Chapter 3: Drowning Men

Paene Umber always felt sick when the Carpenter used one of his creations as a torture device, but, as usual, there wasn't really much that he could do about it.

The man had been chained at the legs and at the arms, and was currently swinging gently over a giant pool of milky white fluid, suspended by a series of pulleys and ropes. The man's legs were already halfway submerged in, and no amount of thrashing could pull them out again.

“I don't enjoy this, you know,” said the Carpenter. Crick Hasting idly spun his intricate wooden ring around his finger. Paene had a similar ring, except his was clear glass with a swirling cloudy substance, mimicking the appearance of smoke. Currently the smoke was a dark, angry red, but that would change in a few minutes.

“I enjoy carpentry. And craftsmanship. And things working out as they should.”

Crick pulled a lever, and the man was lowered a few more inches. The informant tried to keep his legs in motion to prevent them from being sucked under, but this session had already been going on for an hour and everyone in the room was, quite understandably, very tired. He was now submerged above the knees.

“Parish, you've done a beaut this time around, exceptionally done, my friend.”

Paene turned. It was Rask Trapping, a sallow little man with an unpleasant smile on his face at all times, as if he was enjoying a nice mug of ale. Paene idly remembered that Rask's happy expression was the same for the small pleasures as the large ones. And watching the torture of one of the Sunset Knight's spies was certainly a large pleasure for him.

“Say, what's the goo made out of anyway? What'd you mix up in that, ah, delicious cauldron of yours? Eye of toad? Wing of bat? Tail of newt?”

Paene rubbed exhaustion out of his eyes. “Rask, you know that I can't tell you.”

“Aye, but hey, what would I do with the knowledge if I had it, eh?” Rask slicked his lips as his smile grew wilder.

It was true. It was unlikely that the information could be passed on to anyone important, as there was practically no way that the Sunset Knight would use someone as despicable as Rask as a spy. And there was no way that Rask could use the information himself well anyway, being almost illiterate. Certainly imbecilic. Rask had originally been chosen to be a scribe, based on his lineage and devotion. This was the sort of thing that made one doubt the effectiveness of the King Enclosed's mandatory programs, the sort of thing that fueled Crick's movement in the first place.

“Rask, all I can tell you is that there is definitely not a newt in it.”

“Good enough for me, friend. Only a shit lot of possibilities left to try, now, eh?”

The man was now submerged to the waist and below. They were nearing the ending point.

The mixture that Paene had cooked up had a curious quality about it. It was a perfectly well behaved liquid most of the time-- until some kind of violence was applied to it. Then it instantly turned hard as rock. You could fill a bowl with the material, if one poured it carefully enough. Any force applied to the surface would cause the liquid to harden. Paene had poured such a bowl and dropped eggs into it from a respectable distance. They would crack upon contact, and the yellow shattered mess would slowly sink into the depths. Paene called his creation rock ooze.

The only way the man would get out of the rock ooze was if the Carpenter was to slowly raise him out of it using the clockwork system of pulleys and levers. Any attempt of the man to free himself by conventional means, such as to pull his legs up to his chest, was met with instant resistance from the rock ooze.

The man had tried, of course, earlier in the proceedings. But it required measured, constant, and gentle pulling to extricate his feet, and the man had long since lost the strength for that. With him being engulfed up to the waist, now, Crick's assistance was his only hope.

And it looked as if the Carpenter was utterly unwilling to offer such aid.

“Where does Altor live, Raeden? What are his defenses?”

Raeden Clamore strained against the chains that bound his arms and hands to his side. His stomach muscles flexed against his bare chest, but the rock ooze below was unyielding.

“He lives in Raven's Run! I don't know anything else!”

Crick examined his fingernails. “Raeden, you were in a high position before we found you-- both in Laeth's forces and here, I'm sorry to say. That's called a breach of trust, I might add.”

He lowered Clamore again, and continued.

“Do you expect me to believe that the Sunset Knight told you nothing about the King Enclosed's defenses? That you didn't take part in any of that planning?”

“Not any of it, sir, I swear to you, I swear on all the gods, I swear on-- stop! Stop lowering me!”

Crick took his hand off the lever. Clamore was now up to his chest, and his wrists, chained behind him, were now under the rock ooze. Paene looked away, pretending to examine his follower's ring, which was now a light shade of blue.

“I have stopped, Raeden, I have stopped.” The Carpenter's voice was smooth and reassuring. He had been a teacher, in a former life, after the King Enclosed's programs had dictated that such was to be his life and his work for the future. Crick had told Paene once that the king's men had made such a decision in the space of an afternoon after hearing Crick talk about the mining projects in his district of Invercard. It was a decision that Crick was hoping to examine and struggle with for years, a decision taken away in comparable moments.

The Carpenter's calling was one of the earlier years of the program. Most people, then and now, were happy with the results: it lead to a stable work environment, and a certainty of income. Crick grew to despise such slavery, as he called it, and when he journeyed to Caeledonia he was delighted to find that he was not the only one.

“But Raeden, let me ask you? Does the, ah, rigidity of such fluid anger you? Does it make you frustrated?”

Raeden strained against his chains and against the ooze again. Exhausted, he nodded and wearily voiced his assent.

