There Will Be Blood (And Other Stuff)

Cillian was not having a good time of Conciliare at all. The palace was little better than the city that breathed outside its tall stone walls. In the daylight hours, there was always activity in the corridors; servants rushing to and fro, officials carrying stacks upon stacks of papers. For all the papers the Valetudien government shuffled back and forth, one might have thought more would have been accomplished. Cillian disapproved of bureaucracy standing in the way of progress. The country's adherence to pacifism struck him as little more than poorly disguised cowardice.

Luckily, the nights were blessedly quiet. From his post outside the room of an Ignese ambassador, he had plenty of time to tinker with his clocks. At present, he was working on another highly detailed and small piece, to replace his pocket watch when it inevitably broke. Cillian was not a fan of guard-work - he felt he was much better suited to the front-lines - but he did enjoy the snippets of calm and silence the monotony of his position brought. He had not seen action since that night in the woods with the young Mistress Maya, and though he missed it to his bones, solitude was an acceptable substitute for the time being.

He did not know the majority of the Brothers present, nor did he care to. There was an unsettling amount of women among the ranks, and though he tended to look upon female Brothers more favorably than female civilians, they still discomfited him. Some Brothers he recognized by face, but not by name, and vice versa. Very few from his Discipline had been sent to Valetudo and he was thankful for that. It had been a few days since he had last spoken to anyone beyond a few words and he was in no hurry to rectify that situation. Fate, however, had different ideas.

A soft breeze tickled his cheek; he raised his head. In the rafters, there was not much in the way of wind unless someone was manipulating it. Floating along a breeze toward him was a letter. Odd. It was a bit late in the evening for correspondence. Curious, he tucked away his tweezers and gears into their pack, snatched the letter out of the air, and stalked along the rafters until he found an area with enough light to read by, supplied by torches below. He flicked open the seal bearing the Brothers' coat of arms and squatted to read. It was written in Vennan.

Brother Byrne,

Your presence is requested in the dungeon as soon as possible. Bring appropriate tools. Discretion.

- Brother Sweeney

Cillian refolded the parchment and leaped down from his height. Unlike most of the Brothers, he did not have control of wind. Instead, he employed the use of his given system - Time - to slow his fall. Above, another Brother was already replacing his post. The silhouette nodded to him in acknowledgement, but he ignored him in favor of freeing a torch from one of the brackets and burning the letter he still clutched in his hand. He dropped it, trusting it to extinguish itself when it became ash, and made his way toward his chambers in the servants' quarters.

All Brothers had been given rooms in the vast wing intended for the help, but he did not use it often. He took his meals at his post, slept at his post, and except to relieve himself or practice his forms, he did not leave it. It was the same for most of his colleagues, as far as he could tell, though most chose to spar and eat in groups. They simply kept their changes of clothing, sharpening and polishing implements, and other necessities in their given lodgings. Cillian was no different in this regard. When he reached his room, which he shared with another absent occupant, he set down his clock-making materials and reached beneath his assigned mattress for a different pack altogether.

It was a small, nondescript, black piece of canvas, rolled tightly. In the scant light of low lantern, he untied it and spread it before him on the small desk. Pliers, picks, and hooks glinted in the illumination, each tucked neatly into the appropriate pocket. One by one, quickly and methodically, he removed each one and checked them for sharpness and any evidence of rust or anything else that might hinder their usability. Once satisfied, he replaced them and left the room, making his way toward the lower levels of the palace. He had already memorized the blueprints of the large property, as was only appropriate.

It had surprised him when he had first seen the map to see the palace had dungeons at all. They were scarcely used, apparently, with crime being nearly nonexistent and crime against the royal family being even less frequent. They were vestigial remnants from Valetudo's earlier days, but still retained functionality, he supposed. He did not think he was being presumptuous in bringing his tools. Why else would he be called into the dungeons? Why else would he be called at all? Cillian was no stranger to blood and death, nor all the violent roads that led there. It would not be his first or last interrogation. He had found early in his career that he had something of a knack for it, what with his fascination with the human anatomy. It was not his favorite task - it seemed dishonorable to inflict harm upon a person who could not defend himself - but it was asked of him, so he would do it.

The door to the dungeons was opened for him by another Brother, one he was vaguely familiar with. This Brother knew enough not to attempt to greet the stoic older man and instead stepped aside, allowing Cillian to move past him to the spiral staircase leading down.

The mood of the decor had changed drastically here and around the dungeon entrance. The rest of the palace bore festive tile, stucco, slate roofing, and lush tapestries. Here, it was as stony, dark, and dank as any dungeon he had ever visited. The lengthy descent gave way to a landing with a desk at which Brother Sweeney sat. This time, Cillian did nod. He had no small amount of respect for his elder and their positions necessitated his subservience.

"Brother Byrne."

"Brother Sweeney."

"Earlier in the evening, Brother Collins and Princess Noemi Ilda were ambushed by Glacien soldiers, ostensibly to kidnap the princess. Two survived. You and another Brother will be interrogating these two."

Cillian's jaw tightened.

"That is hardly necessary, Brother Sweeney. I can do well enough alone."

"Protocol dictates that there be two."

Cillian understood this. Though the Brotherhood trusted their followers, four ears were better than two. A written documentation of the dialogue between him and those to be questioned would also be expected and in between hand-washing and putting pen to paper, his memory might fail him. Brother Sweeney's hard eyes drilled through him until he finally nodded in acquiescence.

"He will be along shortly. You two will enter together."

"Yes, Brother."

At least they had enough sense to partner him with a male. A vomiting and trembling woman would take from his gravity.

