Torren
Son of a jackal, I am this close to snapping. The cook has blubbered and wheezed his way up five flights of steps, muttering prayers to the gods to watch over his family.
I look up. We have too many stairs left.
Although the man is obviously in lousy physical health, it’s fear taking his breath away. He was bold in his confession, but now a coward in the face of torture. This is the worst showing of dignity I have seen in a while, and that’s a high bar.
We stop again on the first landing in the tower, as he’s red-faced and hyperventilating. I’m now worried about him dying before I can even question him.
I stand with my arms folded as he catches his breath. The man leans down with his hands on his knees. His whole body is shaking like a wet dog, and he smells like onions.
“I’m sorry. I just need a moment, sir,” he wheezes.
I wait.
Finally, he nods and we continue. We climb even though he’s still crying. We have to stop twice more, but eventually, we reach the door. I open it with the skeleton key.
The room is empty, of course—no one will use the western tower this week. This far up, he shouldn’t be heard or located by the Senate. It was the best place to stow him away.
I step inside the domed space. Gold constellations shine in the cobalt-blue ceiling. The tower has an abundance of windows, and there are a variety of instruments to measure the stars atop a marble altar. Like the tower on the other side of the palace, there is a basin for sacrifices, but this is a celestial room for the temple of the skies. Since the Crimson Night, worship of the god has been nearly abandoned.
I toss a pair of manacles onto the altar, but I doubt I’ll need them. I could overpower this man with a paper fan.
The cook looks around with his knees quaking. “Why am I here, sir? I have already told you that I was the one who poisoned the senator.”
I lean against the altar and cross my arms. “That’s exactly why you’re here—for interrogation under pressure.”
He swallows hard and takes four rapid breaths.
“Let’s begin, shall we? Did you act alone?” I ask.
He mops the sweat off his brow with his meaty hand. “Entirely.”
“What poison did you use?”
He hesitates, his brown eyes circling. Gods, he isn’t even certain. I stay silent and let him squirm. Maybe he’ll rethink whatever bargain he made. I’ll certainly give him plenty of time to think about it up here.
“Romlock. It was romlock, sir.” His round face is hopeful that he landed on the correct answer.
“I know you’re lying,” I say. “Because that was not the poison used.”
It’s a bluff, but it’s effective. His face was sweaty and red, and now he’s paling and stammering.
“I thought…that it… I… Maybe I grabbed the wrong vial.” His eyebrows rise. The assertion is ridiculous, but he doesn’t seem the type to think well on his feet.
If it had been even partially his idea, he would know what he used. But of course, he was only paid to take the fall.
“I’m sure whoever you made a deal with didn’t bother to explain what poison it was, nor how it worked.” I wave my hand like it’s irrelevant. “How did you use it?”
“I put it in his food.”
It’s also a lie, but that means he wasn’t the one who put the poison in at all. If he’d poisoned a senator, I’d argue to put him to death, even though he wasn’t the mastermind, but he didn’t even do that much.
River of Death.
“You know, it’s funny, I burned his food myself and didn’t find any trace fumes from poison—romlock or otherwise.”
“He…he must’ve eaten the poison part.” His voice rises at the end like a question.
