from the crank of the rack on which Hanse lay, taut.
‘Well do something to him!’ Milady snapped.
The smith surprised everyone. The movement was swift and the crack loud. He drew
back his whip from a white stripe across Hanse’s stomach. It went pink, then
darker, and began to rise. The smith raised his brows as if impressed with
himself. Struck again, across the captive’s chest. The whip cracked like a slack
sail caught in a gust. Chains rattled and Hanse’s eyes and mouth went wide. A
new welt began to rise. The smith added one across the tops of his thighs. An
inch from the jewels, that. Milady Consort breathed through a mouth gone open.
‘I don’t like whippin’ a man,’ the smith said. ‘Nor thisun either. Think I’ll
just ease this arm out of its socket and turn it around t’other way.’
‘You needn’t walk all the way around to this side,’ Zaibar rumbled. ‘I’ll turn
the crank.’
To the considerable disappointment of Zaibar and Sanctuary’s first lady, Hanse
began to talk. He told them about Bourne and Lirain. He could not tell them of
Bourne’s death, as he did not know of it.
‘The Prince Governor of Sanctuary,’ Kadakithis said, ‘and representative of the
Emperor of Ranke, is merciful to one who tells him of a plot. Release him and
hold him here – without torture. Give him wine and food.’
‘Damn!’ Zaibar rumbled.
‘Might I be getting back to my wife now. Highness? This job ain’t no work for
me, and I got all that anchor chain to work on tomorrow.’
Hanse, not caring who released or guarded or fed him, watched the exit of the