He saw how the manacles had torn at her wrists. He would need to treat that-those wounds were looking much worse.
Slowly, Tanal settled onto her body, felt her shiver beneath him as he slid smoothly inside. So easy, so welcoming. She groaned, and, studying her face, he said, ‘Do you want me to kiss you now?’
‘Yes!’
And he brought his head down as he made his first deep thrust.
Janath, once eminent scholar, had found in herself a beast, prodded awake as if from a slumber of centuries, perhaps millennia. A beast that understood captivity, that understood that, sometimes, what needed doing entailed excruciating pain.
Beneath the manacles on her wrists, mostly hidden by scabs, blood and torn shreds of skin, the very bones had been worn down, chipped, cracked. By constant, savage tugging. Animal rhythm, blind to all else, deaf to every scream of her nerves. Tugging, and tugging.
Until the pins beneath the frame began to bend. Ever so slowly, bending, the wood holes chewed into, the pins bending, gouging through the holes.
And now, with the extra length of chain that came when Tanal Yathvanar had reset the pins at the foot of the bed frame, she had enough slack.
To reach with her left hand and grasp a clutch of his hair. To push his head to the right, where she had, in a clattering blur, brought most of the length of the chain through the hole, enough to wrap round his neck and then twist her hand down under and then over; and in sudden, excruciating determination, she pulled her left arm up, higher and higher with that arm-the manacle and her right wrist pinned to the frame, tugged down as far as it could go.
He thrashed, sought to dig his fingers under the chain, and she reached ever harder, her face brushing his own, her eyes seeing the sudden blue hue of his skin, his bulging eyes and jutting tongue.
He could have beaten against her. He could have driven his thumbs into her eyes. He could probably have killed her in time to survive all of this. But she had waited for his breath to release, which ever came at the moment he pushed in his first thrust. That breath, that she had heard a hundred times now, close to her ear, as he made use of her body, that breath is what killed him.
He needed air. He had none. Nothing else mattered. He tore at his own throat to get his fingers under the chain. She pushed her left arm straight, elbow locking, and loosed her own scream as the manacle round her right wrist shifted as a bolt slipped down into the hole.
That blue, bulging face, that flooding burst from his penis, followed by the hot gush of urine.
Staring eyes, veins blossoming red, then purple until the whites were completely filled.
She looked right into them. Looked into, seeking his soul, seeking to lock her gaze with that pathetic, vile, dying soul.
I kill you. I kill you. 1 kill you! The beast’s silent words.
The beast’s gleeful, savage assertion. Her eyes shouted it at him, shouted it into his soul. Tonal Yathvanar. 1 kill you!
Taralack Veed spat into his hands, rubbed them together to spread out the phlegm, then raised them and swept his hair back. ‘I smell more smoke,’ he said.
Senior Assessor, who sat opposite him at the small table, raised his thin brows. ‘It surprises me that you can smell anything, Taralack Veed.’
‘I have lived in the wild, Cabalhii. I can follow an antelope’s spore that’s a day old. This city is crumbling. The Tiste Edur have left. And suddenly the Emperor changes his mind and slaughters all the challengers until but two remain. And does anyone even care?’ He rose suddenly and walked to the bed, on which he had laid out his weapons. He unsheathed his scimitar and peered down at the edge once again.
‘You could trim your eyelashes with that sword by now.’
‘Why would I do that?’ Taralack asked distractedly.
‘Just a suggestion, Gral.’
‘I was a servant of the Nameless Ones.’
‘I know,’ Senior Assessor replied.
Taralack turned, studied with narrowed eyes the soft little man with his painted face. ‘You do?’
‘The Nameless Ones are known in my homeland. Do you know why they are called that? I will tell you as I see that you do not. The Initiated must surrender their names, in the belief that to know oneself by one’s own name is to give it too much power. The name becomes the identity, becomes the face, becomes the self. Remove the name and power returns.’
‘They made no such demands of me.’
‘Because you are little more than a tool, no different from that sword in your hands. Needless to say, the Nameless Ones do not give names to their tools. And in a very short time you will have outlived your usefulness-’