“No… no!” Paetar Kraevalen cried out, more in terror than in pain, as the drop hit his forehead. Mixing with the sweat on his brow, the caustic soda reacted with the moisture to start a slow, prickling burn.
“The Chief Magistrate, Paetar,” Hanan demanded as he readied another large drop. “Where is he?” Gripping his squirming captive by the back of the neck, he let two drops slip by.
The treasurer groaned as the small splash hit him and trickled into the already intensifying burn on his forehead. “That information is classified,” he grunted through laboured pants.
“Nothing is classified to me,” Hanan snarled, grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair and yanking his head back hard. “Do you want to lose your sight, Consul Kraevalen?” Tipping the glass vial, holding it poised over Paetar’s eyes, he watched the man squint and try to shake his head.
Held fast in Hanan’s grip, he couldn’t move. “N-no. Please… please, no,” he mouthed in a hoarse whisper instead.
“Then I suggest you answer me, Paetar. Where is the Chief Magistrate? Answer me!” This time, Hanan let more than a couple of drops fall. He poured a quarter of the strong solution over the man’s face, carefully manoeuvring it to control the flow down the sides and over his nose.
Screaming in a mixture of pain and fear, Paetar Kraevalen began to sputter. Hanan quickly took a pace behind the man as he spat a spray of the caustic out before him, trying to keep the dangerous chemical solution out of his mouth.
“Last chance, Consul Kraevalen,” Hanan leaned in, his voice low but clear with no mistaking his intentions. “Tell me now, or get the rest,” he paused, readying the vial once more, “and I won’t be so particular about where it goes.”
“No! No, please don’t,” he pleaded. “The Chief Magistrate… he… he’s away… on business.”
“Well, yes, I had gathered that much. Business, where?” Hanan tightened his grip on the man’s head, forcing his submission.
“He’s off in… Klundlön,” the treasurer conceded at last, squinting hard again in anticipation of another heavy splash of the chemical base.
“Klundlön?” Hanan repeated. “What’s in Klundlön?” But in that instant, he immediately recalled a newspaper report about the Chief Magistrate’s recent remarriage. Remembering the details of the article, he connected the new young bride, Eyja Riktanders, from a powerful and wealthy family, to Klundlön. Ooh… He continued in mind, realizing what that meant. The Riktanders were not short on money, might or influence… especially influence… with ties to other great families in Sauskria, and even royalty from neighbouring nations. So the fat bastard is calling in favours, is he? Tipping the vial menacingly over his captive once more, Hanan demanded, “Where is he now? Tell me!”
“Svaelun!” Paetar Kraevalen choked freely, trying to squirm unsuccessfully from Hanan’s firm grip.
Ai, he’s after the big guns, he deduced quietly. First the money and now the might… “Anywhere else?” he sneered.
“I don’t know. I don’t know any more, Hanan, I swear. I swear!” Paetar gasped, cringing in terror.
Years of experience with forceful interrogations told Hanan he wasn’t lying. Paetar Kraevalen told whatever he had to tell… and much more than he even realized. So Hanan decided to change tactics. There was still the matter of his long overdue payment to discuss. “Now, what about my money, Paetar? Where is that?” Hanan asked, while securing the cover onto the glass vial, and then setting it back onto the desk. “You’re the treasurer, so you tell me, please. Where’s my money?”
Paetar watched as Hanan perused the tools on offer once again, and began to beg. “Please no, no, Hanan, no.” His pitch increased, reaching near frantic heights. “I swear to you, he will have it to you soon.”
Hanan rolled his eyes and tightened his jaw in disgust. These city bigwigs were all pomp and power in the public eye, but here in the shady backroom of the mill, they all crumbled like the snivelling sots they really were.
He’d had enough. Throwing his gloves down, he lunged at the man and growled. “Where’s my money!?” With fists full of his soaked, bloodied shirt, Hanan froze his captive in a vicious stare.
Just then, a glint of light from Paetar’s own clenched fist caught his eye, and Hanan noticed the ring on the man’s finger. “Yaartara,” he murmured, suddenly stunned, but trying to hide it.
Paetar Kraevalen wore the ring of the High Office of the City of Naveera. He wore it in place of the Chief Magistrate whose fingers were too fat to fit it. But that’s not what concerned Hanan. Yaartara, he repeated in mind, ecstatically recognizing a rare prize of great value.
Letting the treasurer go, Hanan stood upright to his full height with his shoulders back and relaxed. He took a few steps forward and looked at his captive again, his face now calm with the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t use your fingers to count your tallies now, do you, Consul Kraevalen?” Then unleashing his full fiendish smirk, Hanan grabbed hold of the man’s ringed finger and swiftly bent it completely backwards, breaking it.
**all work copyrighted
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