Naked Empire (Sword of Truth 8)

Tom didn’t look to have any disagreement with that. “I’d better go help Friedrich finish getting the horses hitched to the wagon. They’ll be a handful with the scent of blood in their nostrils and the sight of the others dead.”

As Tom went to see to his horses, Richard called to Cara. “Count the bodies,” he told her. “We need to know the total.”

“Richard,” Kahlan asked in a confidential tone after Tom was out of earshot and Cara had started stepping over some of the bodies and between others, going about the task of taking a count, “what happened when you drew the sword?”

He didn’t ask what she meant or try to spare her from worry. “There’s something wrong with its magic. When I drew the sword, it failed to heed my call. The men were rushing in and I couldn’t delay in what I had to do. Once I met the attack, the magic finally reacted.

“It’s probably due to the headaches from the gift—they must be interfering with my ability to join with the sword’s magic.”

“The last time you had the headaches they didn’t interfere with the sword’s power.”

“I told you, don’t let your imagination get carried away. This has only happened since I’ve started getting the headaches again. That has to be the reason.”

Kahlan didn’t know if she dared believe him, or if he really even believed it himself. He was right, though. The problem with the sword’s magic had only recently developed—after he started getting the headaches.

“They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”

He nodded. “Come on, let’s get what answers we can.”

Kahlan let out a tired sigh, resigned to that part of it. They had to use this chance to find out what information was now available to them.

Kahlan turned to the man still on his knees.

Chapter 16

The man’s tearful eyes gazed pleadingly up at Kahlan as she stepped in front of him. He had been waiting, alone and without her wishes, for quite a while and as a result was in a state of dire misery.

“You are to come with us,” Kahlan told him in a cold tone. “You are to walk in front of the wagon for now, where we can keep an eye on you. You will obey the orders of any of the others with me as you would obey my orders. You will answer all questions truthfully.”

The man fell to his belly on the ground, in tears, kissing her feet, thanking her profusely for at last commanding him. Groveling on the ground, with that V-shaped notch in his ear, he reminded her of nothing so much as a swine.

Fists at her side, Kahlan screamed “Stop that!” She didn’t want this murdering pig touching her.

He sprang back instantly, aghast at the rage in her voice, horror-struck that she was displeased with him. He cringed motionless at her feet, his eyes wide, fearful that he would do something else to displease her.

“You aren’t in a uniform,” Richard said to the man. “You and the other men aren’t soldiers?”

“We’re soldiers, just not regular soldiers,” the man said with eager excitement to be able to answer the question and thus do Kahlan’s bidding. “We’re special men serving with the Imperial Order.”

“Special? How are you special?”

With a hint of uncertainty in his wet eyes, the man looked nervously up at Kahlan. She gave him no sign. She had already told him that he was to follow all their orders. The man, at last certain of her intention, rushed to go on.

“We’re a special unit of men—with the army—our task is to capture enemies of the Order—we have to pass tests to be sure we’re able men—loyal men—and that we can accomplish the missions we’re sent on—”

“Slow down,” Richard said. “You’re talking too fast.”

The man glanced quickly at Kahlan, his eyes filling with tears that he might have displeased her, too.

“Go on,” she said.

“We don’t wear uniforms or let our purpose be known,” the man said with obvious relief that if he continued it would satisfy her. “Usually we work in cities, searching out insurrectionists. We mingle with people, get them to think of us as one of them. When they plot against the Order, we go along until we find out the names of all those involved and then we capture them and turn them over for questioning.”

Richard stared down at the man for a long time, his face showing no reaction. Richard had been in the hands of the Order and “questioned.” Kahlan could only imagine what he must have been thinking.

“And do you hand over only those who you know to be plotting against the Order?” Richard asked. “Or do you simply turn in those you suspect and anyone who they know?”

“If we suspect they might be plotting—like if they keep to themselves and their own group, and won’t open their lives to other citizens—then we turn them in to be questioned so that it can be determined what they might be hiding.” The man licked his lips, keen to tell them the full extent of his methods. “We talk to those they work with, or neighbors, and get the names of anyone they associate with, any of their friends—sometimes even their closest family members. We usually take at least some of them, too, and turn them over for questioning. When they’re questioned, they all confess their crimes against the Order so that proves our suspicions about them were right.”

Kahlan thought that Richard might draw his sword and behead the man on the spot. Richard knew all too well what they did to those who were brought in, knew how hopeless was their plight.

Confessions obtained under torture often provided names of anyone who might be suspicious for any reason, making the job of torturing a very busy profession. The people of the Old World lived in constant fear that they would be taken to one of the many places where people were questioned.

Those pulled in were rarely guilty of plotting against the Order; most people were too busy just trying to survive, trying to feed their families, to have time to plot to overthrow the rule of the Imperial Order. Many people did, however, talk about a better life, about what they would like to do, to grow, to create, to own, about their hopes that their children would have a better life than theirs. Since mankind’s duty was sacrifice to the betterment of their fellow man, not to their own betterment, that, to the Imperial Order, was not just insurrection, but blasphemy. In the Old World, misery was a widespread virtue, a duty to a higher calling.

There were others who didn’t dream of a better life, but dreamed of helping the Order by turning in the names of those who spoke ill of the Order, or hid food or even a bit of money, or talked of a better life. Turning in such “disloyal citizens” kept yet other fingers from pointing

at the informer. Informing became an indicator of sanctity.

Instead of drawing his sword, Richard changed the subject. “How many of you were there, tonight?”

“Including me, twenty-eight,” the man said without delay.

“Were you all together in one group when you attacked?”

The man nodded, keen to admit their whole plan and thus gain Kahlan’s approval. “We wanted to make sure you and, and…” His eyes turned to Kahlan as he realized the incompatibility of his two goals—confessing and pleasing the Mother Confessor.

He burst into tears, clasping his hands prayerfully. “Forgive me, Mistress! Please, forgive me!”

If his voice was the quintessence of emotion, hers was the opposite. “Answer the question.”

He brought his sobbing to a halt in order to speak as he had been commanded. Tears, though, continued to stream down his filthy cheeks. “We stayed together for a focused attack, so we could be sure that we captured Lord Rahl and, and…you, Mother Confessor. When trying to capture a good-size group we split up, with half holding back to look for anyone who might try to slip away, but I told the men that I wanted the both of you, and you were said to be together, so this was our chance. I didn’t want to run the risk that you would have any hope of fighting us off, so I ordered all the men to the attack, having some cut the throats of the saddle horses, first, to prevent any possibility of escape.”

His face brightened. “I never suspected that we might fail.”

“Who sent you?” Kahlan asked.

The man shuffled forward on his knees, his hand tentatively coming up to touch her leg. Kahlan remained motionless, but by her icy glare let him know that touching her would displease her greatly. The hand backed away.

“Nicholas,” he said.

Kahlan’s brow twitched. She had been expecting him to say Jagang had sent him.

She was wary of the possibility that the dream walker might be watching through this man’s eyes. Jagang had in the past sent assassins after he had slipped into their thoughts. With Jagang in a person’s mind, he dominated and directed them, and even Cara could not control them. Nor, for that matter, could Kahlan.