing field, Belan?” Geltoi asked. His tone of voice hinted to Belan that his inattention had been remarked upon, and he hastened to reclaim his fault by providing reassurance that all had been done as Administrator Geltoi would wish it.

“Together with best estimates from the relocation camp, and tied in with reports on blockade intercepts, Administrator.” He was proud of how thorough he’d been. None of his figures stood out by itself. He had support for everything, and convincing reasons why the Domitt claimed so many fewer souls on its admissions than the remanding parties might have thought they were transferring.

Geltoi had been completely correct on that issue. Nobody could ever tell the difference. There had been too much confusion, and records not well kept, and sometimes lost for a very small fee.

The population statistics were valid.

“As long as you’re satisfied, Merig.” Administrator Geltoi leaned back in his chair with the dish of vellme in one hand. “All right. Go ahead and sign for me. And get it delivered right away, and be sure that if Koscuisko has any questions he knows to ask us first.”

For a moment Belan stared, confused. Him to sign? It was for the Administrator to sign the audit . . . but when understanding came it was complete and comprehensive. Of course. The Administrator was delegating. That way if there should be a problem further on . . .

Wait.

If there was a problem further on, it would be Belan, not Geltoi, to answer for any discrepancies in the kitchen audit.

What was there to worry about?

Geltoi was Pyana. Pyana were sharp. Administrator Geltoi was smarter than anyone Belan had ever met. There weren’t going to be any problems.

And if there were . . .

Geltoi was watching him closely, clearly searching for signs of disloyalty or rebellion. Belan swallowed his reservations and stepped up to the desk-table, pulling out his idiostamp to sign the documents.

If there was a problem he was damned.

He had no hope of outwitting a Pyana.

His only chance was to keep being useful, and hope that Geltoi would protect him.

###

He had been forever at the Domitt Prison, now. Not even Ailynn’s graciously extended efforts to help him through the night were quite effective; which meant Andrej became more and more irritable day by day. There were so many screaming trembling bodies in this place. And he was so careful with each one of them.

The body that half-lay across the block was neither trembling nor screaming; Andrej knew what was required, but there was a problem, he had no more of the drug that he desired in the set of doses that he carried with him. No more within the cell. He would have to requisition wake-keepers from Infirmary, but for the present he would just borrow from stores in the next cell.

“Kaydence.”

Going to the door, Andrej keyed the admit, blocking the interior of the room from view by standing well within the doorway. Kaydence saluted, bowing toward the center of the room without turning to face Andrej, knowing that Andrej didn’t want him to look. “Kaydence, into the second cell to the dose-rack go, and for me the dose-unit store of midipar bring out. You are to come through with it, when you come back.”

He needed the wake-keeper in a hurry, or he was going to lose this prisoner. And there were still just one or two more questions before this particular prisoner could die, and leave Andrej to concentrate on the other projects he had going in other cells even now.

So many.

And so hard, to keep himself to the rule of conscience every time. He had not abused a prisoner outside of Protocol. He’d never needed to violate the Protocols in order to gain dominion.

The prisoner who was accused of being War-leader Darmon, with whom he had spent the morning, was an unusual experience for Andrej in that respect; and by now — four days into that exercise — Andrej really rather hoped that he would lose, that Darmon would go to his death unconfessed. Andrej admired him.

But it was more difficult all the time to do the decent thing and let them go, when he was finished. There was so much. He’d thought the surfeit of suffering would slake his appetite; it didn’t, it only seemed to sharpen it. The war-leader’s resistance, admirable though it was, made Andrej the more savage with other prisoners — Tarcey, here, for instance. And day by day the unholy accumulation of the suffering of helpless captives scraped away new layers of raw nerve like a flensing-knife, until his resolve was frayed to the snapping point.

Kaydence came into the cell with the drug Andrej wanted and stood waiting, patiently, to see if the dose was right. Andrej put the dose through at the throat of his prisoner, fresh meat to the bestial hunger in his soul; the prisoner stirred, with a grinding groaning sound of fathomless despair, and Andrej forgot all about Kaydence being present.

So many, and so much, and not enough. Never enough. His sharp keen agonizing knowledge of how wrong it was to embrace such a thirst only heightened his thirst, and he had kept himself from the slaking of it with a stern effort time and again, determined not to take advantage beyond what measures served the Judicial purpose.

Fetching a glass of water from the potable-water spigot at the back of the cell, Andrej touched his prisoner’s face to get his attention, offering the glass. For a moment he wondered if the prisoner had escaped after all: There was madness in the look of that dark eye, glittering feverishly under the lights from the ceiling. The moment passed. The prisoner closed his eyes, exhausted and submissive to Andrej’s will; and drank from the glass of water gratefully.

“Now let us talk,”
Andrej suggested.

He had a camp-stool that he could pull close, to sit upon and be at a good level to watch his prisoner’s face. The man tried to flinch away from him on instinct, but his wrists were chained to the side of the block on which he half-lay, sprawling. There was no “away” for him to flinch to.

“Yes. Your-ex. Len. Sie.”

Wrists pegged to the sides of the cube, arms stretched to either side of the near comer, and the prisoner’s body across the block so that most of his torso lay atop it on his belly while his legs fell unsupported off the opposite comer. A very awkward position to be in, really. One in which it would be almost impossible to rest.

“The Tanner’s raid on Port Preyling, who planned it?” Andrej asked gently. At this point a man needed very little by way of persuasion to speak out. It was deciding if he was telling the truth —

“Don’t know.” It was a protest from the heart, one pregnant with fear and horror. “Told you. Please. Don’t know. Please.”

Yet it was in Andrej’s power to hold this man and torture him until he accused someone, anyone, just to make it stop, just to win his death. Then there would be another soul to torment, and good cause and justification to invoke the Advanced Levels, and as little chance that whomever was accused had real guilt to confess as that this man was lying. It was a seductive concept.

“All right. I’m sorry. Just making certain. Can you tell me why Haren Morguiss went over to the Darmon, at Fidenbanks?”

Four days of torture, and this the fifth. The prisoner swallowed hard. Andrej gave him another drink of water.