Sanjuste got up and sat down beside her, encircling her shoulders with his long hands.
She flinched at his touch.
"Be calm," he said. "Lift your head. Now stop."
Her face, tearstreaked and puffy, was still very pretty, and her lip trembled as she said, "I can't... Sanjuste, you can't think that I-"
"Elisa." The Inquisitor put his index finger under her chin and forced her to turn her head to face him. His tone was still gentle, his touch light, but there was something dead in his eyes. "You know it hurts me when you lie to me. Don't you think I deserve better?"
"It's not a lie! This is all some horrible mistake. Sanjuste- Sanjuste, you know I wouldn't hurt the Queen. I love you." Elisa threw herself forward into his arms, sobbing against his chest.
Sanjuste held her for an instant, stroking her hair and smiling. "Hush, hush," he murmured. His fingers closed tight on her hair, tangling it, pulling it. He forced her head back, not cruelly, but so that she had no choice but to look in his eyes. "Now you tell me why," he said, reaching out to brush the tears from her cheek, "and who ordered it, and I will be merciful."
"But I told you," Elisa said.
Sanjuste's lips tightened and he pushed her roughly away. "Now I am going to ask you nicely once more, and then you will see that I am not playing games. Elisa, for the love I once bore you, do not make me show you the world I govern."
She lay where she had fallen, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. "No..." she whispered.
Sanjuste turned away slowly, picking up his cigarette again. "If that is your decision," he said. "This will hurt me more than it hurts you, Elisa."
*************************************************
The girl had been screaming for nearly two hours. The Inquisitor being what he was, she must have been very strong. Still, the incessant noise was beginning to get on his nerves, and he felt it likely that Sanjuste's personal feelings of betrayal were leading him to a slower, more systematic method of breaking the girl than was, perhaps, necessary.
Benedict slid the phoenix statue on his desk a little to the right until he heard the click, and the bookcase behind him pushed open to reveal a narrow staircase leading down. He descended, and the screaming grew louder as he went. Finally, just as the flickering of a red light became visible, Benedict could hear what Sanjuste was saying.
"Whoever it is you fear, believe me, I can make you fear me more."
"Sanjuste," Benedict said, waiting at the foot of the stairs.
The Inquisitor put down his branding iron, and said quietly, "Take this moment to think if you have acted in this as a lady ought, and to consider how much farther you will force me to go."
He turned and went to Benedict. "Grandfather. How may I serve you?"
"The noise," Benedict replied. "With women, it is a little harder to take."
"Mmm," Sanjuste nodded, pursing his lips. "I had forgotten you possessed that delicacy. Virtue, I should say, sir. Well, I will make it quick then, shall I?"
"Please," said the Shogun.
Sanjuste nodded, removed a small vial and a large needle from the pockets of his cloak, and prepared the injection. Holding the needle before the girl's face, he said quietly, "Now, tell me what I wish to know freely, and I will make your ending quick. Force me to use the truth serum and I will show you Tartarus."
Elisa was crying again, but she clenched her teeth together and shook her head.
Sanjuste gave her the shot, not gently. "Now. Who employed you to kill my mother?"
There was a long pause while the serum worked its way into her bloodstream and she fought it. Finally, eyes bulging from the strain, Elisa said in a dead voice, "Man in a gray cloak. Roadside tavern. Called himself Wyvern."
"Better description," Sanjuste said.
"Red beard, blue eyes... Not sure of much else, because of the hood. Not tall."
"Good, good girl," Sanjuste said, gently wiping the blood and spittle from her lips with a clean handkerchief. "And why did you agree to do this for Mr. Wyvern, Elisa?"
"Because... she won't ever die... And you won't ever be king, my love. And I love you... and I want you to be king and I wanted to be... queen. I wanted to be yours forever. I wanted to be more than your wife was." Elisa said everything in a dry monotone, as if it meant nothing, but her eyes showed the strain of saying such a thing.
Benedict stayed back, his face betraying no emotion, but the stiff set of his body proclaimed his discomfort with the situation.
Sanjuste was smiling crookedly. "Because you loved me? And you wanted to be better than my wife." He turned away, shaking slightly, and then spun back with near-godlike speed, striking her so hard across the mouth that her head bounced back hard against the chair she was tied to, and she fell unconscious.
Saint Sangremains wiped the blood from his hand onto the corner of his cloak and spat on the ground. "I will understand if you prefer not to know of it, Grandfather," he said to Benedict, "but I think it may be necessary to teach my former love something of family loyalty."
Benedict nodded. "It's poison you drink, though for the right sentiments, Sanjuste," he said.
"I don't understand you, sir," the Inquisitor said, smiling again. "I don't drink."
That had been startlingly easy, actually. The blood of Dworkin and Chaos bred true, it seemed, and one had only to focus on the power of the blood to make one's body do what shadow had always done: shift.
The bar in which he drank had been formed from the inside of a dragon. It was dark and smoky, but he liked the morbid flair. The girl on his knee had the annoying tendency to sprout horns and a tail when she hiccupped, and she was quite drunk. Still, she had a nice body.
He had half-decided to join the karakha game when an old demon sidled up to the barstool next to Caine's and started speaking.
