. .

Cortin was beginning to think she'd miscalculated her subject's
resistance when screams of defiance turned abruptly, as anticipated,
into hopeless whimpering sobs mixed with pleas for mercy. She looked
past him to Illyanov, who nodded; while he finished, she went to the
instrument table and picked up a slender, razor-sharp dagger.

"Here is the end to your pain," she said softly, laying it against the
raw flesh of the rogue's throat. "As soon as you answer my questions,
I will give you your release. You have learned that you cannot lie to
me; try it again, and you will find what has happened so far only the
beginning. Do you understand?"

"Yes . . . Oh, God, no more!"

"That is up to you, not Him; you gave up any claim on His Mercy when
you pledged allegiance to His enemies." Though, an inner voice said,
he could still repent . . . "Tell me about Lawrence Shannon. Who he
is, where he is, what his plans are."

"I don't know all that . . . please, I don't!"

He was telling the truth, unfortunately. "Very well. Tell me what you
do know, then."

"I'm . . . not sure. No! Honest--he's the Raidmaster, everyone knows
that--plans all the new-style raids--but nobody knows him. A Lawrence
Shannon even leads all those raids, but not the same one, maybe not the
one who plans 'em. An' that's all I know about 'im, honest!"

"I believe you," Cortin said. It was too bad he knew so little, and
that so inconclusive, but she had no doubt that he was telling her all
he did know, as she'd asked. "Have you heard anything else? It need
not be certain--a rumor of his plans, perhaps."

"No . . . no, wait . . . maybe. I overheard something . . . a hospice
. . . or could be a retirement home, or some sort of hospital. Old
folks, or sick ones, anyway. That's all."

"All on that subject, or all on any?"

"All on any . . . please?"

"You have earned it." Cortin drove the knife up under his ear; he
gasped, shuddered once, and died.

Cortin looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Compared to your
present master, my friend, I was easy on you. May you suffer under him
for eternity."

Odeon tasted bile, knew suddenly he was going to be sick. "Joanie--"

She turned, saw his pale face, and hurried to him. "Can you make it to
the washroom?"

"I don't think--"

"No, he cannot," Illyanov interrupted, coming over and holding a
wastebasket.

Odeon had time for a grateful look before his stomach completed it