The Grand Design by John Marco Read Free Book Online

urged Simon. “What did he say? Is Vantran in Falindar?”
    “He was so beautiful,” replied Savros absently. “I want another.”
    “Vantran—”
    “Yes, yes!” flared the torturer. Savros released the dead man and turned toward the table, pulling bloodied implements out of his vest and placing them on the silver tray with a petulant frown. “It’s as you suspected,
spy.
” He spit out the word like a curse. “Vantran is in Falindar with his wife.”
    “What else?” pressed Simon.
    “Oh, learn the damned language! Or weren’t you listening?”
    Simon bristled but said nothing. Of all the people who had fled with Biagio to Crote, only Savros understood the clicking language of the Triin. It was, he had explained once, “necessary to know the tongue of his subjects.” And Savros had a genius for language Simon could only marvel at. This had been Simon’s first mission to Lucel-Lor, and he hoped his last. He had tried to learn at least a few Triin phrases, but Savros was a poor teacher and Simon an unwilling student. The animosity between them had only grown from there.
    Simon regarded Savros carefully, watching him turn a white towel red with the gore from his hands. He caught a glimmer in the Mind Bender’s preternatural eyes, a spark of something hiding in the blazing blue irises. There was something more.
    “What else?” said Simon. “There is something, I can tell.”
    “Can you?” taunted Savros. “You are Roshann, Simon Darquis. You are supposed to be observant. What have I learned? Can you guess?”
    “Stop fooling,” ordered Simon.
    Savros surrendered with an evil smile. “There is a child,” he said with satisfaction. “Vantran has a daughter.”
    Simon’s heart sank. “A daughter? How old?”
    “Very young; a baby really. Maybe a year. Maybe older, I don’t know. But she lives with them in the citadel.” Savros put down the soiled cloth. “Looks like you’ll be going back, eh?”
    Simon grimaced. That was the last thing he wanted.
    “Vantran still expects something,” Savros added. “You should tell the Master that. Tell him to stopbothering with this vendetta and get us off this bloody island.”
    I will
, thought Simon darkly. He took a final look at the dead man dangling from the ceiling. The lifeless eyes were open and staring at him blankly. An invisible breeze made the corpse sway and the chains rattle. Simon felt unclean. It had been a long and miserable journey back from Lucel-Lor, and this warrior had borne his indignity proudly. Trussed up like a pig in the ship’s stinking cargo hold, he had hardly said a word or eaten a crumb. Simon looked at the man’s emaciated body, ruined by the Mind Bender’s insane artwork. Only Savros had been able to break the Triin’s iron will, and he had done it in mere hours.
    “What was his name?” asked Simon quietly.
    Savros looked at him incredulously. “What?”
    “His name. What was it?”
    “I taught you that phrase,” Savros reminded him. “Didn’t you ask him yourself?”
    Simon shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to know the man’s name before.
    “Hakan,” said Savros. The torturer sighed. “What a waste. He could have lived so much longer.”
    “Hakan,” Simon repeated. Then he glanced at Savros and said with venom, “I’m glad I killed him.”
    Without another word Simon hurried out of the cell. He slipped through the iron gate separating the dungeon from the rest of the catacombs and passed by the count’s wine cellars, where a thousand barrels of priceless vintages slumbered and sweetened the air. Most were from Biagio’s own vineyards, a nectar sought after throughout the Empire. The count had an army of servants tending his grapes, and here in the cellars collared slaves toiled with the heavy barrels and tasted the wines for their perfection. The slaves did not acknowledge Simon as he passed them. They knew he was a favorite of the count’s, but he was not a Narenlord. He was Roshann, and that meant