Crick swept forward towards the pool, away from the lever. He carefully balanced himself on the edge and leaned forward until he was practically whispering in Raeden's ear.

Paene could not hear the words Crick was saying, but he could guess.

The Carpenter believed in fitting the punishment to the crime. If one of his men was to commit violent acts of so-called fiery passion, Crick would burn them alive. If one of his men was to steal, Crick would cut off a hand. Crick described it as equivalent culpability for equivalent freedom.

Raeden Clamore, a fighter for Altor Caeton's restrictive system, would die by the same principle of inflexibility, but as applied to liquid.

Oh, how the Carpenter had delighted when Paene had revealed the unintentional fruits of his labor.

Let Altor dismiss undesirables to the Drain en masse: people who didn't fit into his system, who couldn't fit into his system. Some, by crime, but some by no fault of their own, but all were banished to the hell hole, unwanted and unwept. The Carpenter's justice was infinitely more fitting.

Crick Hasting strode back to the the lever and lowered Raeden more. Raeden's shoulders and head alone were above the surface of the rock ooze, and he was screaming with all his might.

It made no matter. They were well protected in their hidden stone caverns under the Wall.

“Raeden, I plead, I entreat, I beg you one last time-- tell me everything you can about Altor's defenses.”

Raeden's response did not approach anything that could be considered intelligible. The Carpenter sighed theatrically and pushed the lever forward as far as it would go.

Raeden did not sink all at once. He must have been struggling considerably, unseen under the ooze, that hardened the fluid and prevented his further drowning. He had stopped screaming, and was instead grunting and panting with effort.

All of a sudden his struggles ceased. Raeden Clamore slowly sank all the way into the rock ooze, eyes squeezed shut. He didn't make a sound.

* * * * * * * *

Crick Hasting rubbed his hands over his eyes wearily.

Paene and the Carpenter were sitting in their workshop. Paene was creating something beautiful. Crick was going over reports from his spies in the Sunset Knight's forces.

“Parish, we need more guys on the inside.” Crick put his reports down. “Better guys, maybe. These people are giving us nothing.”

Paene barely looked up from the glass container he was working on, and did not respond. Crick got up from his desk and walked over to where Paene was working.

“Put that stuff down for a minute, Parish, and listen to me.”

“I am listening to you,” Paene said. “I was just thinking on how to respond.”

“And?” Crick picked up a glass vial from the table and turned it over in his hands, examining it. The liquid within started to churn in his hands, and angry smoke filled the top.

“I think that Lito Laeth has made it quite clear that torturing her spies gives us no value. She is extremely careful with her information, and doesn't let anything slip that isn't absolutely necessary to the person listening.”

Crick put the glass vial down sharply. “That's not what I was talking about.”

“It was, and here's why.” Paene looked up from his work. “Crick, the Sunset Knight barely trusts her own people with vital information. What makes you think she'll trust a newcomer with anything? Recruiting new spies won't be of any help to us, they'll just be a drain on resources and time.”

Crick sat down at his reports, as if he did not hear.

Paene continued. “Crick, how long have you spent going over those reports? Two hours? Three hours? And how much new information have you learned? Anything? Crick, overmorrow is a Gift Day, and you haven't done anything!”

“That doesn't really matter to me right now, Parish. And why are you working so hard, anyway? The rock ooze is new and fantastic, just put a vial of that on the altar.”

“I don't like to mix business and faith.” Or offer up weapons for murder.

Crick shifted through a few more papers. “Fair enough. Anyway,” he said, gesturing to the papers on his table, “the gods will understand.”

“The gods aren't really known for their understanding. The Master with his Forge least of all.”

Paene had been working on his gift for a week now. He had managed to develop a mixture which boiled when there was a lot of it together, but regained a normal temperature at lower volumes. Paene was planning on constructing a bowl in the base of his contraption, into which he would pour a large quantity of the mixture. Upon boiling, the steam would rise and be caught at the top of the glass enclosure, where it would condense on the side and slide back down to the basin, as liquid again. He wasn't sure how long the cycle would continue, but hopefully his god would be pleased by such an offering while it continued in its ever-changing dance.

“Parish, if you're not going to help me at least don't lecture me. I hate being lectured.” Crick threw a piece of parchment into a basket, and stroked his chin. “We need to work more on recruiting people already in her forces. Well entrenched, you know? Any ideas with that? You mingle with the soldiers off duty more than I.”

“I don't think that's going to work,” Paene said, brushing his hands free of glass shards. He continued to talk as he went over to his stone shelves to grab the ingredients for the new mixture. “Your tortures have been practically worthless--”

Crick interrupted. “They excite our base, they inspire a tremendous amount of fear and respect, how can you call them worthless! After all, you help with most of them!”

Paene didn't want to be reminded of that. “They're worthless in terms of getting information. And I don't think the fear helps you in this case: every soldier in Lito's forces knows about you and hates you. How can we expect to turn them onto our side? How can they trust us after this?”

“They'll trust us after we rid this island of those dreadful programs; they'll trust us when we are in charge and when we actually let people do what they want to do for a change. There have to be some soldiers who resent being turned into fighting men. Get your men out, find them, and turn them against the Sunset Knight.”

The Carpenter's tone of voice discouraged further argument.

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