There wasn’t much to see in the other room. Two dungeon cells with thick wooden doors, a table with some stools beside it, and a large wooden trunk. Nynaeve sent her globe of light to the corner as hawk-faced Triben inspected the trunk. He lifted the lid, then raised an eyebrow, pulling out several glittering knives. Aids for questioning. Nynaeve shivered. She turned harsh eyes on the jailers behind her.
She untied the gag on the one who had spoken. “Keys?” she asked.
“Bottom of the trunk,” said the thug. The overweight jailer—the leader of the group, no doubt, as he didn’t share a room—shot him a furious glance. Nynaeve jerked the leader into the air. “Don’t provoke me,” she growled. “It’s already far too late at night for reasonable people to be awake.”
She nodded to Triben, and he dug out the keys and opened the cell doors. The first cell was empty; the second one held a disheveled woman, still wearing a fine Domani dress, though it was soiled. Lady Chadmar was dirty and ragged and she curled against the wall, drowsy, barely even noticing that the door was open. Nynaeve caught a whiff of a stench that, up until that moment, had been covered by the scent of rotting fish. Human excrement and an unwashed body. Likely, that was one reason for locating the dungeon here in the Gull’s Feast.
Nynaeve inhaled sharply at seeing how the woman was being treated. How could Rand allow this? The woman herself had done this very thing to others, but that didn’t make it right for him to stoop to her level.
She waved for Triben to close the door; then she sat down on one of the room’s stools, regarding the three jailers. Behind, Lurts guarded the way out, keeping an eye on the poor apprentice. The overweight jailer still hung in the air.
She needed information. She could have asked Rand for permission to visit the jail in the morning, but in doing so, she would have risked alerting these men that they were going to be visited. She was depending on surprise and intimidation to reveal what had been hidden.
“Now,” she said to the three, “I am going to ask some questions. You are going to answer. I’m not certain what I’m going to do with you yet, so realize it’s best to be very honest with me.”
The two on the ground looked up at the other man, floating in the invisible weaves of Air. They nodded.
“The man who was brought to you,” she said. “The messenger of the King. When did he first arrive?”
“Two months ago,” one of the toughs said—the one with the large chin and the broken nose. “Arrived in a sack with the candle nubs from Lady Chadmar’s mansion, just like all the prisoners.”
“Your instructions?”
“Hold him,” the other tough said. “Keep him alive. We didn’t know much, er, Lady Aes Sedai. Jorgin is the one who does all the questioning.”
She looked up at the fat man. “You’re Jorgin?”
He nodded reluctantly.
“And what were your instructions?”
Jorgin didn’t respond.
Nynaeve sighed. “Look,” she said to him. “I am Aes Sedai, and am bound by my word. If you tell me what I want to know, I will see that you are not suspected in the death. The Dragon doesn’t care about you three, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here in charge of this little . . . stopover of yours.”
“If we talk, we go free?” the fat man said, eyeing her. “Your word?”
Nynaeve glanced about the tiny room with a dissatisfied eye. They had left Lady Chadmar in the dark, and the door was packed with cloth to muffle screams. The cell would be dark, stuffy and cramped. Men who would work a place like this barely deserved life, let alone freedom.
But there was a much larger sickness to deal with. “Yes,” Nynaeve said, the word bitter in her mouth. “And you know that’s better than you deserve.”
Jorgin hesitated, then nodded. “Let me down, Aes Sedai, and I’ll answer your questions.”
She did so. The man might not know it, but she had very little authority to stand on; she wouldn’t resort to his methods of extracting answers, and she was acting without Rand’s knowledge. The Dragon probably wouldn’t react well when he discovered that she’d been prying—not unless she could present him with discoveries.
Jorgin said to the broken-nosed thug, “Mord, fetch me a stool.”
Mord glanced at Nynaeve for approval, which she gave with a curt nod. As Jorgin settled his bulk onto the stool, he leaned forward, hands clasped before him. He resembled a hulking beetle tipped up on
its side.
“I don’t see what you need from me,” the man said. “You seem to know everything already. You know about my facility and about the people it has held. What more is there to know?”
Facility? Some word for it. “That is my own business,” Nynaeve said, giving him a stare which she hoped implied that the concerns of the Aes Sedai were not to be questioned. “Tell me, how did the messenger die?”
“Without dignity,” Jorgin replied. “Like all men, in my experience.”
“Give me specifics, or you’ll go back to hanging in the air.”