…
But the screaming never ended, and it took Merryn a while to realize that it was her own.
“Avall!” she shouted. “Save me!”
Merryn!
he gave back, the merest whisper.
“Avall—!”
It
was
him, too: Avall speaking to her mind, through that strange bond born of a gem she had never seen. But though she felt him there, he was no longer responding. Still, wherever he was could only be better than here, and so she went to him—that which was most truly her did. And though it was cold beyond bearing where he was, Merryn found refuge there and rested.
“Is she dead?” she heard someone whisper, and that true voice sounded loud as thunder.
“No,” another roared back. “But we dare not increase the dose until tomorrow.”
“If you lie very still, it is less likely they will sting you,” Lynnz advised, from where he leaned casually against the polished metal railing that surrounded the sand on which Kraxxi lay. Unlike Merryn, he lay in broad daylight, spread-eagled on sand, not carpet. And while tent walls rose around him, there was no roof, and the midday sun beat down on his flesh, every bit of which was ruthlessly exposed. That sun beat down on metal, too: an inward-sloping circle of oiled brass, designed to keep certain things confined.
Very large, very black, very deadly somethings.
“The scorpions don’t generally start on anything important,” Lynnz offered helpfully. “In fact, they’ll ignore you entirely until you start to sweat. After that … they’ll sample that sweat. And then they’ll find they like the places where most of that sweat occurs, and notice how the skin tends to be softer there, and they’ll start to … nibble.”
He helped himself to a swallow of wine from a goblet ona camp table beside him. “They’ll have trouble with your forehead because it’s smooth, so they’ll probably go for where the sweat pools by your ears—which are also just of a size for them to get their mouths around. Eyes … Probably not, there’s something about them that repels them. Noses don’t sweat much, but as the day gets hotter, they’ll be looking for caves, and though these are much too big, they might want to probe inside your nostrils. Be sure not to sneeze. A sting in the face is very bad. Not treated, stings tend to fester, and then the flesh around the wound drops off. And that’s with the small ones.”
Another swallow, and for the first time, Kraxxi felt something brush against his bare thigh. Or had it?
It was as if Lynnz read his mind. “Was that real?” he wondered. “Or was that your imagination? Doesn’t really matter, does it? Not when I’m giving you advice.
“Now, as I was saying, they like salt and soft places, and in the day, they like tunnels. So I’d be thinking about my armpits, which embody all three of those things—and you’ll notice that we’ve made sure your legs are wide apart. There are all kinds of interesting dark and sweaty places down there.”
Kraxxi tensed in spite of himself, then, as slowly as he could, relaxed.
“Did I mention,” Lynnz purred, “that one of these is a female—with young? I’ve heard
they
like to burrow.”
Kraxxi knew what Lynnz was doing: trying to instill fear in his mind, knowing that a person’s anxieties could overrule actual facts, letting the person being tortured do all of the torturer’s work.
He wasn’t even that afraid of scorpions, beyond the usual healthy respect any intelligent person granted them.
Which didn’t mean he liked them, or that he wouldn’t be able to feel them doing what Lynnz had said. He was ticklish, too—extremely—and while he doubted they’d actually let him die, he also doubted they’d spare him pain. Nor was this Eron, where kings must be physically perfect in order to reign. Here it wouldn’t matter if he had a nibbled earlobe, or eyelid, or … scrotum.
No!
He was doing exactly what Lynnz wanted: thinking about what
might
happen, when none of it was a
But the screaming never ended, and it took Merryn a while to realize that it was her own.
“Avall!” she shouted. “Save me!”
Merryn!
he gave back, the merest whisper.
“Avall—!”
It
was
him, too: Avall speaking to her mind, through that strange bond born of a gem she had never seen. But though she felt him there, he was no longer responding. Still, wherever he was could only be better than here, and so she went to him—that which was most truly her did. And though it was cold beyond bearing where he was, Merryn found refuge there and rested.
“Is she dead?” she heard someone whisper, and that true voice sounded loud as thunder.
“No,” another roared back. “But we dare not increase the dose until tomorrow.”
“If you lie very still, it is less likely they will sting you,” Lynnz advised, from where he leaned casually against the polished metal railing that surrounded the sand on which Kraxxi lay. Unlike Merryn, he lay in broad daylight, spread-eagled on sand, not carpet. And while tent walls rose around him, there was no roof, and the midday sun beat down on his flesh, every bit of which was ruthlessly exposed. That sun beat down on metal, too: an inward-sloping circle of oiled brass, designed to keep certain things confined.
Very large, very black, very deadly somethings.
“The scorpions don’t generally start on anything important,” Lynnz offered helpfully. “In fact, they’ll ignore you entirely until you start to sweat. After that … they’ll sample that sweat. And then they’ll find they like the places where most of that sweat occurs, and notice how the skin tends to be softer there, and they’ll start to … nibble.”
He helped himself to a swallow of wine from a goblet ona camp table beside him. “They’ll have trouble with your forehead because it’s smooth, so they’ll probably go for where the sweat pools by your ears—which are also just of a size for them to get their mouths around. Eyes … Probably not, there’s something about them that repels them. Noses don’t sweat much, but as the day gets hotter, they’ll be looking for caves, and though these are much too big, they might want to probe inside your nostrils. Be sure not to sneeze. A sting in the face is very bad. Not treated, stings tend to fester, and then the flesh around the wound drops off. And that’s with the small ones.”
Another swallow, and for the first time, Kraxxi felt something brush against his bare thigh. Or had it?
It was as if Lynnz read his mind. “Was that real?” he wondered. “Or was that your imagination? Doesn’t really matter, does it? Not when I’m giving you advice.
“Now, as I was saying, they like salt and soft places, and in the day, they like tunnels. So I’d be thinking about my armpits, which embody all three of those things—and you’ll notice that we’ve made sure your legs are wide apart. There are all kinds of interesting dark and sweaty places down there.”
Kraxxi tensed in spite of himself, then, as slowly as he could, relaxed.
“Did I mention,” Lynnz purred, “that one of these is a female—with young? I’ve heard
they
like to burrow.”
Kraxxi knew what Lynnz was doing: trying to instill fear in his mind, knowing that a person’s anxieties could overrule actual facts, letting the person being tortured do all of the torturer’s work.
He wasn’t even that afraid of scorpions, beyond the usual healthy respect any intelligent person granted them.
Which didn’t mean he liked them, or that he wouldn’t be able to feel them doing what Lynnz had said. He was ticklish, too—extremely—and while he doubted they’d actually let him die, he also doubted they’d spare him pain. Nor was this Eron, where kings must be physically perfect in order to reign. Here it wouldn’t matter if he had a nibbled earlobe, or eyelid, or … scrotum.
No!
He was doing exactly what Lynnz wanted: thinking about what
might
happen, when none of it was a
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