Dark Magic Read Online Free Page B

hall was faced with oaken doors, all bolted. At the center of the hall stood a rack and to the side a wheel, beyond it the spike-filled bulk of the device called The Maiden. Braziers filled the place with heat, instruments hung ominous beside them, though it was the presence of the warlocks that brought sweat to the forehead of the argus.
    “The common criminals lie there, masters.”
    He indicated a door, hand dropping as Anomius said, “I want no common criminal. Where do you keep the worst?”
    “There.” The argus indicated a second door. “Below this level are the murderers, the child-defilers, and the enemies of the Tyrant.”
    “Then lead on.”
    Such enthusiasm rang in the voice of the little manthat the argus darted a look his way, then averted his eyes from the anticipation he saw. He wondered what transpired: why the other seven were so uneasy; why several wore expressions of such distaste. He did not recognize Anomius, nor venture questions—beneath the Tyrant, these were the land’s greatest. He nodded dutifully and drew back the bolt.
    Torches shed wan light and oily smoke over the sooted walls of a narrow stairway that descended into the rock. At the foot was a corridor flanked to either side by heavy doors, each inset with a small grille. The stench of unwashed bodies and ordure joined the perfume of the torches as the argus gestured at the first door.
    “Within is one Kassium, who slew his father and mother for the pittance they owned. He is scheduled for racking.”
    “A suitable candidate, I’d think,” Lykander suggested, clearly anxious to be gone from this dismal place.
    “But perhaps not the most suitable,” Anomius returned. “Tell me of the others, gaoler.”
    The argus shrugged and frowned, confused, and pointed to the other doors, one by one. There lay a cutthroat, next a raper of children, beyond a woman condemned as a poisoner; there a bandit, his neighbor a procurer of unwilling maidens; there one who had preached sedition, a fratricide, a handsome man grown wealthy at the expense of suffocated wives. There were numerous cells and a horrendous catalog of crimes to which Anomius listened attentively, waiting until the argus was done and then saying, “The woman—Cennaire?—tell me of her again.”
    “A courtesan,” the gaoler said. “She stole the purse of an admirer and put a knife in his belly when he threatened to expose her.”
    “Is she comely?” Pale blue eyes narrowed in interest. “She is not diseased?”
    “Aye and nay,” the argus said. “She escaped the pox and ere she came here she was lovely. Indeed, she’ssought on more than one occasion to seduce my men, to offer her body in return for her freedom.”
    “And was her offer taken?” asked Anomius dryly.
    “We adhere to our duty here,” the argus promised, though his furtive eyes denied the implied negative.
    “No matter,” Anomius said, “so long as she’s not damaged. Bring her out.”
    The argus glanced at the others and Lykander nodded, the gaoler crossing to the indicated cell and sliding back two heavy bolts. He swung the ponderous door open and beckoned.
    From within a melodious voice said, “So, brave Gurnal, would you use me again?”
    “Silence!” the gaoler blustered, darting a guilty glance at the watchers. “There are visitors would inspect you. Come out into the light.”
    “What? No promises to lure me? No blandishments or gifts?”
    The argus stepped a long pace forward, raising his hand. Anomius barked, “Leave her be! Only bring her out where I may see her.”
    Gurnal lowered his hand and the woman asked, “Who are these visitors? Am I now the plaything of your friends?”
    “They are the Tyrant’s sorcerers,” the argus said, “and they’d take a look at you. Now do you come out, or must I drag you?”
    “I am, I fear, not at my best,” the woman said, “but if you insist, then so be it.”
    Gurnal stepped back as she emerged into the torchlight, smoothing tangled