Some trial in Ashan, Arc 717
Candlelight flickered against the shadows. Huddled in a corner of the torture chamber, next to the work table, Zarik squinted to make sense of the small letters of the book on his lap. He held the candle closer to the pages, and ignored the hot wax that dripped over his fingers. The slight burns that scalded his skin felt nice. They alerted him to the fact that he was alive and awake. They distracted from the aches in his ankle, wrist, and spine. They kept him from feeling the misery of his lower back.
Zarik didn’t know the exact trial but whenever he ran his fingers along the etched grooves on the underside of the table, it told him more than forty trials. He was almost entirely certain it wasn't the correct number. He didn't know when the sun came up nor set. His awareness of the breaks were faulty, but he tried to manage a sense of something with each notch he made - though he had nothing to confirm what he was actually marking. He chose to believe it was the passing of trials. So, it was forty. Forty trials of no sunlight, no fresh air, no freedom. Forty trials of metal shackles around his limbs, the scent of blood, feces, and guts constant, and the witness of every job that his father, the torturer, performed. Much of it he had to help with. Much of it he didn’t want to.
His father kept bringing him animals too. Rats, at first. Then cats, and otherwise. To teach him the organs of the body, to show him how to let blood quick or slow, to teach the proper way to snap bones to help break down a body for easier storage or transport. It wasn’t the exact same as humanoids, but it was a start as his father reminded him. He was his apprentice now, not a mere assistant. It was Zarik’s forgetfulness about this obligation that had landed him in the chains he now wore. The metal hoop in his ear should have reminded him. The irritated infection ran through the entire length of his pointed cartilage, but somehow Zarik had gotten used to the pain. He’d gotten used to the sensation of the silver-laced pus that would leak out whenever his ear got pinched. It had only gotten worse now, as had all his wounds, in this ongoing punishment of his. His near-solitary confinement.
But it wasn’t solitary always. His father visited about every few trials (it seemed, according to the notches) to teach him or work a job, and give him food and drink, though the quality of such varied. Usually nothing more than charred meat or bland overly soaked cave oats. Sometimes he had company though. Such as now, across the way and hidden in the shadows.
He murmured to himself while he read, “A-and the proper way to say anything is to do so as if it is effortless. Never allow the other party to see you think unless you wish to give pause and increase their worry of whatever is being discussed. This can be used to great effect to…”
A drop of wax fell toward the page. He drew his hand back. It landed on his trouser and settled on the ragged coarse fabric instead. He winced, then returned to reading from the book aloud, “…to sway consensus by invoking doubts without ever saying a word. Always allow the other party to be the one who convinces themselves that it is not in their best interest to get what they want. As such, all that you do, should appear to be as natural to you as breathing itself. Choose the best course of presentation, and treat it as if you’d always done such a thing, as if-”
Low groans interrupted him. He lifted the candle and glanced across the room at the shadowed spot where the torture chair was. The man strapped to it had awoken.
Zarik looked to the locked door, then back to the Intended. He returned to reading the book, though silently now.
The way to address a noble is…
The proper gesture to motion for a possible suggestion is…
If it can be helped, never allow the other party to have the night to sleep on an agreement for they will invariably figure out new ways to swindle, or reconsider due to doubts as to the validity of the terms.
Blood has greater uses than ink, so should always be used whenever possible.
Collateral is an exceptional need to acquire compensation when the other party attempts to reneg on agreements.
A verbal agreement is useless without a great deal of bribery on your behalf to have the court sway anything to your favor. It is better to acquire a written agreement or not bother.
Always speak with a sense of wit, but try to match the level of the other party’s status. If you speak from too high, you will no doubt cause offense that may provoke a rash of violence from the simplest of minds. If you speak from too low, you will invariably be discarded and dismissed as unworthy to deal with.
The candlelight flickered, then the flame on the wick died out.
Zarik sighed. That was his last candle. He'd have to wait for his father's next visit to ask for more. He closed the book, then set it on the counter surface along with the stump of wax that remained with the buried wick. He leaned against the stone wall, listened to the pained groans of the man across the way, and the drip of water. Was it raining outside? He didn’t know. He tried to listen for rain, but nothing.
After a few bits, he cleared his dry throat and said, “I-if you told my father wh-what he wanted to hear, he’d let you go.”
“Eh?” asked the man from the chair with vague confusion. The man’s swollen tongue was obvious from the words that followed, “’ere’s no’ing ‘o be ‘old. I dunno any’ing abou’ any heis’ ‘o ‘he guild s’ores.”
“That’s it, though,” said the lad. He moved his legs. The chains, which kept him locked to the wall and floor, clinked together. A scabby raw wound on his ankle brushed against the metal and he hissed at the painful reminder. “It doesn’t matter if you know or not. As long as it sounds reasonably true.”
“I ain’ gonna lie, kid.”
“Then it’ll get worse for you,” mentioned Zarik. He thought about what he’d just read. “I might be a kid, but if I know my da, then he ain’t gonna pull any punches if you keep repeating that tired ol’ I know nothing line. Would you believe that if you were in the other position?”
He paused then, and he listened to the labored breath that cut through the silence.
After no response came, he added, “I’ve seen enough men like you. Thinking if they keep to the truth, or what they want to be the truth, then eventually he’ll have to give up. Eventually, he’ll have to admit reason. It’s only l-logical, yes? No one would ever go through s-so much pain and keep lying. That’s what you think, yes? It ain’t like that, though. He isn’t interested in that. He needs information to give to the client. Without information, then we aren’t going to be paid. It’s a job, like any other job. What sort of job did you have?”
“Courier. I was… am a courier, no’ was,” said the man shortly. There was the sound of squirming, the familiar noise of the belted clasps of the iron chair being pulled at, and then the low swearing when the shimmies didn’t do anything in the slightest for escape.
“You ever deliver messages to wealthy people?” inquired Zarik.
“Why? Wha’s it ‘o you?” muttered the man. “Why’re you in ‘ere anyway? Shouldn’ you be off, doing some’ing. Is ‘is some sor’ o’ ploy? Keep his kid in ‘ere to needle wi’ never-ending ques'ions?”
Zarik didn’t answer immediately. He paused for a thought, then said, “It’s only dark. I can’t read without my candle. Sorry if I’m bothering you, mister.”
“Y’ are,” answered the tortured man.
Silence took over the room then. Zarik settled against the leg of the work table and he held onto it. He closed his eyes in the dark, but he didn’t feel tired. Didn’t feel exhausted. He wanted to leave; wanted to run through the cobblestone streets; wanted to climb the skyways and peek out across the steep rooftops; wanted to look over Quacia and watch the blackbirds fly; wanted to look down at all the people going about their trials.
He wanted to see Watcher again, see Sabbath again, talk to them even though their conversations were never about much of anything. He liked just being able to sit by them, to look at the other young men, and feel... accepted. Would Sabbath even want to see him again? ...If his father ever let him out. By now, he was certain that his father probably had said something horrible to their neighbors. Told his friend to stay away or something of that nature perhaps. Or maybe he just told him that Zarik didn’t want to see him… or that he was sick, or even that he'd died... Zarik shut his eyes tighter, though they were already closed. He sniffed and tried to keep quiet.
“Mister?” he called out. It was okay if the other man was annoyed by it, or angry at him, he just wanted to hear another person’s voice. “Are you sleeping, mister?”
No answer. Zarik sighed. He drew his knees up to his chest, traced his fingertips over the shackle around his ankle, then tugged at the chain-link attached to it. The biqaj hummed to himself, a quiet melody to ward away the dead silence.