"House Barimen, eh," he said. "That brings up memories. Blood of the Witch-King, are you?"
"Witch-king?" Caine said. He wasn't all that interested, but he hadn't much better to do.
"You know," the demon said, dropping his voice to a low whisper, "Dworkin."
"My grandfather," Caine offered.
"Thought maybe you were his," the demon crowed, "same eyes you've got. See through everything. Been to his tower, have you?"
Caine stood up, sliding the girl onto her feet. "No. Show me?"
The demon cackled. "Course I will, course I will. For a price."
Caine smiled. "We'll talk of prices when we arrive." His hand closed hard on the demon's upper arm, squeezing just hard enough to threaten the bone. "Won't we?"
"Hello, Fi," said he, taking the seat opposite her. "Enjoying your vacation?"
"Rather," she agreed, tapping her acrylic nails on the plastic-topped table. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Of course." Bleys leaned back, crossed his ankles, and got out his cigarettes. He was wearing Armani, very dark red with a subtle shimmer.
Fiona bought him a beer and ordered a refill on her daiquiri. "So," she said once the waiter had left, "how goes the search?"
"We're almost ready," Bleys said. "But I am stopped by the most crucial element of our plan. Who will do the actual murder."
Fiona nodded. "It does set rather a mean precedent if we ascend the throne as usurpers and regicides, does it not?"
"Iliara won't dirty her hands," Bleys added, "not even for me. We might be able to get Flora to join us after the fact, but she's no assassin. Caine has been unreachable for centuries. Which leaves--"
"Corwin?" Fiona said.
Bleys shook his head. "Even if he were stable, which he isn't, he doesn't trust me. And he isn't quite insane enough to manipulate through pure hatred."
Fiona pursed her lips and sipped her drink. "Then who?"
"How much does Julian really want you?"
"An embarrassing question. I don't know. Not enough to throw over his new position with Dara, I'm sure. And then, of course, there is the matter of Julian's rather obnoxious personality..." Fiona took the cherry out of her drink, sucked it off the stem with a sort of deliberate, ice-cold sensuality, and smirked. "If I ever asked him for anything, or if I looked for an instant as if I might have an interest in him, the whole attraction would disappear. We would merely be two ambitious people with far too much in common to ever trust one another."
Bleys sighed. "I can see only one option, then. And it's not a happy prospect."
"Random?"
"Glad to see the subtlety's still there," he said, nodding. "If anyone hates Dara, it's Random. And he'll do anything for the people who set him free."
"He must be quite mad by now," Fiona said, but not as if it mattered.
"I would think so," Bleys agreed. "But no one is unpredictable. So the question becomes, who will we send to free him?"
There was a cold flicker and suddenly a woman stood before the dais. She was cloaked and cowled in black, and her face was dark and beautiful. She made a deep obeisance to the figures before her, then spoke: "Your Majesties, I come to offer a deal that will be beneficial to us both." Her voice was rich and deep, powerful.
"You do not fear your life in this place?" Arad managed, though his voice was cold and rasping, like fingernails on glass. His vocal chords had not been designed for Thari.
"Dread lord," the woman said, dropping to one knee. "I know your hatred of Queen Dara. I share a hatred of her regime and all that she stands for. Can we not form an alliance?"
"To what purpose? So that you or one of your brothers can take the throne? I cannot assist in your petty rebellion," said the Fisher King. "The chaos will reflect itself down here and disorder offends me."
"It will be an instant coup. The lives of Dara and Sanjuste for the happiness of all of Amber. Her vision is dark, but it is she who keeps it that way. It could be improved, slowly, if she desired to do so, but she is complacent, cruel. You hate her because of what she has made you. Could not love one who made you something else?"
Arad sighed and slid from the throne to float before his visitor. "It is too late for me. If you were to change the universe it is possible that I would disappear with the rest of the evil. Even if I do not, will you truly employ Satan to help you destroy Beelezebub? That is hypocritical, my dear."
The woman sighed. "I must," she said. "I will be sending someone down to you... Keep them, but do not kill them. That is all I ask... do nothing. Please, your Majesties."
The Fisher King laughed, a sound of nightmares. "No one comes to my realm and leaves freely without offering me a gift... If your friend has no manners, it will either be he in one of my cages, or you, my pretty Princess. And that will be your choice....assuming, of course, that you have brought me something."
The woman nodded and reached into her cloak, bringing forth a glimmering green rod. "Pure coryllane," she said as Arad snatched it from her fingers, smiling.
"You spoil me," he said, and proceeded to inhale it, his eyes growing wider and his smile less and less in control. "Send your man down, with more of this, and we have a deal."
The cowled figure bowed again and lifted her hand for the departing gesture.
Suddenly, Llewella spoke. "Iliara - could you really return Rebma to the way it was?"
"I do not know," the cloaked woman replied.
Llewella rose, her eyes flashing. "You will give me a better answer," she said.
"I cannot see into this future, Queen Llewella. You will forgive me." And Iliara, oldest living child of Dara, once Court Bard of Amber, winked out of Rebma, leaving the Queen livid with rage and the King near to intoxication.