Interview at the Mill

Germain stood outside the old mill watching his companions disappear into the evening fog. The rush of his recent combat had long since subsided, and now his muscles ached and sweat sat cold and clammy on his skin. The past hour had been full of unpleasant surprises, none of which bode well for him or his allies. He was hoping, possibly in vain, that the next hour would be more pleasant.

He lingered a few thoughtful moments.

The faces of Gil and Holm flashed before his eyes--not the pathetic failed assassins he had interrogated six months ago, but the twisted abominations they had just put to rest for good. With the help of the pretty and deceptively delicate LE, some valuable information had been coaxed passed their lips. It seemed they had paid dearly for it, and he felt bad for them. Even Holm, who would have been no more alive today if he had stayed in Germain's custody, would at least not have spent these long months as whatever he died as today.

With a slow, deep breath, Germain recovered his composure and turned towards the mill. He pushed his shoulders back, stretching out muscles tight from swinging his sword and shield. Settling into a confident stance, he walked back inside.

Although the room was dim, his sharp eyes could still make out the four prisoners, still safely bound, in the corners of the room. One of them was partially conscious, and had propped herself up against the mill's hopper. He stood quietly, listening to the labored breathing of the captives, the stream outside flowing around the sluice, and the rats scampering around the rafters. Confident that they were alone, he began to light the candles ensconced in the wall, bathing the room in flickering yellow light.

Four prisoners, Germain thought, are much better than one. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and he doubted that all of them would be hardened or cunning criminals. Which one would be smart enough to open up? Which one would rat them out if they got free? What sorts of affections did they hold for each other? Who is in charge? These are the questions he would keep in mind as he got them talking. Hopefully, he could get through the evening with a minimal amount of suffering. He simply wasn't in the mood to make any enemies or spill any more blood tonight.

The woman against the hopper glared at him groggily. Her left eye was swollen and red, and coagulated blood was pooled around her lashes. He opened his wine skin and wet his handkerchief, and squatting beside her gently wiped the blood away from her eye. When he was done, he leveled a cool and discerning look at her. "Have a drink," he said, holding the wine skin to her lips. "It won't hurt." Not waiting for a response, he tipped it back.

His captive parted her lips to receive the wine. Germain looked into her eyes, and although they were still suspicious and wary, they betrayed a slight softening of her mood. Seeing it brought him a welcome moment of relief.

"I knew those two before... well... I don't know what, exactly," he said, looking up towards where he had battled what remained of Gil and Holm. "Looks like their friends in the Guild didn't take kindly to them cooperating with me. Not that I gave them much of a choice." He punctuated the last sentence with a brief but stern look. "If I could let you go without talking to you, believe me I would. They tried to kill me, and I still wouldn't wish that fate upon them. Unfortunately, it's not an option--I need information. But I promise if you work with me I'll do my best to keep you safe."

Germain leaned forward, their cheeks gently touching, and spoke softly into her ear. "I don't know your friends... perhaps one of them is a rat? Speak quickly and softly before they come to, and you could save yourself and your friends a lot of unpleasantness. Here are the names I care about: Mantatlus. Fenn. Gil. Holm. Katellian. Antishara. Valari. Quint." His plan was vague: pressure her to make a quick decision, put the fate of her friends in her hands, or comfort her with subtle intimate contact. Hopefully something would work.

The captive was afraid, Germain could feel it, but she was also on the verge of speaking. Slowly, hesitantly, she replied to him, "I know you can't keep us safe. No one can."

He leaned back gently, and smiled. Her employers held her in a fearful grip, and she was more afraid of them then she was of Germain. A fact that, on its own, might make her unwilling to talk. But he and his allies had been busy the past few months, their connections and reputation had grown, and they were certainly a fact to be reckoned with. He held the captive's vision as he stood up, chuckling lightly. He had inherited his father's aptitude instilling confidence in men, and he hoped it would be enough to win her over.

"It seems we get underestimated a lot these days," he said, breaking vision and turning towards the three captive in the other corner. "Gil and Holm thought the same thing, but we drove Mantatlus from his estate, slaughtering his undead army and burning his precious poison garden to the ground. And Mantatlus thought that the hateful abominations that were once Gil and Holm would cause a lot more trouble than a few cuts and bruises and a trip to the church, didn't he?"

He walked towards the other captive, letting his statements sink in. He scrutinized the three bodies lying bound across the room. The lights seemed to be rousing them, but they were still shy of the point of consciousness. Still careful for an ambush, he stopped just at the edge of the nearest captive, and kneeling down, took him firmly by the shoulders. Germain drug him a few short feet, just out of reach of his two allies, and propped him up against the wall. He started to squirm as he tried to move him to a relatively comfortable position, quickly checking his bounds as he did.

"We could do nothing for you?" He stood up, and pacing slightly, spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "I could leave you with a few weapons, some gold, and most importantly your health. I could write you a letter that, if you are careful and considerate, might buy you some passage with our friends in the Wraiths and the River Folk. I could help you get to Sherdam where you might lie low for a while. I can offer you a fighting change. Or perhaps that's less than what they," and he nodded towards the remains of the coffins, "would offer you?"

He immediately turned his attention to the other two captives, helping the woman into a sitting position away from her partner. Once again, he checked Quin's ropes to make sure they were secure, and helped her get comfortable. They were all alert, and aware that something was happening at this point.

"If you helped me, I could do something else for you," He said, strutting back towards his original captive with a commanding gait. "If I had good information, I could quickly dispatch of the very people you fear. I am simply in too deep to leave them be... desperate if you will, to tie up these deadly loose ends. Just as a simple consequence of keeping myself alive, you'll be free as well. You could return to Wydmoor with a fresh start. Or perhaps you would get more from another party?"

Tense with exhilaration, he concluded, "do you think they still underestimate me? Do you?"

He knelt down again in front of his original conversation partner, his head swimming with anxiety, energy, and confidence. He locked eyes with her. If he could just win her over now, he would have an ally drawing in the other three. "What is your name?"