A Silent Revolution. By Shane Tomkinson.
'This will hurt.'
It was said quietly, everso quietly, like a whisper from a half-asleep lover, or a hushed word from a conspiratorial ally, but more accurately in this case, like a promise from a very talented torturer.
The bound man whimpered but did not struggle.
'I am presented with a dilemma,' the voice continued. It was smooth, tempered by culture, there was a dark elegance to the voice. The prisoner had no doubt who was talking and where he was.
'Yes, you see, my dilemma is this; you are a radical interventionalist, a social outcast, your 'kind' have been banned from this city on pain of terrible consequences.'
The speaker made no noise as he moved, only his voice. The prisoner listened to it moving, he tried not to listen to the words, to remember his training. He swallowed, the voice was close and moving in a tight circle, he must be in a small dungeon. It would be below the city level where no one could hear his screams. It would be in a forgotten annex of the palace, somewhere without conscience for the forgotten voices daring to defy a tyrant. His organisation had known their fate, they had trained themselves to retain their strength during torture, to learn from their surroundings and prepare for escape at any opportunity, to-
'You're not listening, are you?'
The voice cut into the prisoners thoughts.
'You're not. Oh dear, that is just rude.' There was the rustle of someone scratching a hood then a sigh. 'I feel quite let down but I still have my dilemma. Which,' the voice said pointedly, 'I have gone over once already with you.'
The speaker was moving away, the steps receded. Quite far away. The prisoner frowned to himself, the room must be bigger than he thought. He strained to listen, to work out the room size, to-
'Still silent?'
It was said so close to the prisoners ear that the man jolted in surprise, biting into his lips to keep the startled cry from escaping him. A series of gasp and grunts were held back, only heard in his fast breathing.
'Well? I know you and your conspirators meet once a month, each time at a different location, each time under the guise of a legal guild or citizen's association. I know all of this and I will be waiting at Cacksparrow Street next Widdlesnight for the annual meeting of-'
There was a pause, as though distasteful, uncooked food were being moved around the mouth. 'Of the Ankh-Morpork MonoRail Committee.'
A sharp intake of breath and stiffening from the bound man caused the speaker to pause.
'So, I was right. Thank you. See? We didn't even need to use the Pear, did we? Which I am glad about, I do find with today's modern diet the Pear causes more trouble than results.'
Something heavy and metal was lain down. It's near silent dull thud was a crushing reminder of the prisoners situation.
He was doomed. He had been from the moment he took the Silent Oath. No word of their plans and commitments to an improved society could pass his lips until death and then he was one with the eternal silence. Even facing certain death he knew he was a free man, a rebel against Lord Vetinari, Ankh-Morpork's despotic ruler and his regime where every one of his city improvements were a disguised erosion of everyman's liberties.
The prisoner understood Vetinari's rule. His kind had been rounded up and locked away for years, those who escaped persecution were hunted like animals. They had learnt and adapted, taking their ways underground and converting those who showed courage and ability.
After years in hiding they were ready to oppose the tyrant!
But the tyrant was ready for them.
An oath of silence meant nothing to a man whose heart was colder than an ice giants' arse.
Over the past months the prisoner had noticed fewer made the meetings. Men or women were disappearing, a net was being drawn about them. At first they believed there would be a raid, not of the Nightwatch but Vetinari's black clad 'civil servants'. But no raid came, each man who had been taken had kept the Silent Oath until they died. Their secrets were safe, their intentions to silently rebel at every opportunity, every street corner, every festival, all these were safe.
And he, the prisoner would keep the oath like all his brothers had. He would-
'You're doing it again. I can tell. Not listening.'
Several things scraped, they sounded light and there was a definite sharp swish as they cut the thick air of the candle-lit dungeon.
The soft tread of the speaker continued, with the occasional swish or scratch of some terrible torture device, walking about the dungeon and stopping behind him.
Cold sweat now crawled across the quivering body of the prisoner, his head thundering with fear, aside from these faintest noises the dungeon had descended into utter silence.
Total silence enveloped him, for how long? For minutes? For an hour? He knew he was not alone, he was being observed. He could not even hear his tormentor breath but he could sense his presence. The smell of the dungeon changed, rank with his fear and the all pervading sense of doom, sounds changed, his senses were deceiving. No training, no preparation could have prepared him for the long, terrifying ordeal he was being put through. Was that the sound of knives being slowly revealed from under a black velvet cloth moved? Was this the moment where he would be able to battle the real pain he had trained for?
More time crawled over him, stinging his flesh, making his head ache all the more. It was too much, he had been kept like this for hours, maybe days… it was too much…
'Just torture me!' he screamed. 'Get it over with! Do your worst!' The yells became pants, which turned to blubbering sobs as the prisoner sagged in the chair. 'I'll talk, I'll talk,' the words babbled from him. Over and over again like a litany.
Lord Vetinari turned away, his face showed mild disappointment. On the opposite side of the room Drumknott stopped walking, looking up from a document he had been scribbling on against a leather writing satchel stacked with documents. The Patrician waved him back with a goose feather quill, making sharp swish sounds.
'Will this be all, my lord? Shall we be taking his confession?' Drumknott asked as he completed his morning Spuduko puzzle from The Times, it was one of the new fiendishly clever ones set by Mr Shine.
Vetinari shook his head watching the prisoner who sat on a hard chair with a few coils of rope loosely tied to his wrists. The man was not even tied to the chair. There was no need, he knew all about them and their plans to 'do-good' for the common citizen with an 'improved traffic scheme'. Pure evil in its most rendered down essence, like greasy tallow from a grisly bone, could not compare…
'How long?' he asked.
'Long?' Drumknott
Vetinari turned away from the prisoner, who sat quivering and crying in his chair. He had no desire to stare at the man, dressed according to his oath in only black and white, instead he gave his assistant the sort of stare which commonly went with the answer, 'No, you did not get that pay rise you were hoping for- but at last you're alive.'
Drumknot did not notice, he was examining a small timepiece by dim light which had slipped past a shuttered window. The watch was one of the new mechanical ones coming out of the workshops of Quirm. Its small golden hands crawled precisely around an intricately etched face, which, when held counter-rimwise to a full moon at 11:56 at an angle perpendicular to the shell of the Great A'Tuin would create a moon-carved rune on the face of the time piece capable of opening a portal to dark hellish regions of unnatural dimensions, but no one knew that. It was one of those design things which just happens by coincidence.
'One minute and twelve seconds, my lord.'
'Twelve, you say?'
'Yes, my lord. Twelve seconds.' The time piece was put away and the paperwork shuffled, Drumknott excused himself and left the small waiting room outside Lord Vetinari's office to continue his afternoon duties.
Lord Vetinari rubbed at his palms distractedly. Hardly a minute, he thought ruefully as he nodded to a palace guard to take the prisoner away. Whatever happened to the truly zealous? Still, they served a purpose.
The man screamed as he was lifted from the chair and had to be carried out, his legs too wobbling to bear his weight.
Vetinari turned to several stony-faced men in the various guild robes of the city who had spent several silent and uncomfortable minutes in the waiting room, at his invitation. 'I believe we were about to discuss the dispute between the carters and carriers guilds on our city roads and docks? Well? The last thing we want are bales of tea being thrown into the harbour, do we?'
No one spoke. Vetinari opened the window, letting warm sunlight back into the room. 'Well, the matter seems resolved. Please do not let me detain you…'