As of yet, rumors of the Relic had been few and far between. Even with the steady undercurrent of winds he had trickling by him, depositing bits and pieces of conversations into his waiting ears, Brother Ronan Cary was growing impatient. The longer he thought about it, the more plausible it became to him that he had been sent as a scapegoat. He knew he wasn't popular within the Brotherhood, not by any means, but he didn't think he quite deserved to be hung out to dry because he couldn't track down gossip about the Relic. If he failed here, it would be to his own shame, not because of the lack of information. He needed to turn something up, and quick, or else. That bit of information that sent those Brothers to Terra hadn't come from him, and everyone at this court seemed as surprised as anyone else when they heard the Relic was supposedly in some Terran temple.

Leaning moodily against the ramparts, Ronan leaned over and spat down into the waiting darkness. His position was such that he couldn't even really detain people for questioning on the subject, since it was supposed to be a secret. Pulling his hood up, more for a little added warmth than anything else, he drummed his long fingers against the stone of the wall. Something would come his way, it had to. Some errant comment, some... something. It would happen. He just needed to be patient.

He turned, with a quiet sigh, and began to make his way down off the walls. It was a clear evening, a little breezy but on the whole pleasant, and he had a rare moment to himself. He had no permanent post, no dignitary to follow or Princess to clean up after; on the whole he was grateful for this, but sometimes it left him feeling like a loose end. He followed this man or watched that woman as he was bade, with little continuity week to week. The attention-grabbing nature of his elemental control made him less than helpful for many of the more covert duties, and more and more he was relegated to attend political functions as a bodyguard; apparently his willingness to crack a smile made him a little less of a mood killer than some of his fellows.

Descending a spiral stair, the neatly folded letter tucked itself neatly into his hand as he dropped the railing. With raised eyebrows he opened it, tucked out of the way beneath a torch. It was a summons, Brotherhood business he was required for. Odd, that he should be asked to adjourn to the dungeon, but perhaps they had finally caught something worth squeezing. Lifting the letter to the torch above him, he lit the edge and held it until only a corner had not been consumed; as the flames came near enough to make his fingers sting he dropped the scrap of paper and ground it beneath the heel of his boot, grinding the ash into the flagstones.

Ronan set off at a brisk pace for the dungeon, his idleness replaced with a sense of purpose. Winding his way through the corridors, he detoured to slip into his small room and plunder his desk. The letter had said to bring quill, ink and parchment, so bring them he would. Rolling up a sheaf of parchment and tucking it inside his robes, he combed through his quills until he found one that suited his need. A bottle of black ink, cork still held in place with sealing wax, as the last thing to descend into his pocket. Satisfied, he continued on his way.

He made his way into the dungeon and pulled down his hood, as it was of little use to him there. Stepping through a door that was held for him by another Brother, whose job he did not envy, he stepped into the main antechamber of the dungeon. Taking in the room, his attention landed quickly on Brother Sweeney, who he took a step toward and nodded respectfully. "Good evening, Brother Sweeney." Hands deep in his pockets, he threw a sidelong glance to the Brother next to him, who he had seen briefly before but never had occasion to speak with. Brother... Burn? Byrne?

As Brother Sweeney clued him in, he nodded, privately a little disappointed. What was Brother Collins doing that he was in any position to get attacked by Glacien soldiers? While he was glad the man was safe, there was very little likelihood that they would know anything of the Relic, or that the question would even be asked. When the explanation was finished, Ronan swept a hand toward the door. "After you, Brother."

Cillian had never before met the acquaintance of Brother Cary, but had Brother Sweeney deigned to introduce the two of them, he might have recognized the name. The Brotherhood was not a large group and certain members could achieve a degree of notoriety, even in Disciplines as far-removed as Cillian's own. At least among the higher-ups, it was no secret that Brother Byrne should not be placed in group activities if it could be helped. But introductions weren't necessary and he would not be taking it upon himself to give his name to this man. From his peripheral vision, he knew this Brother as one he had seen in passing and that was all he needed.

"After you, Brother."

After half a moment's consideration, Cillian turned toward him and gave a brief nod. It was more than he gave most. Perhaps he was feeling sentimental this evening, or perhaps he felt a bit of civility wouldn't hurt in light of this particular situation. They were to be sharing a torture, after all.

He stepped into the small room and was greeted by the overwhelming stench of mildew and disuse that the corridor had only hinted at. His nose might have twitched a millimeter in distaste and then again when they fell upon the Glacien man sitting in the center of the well-lit room. Hatred rose in his throat like bile, but this he was able to suppress beneath the tightening of his jaw. Cillian took care not to take too much pleasure in information extraction, but surely a bit of extra pride in his work would not be amiss. Brothers were supposed to be impartial in matters of state, excepting where they concerned Ventus, but he had never been able to rid himself of his childhood prejudice. Truth be told, he had never exactly tried, either.

The man was conscious and eyeing them warily, though his gaze was heavy-lidded and far from completely alert. He was bound with chain - overkill? - and might have been exhausted from trying straining against them. Or it might have been blood loss. Interestingly enough, he seemed to recently be missing a hand, judging by the bloody, bandaged nub. Valetudo was a land of healers - his wound must have been poorly healed deliberately. He went to the table in the far corner behind the man where the brother-scribe would likely be sitting and set his tool case down near the lantern, unrolling it noisily, allowing the metals to clank. Interrogation had begun as soon as he entered the room.

"We will be asking you questions." Cillian spoke in the Enish he had never lost from his time in Unda. "The more satisfactory answers you give, the less inclined I will be to hurt you."

He frowned down at his instruments, hands hovering back and forth over them until he finally selected a long spike and a small mallet before returning to the front of the room, hands behind his back. The Glacien chuckled.

"Think you're so smart, don't you, you fucking virgin. Speaking Enish with your Undan accent." The Glacien drawled. "You're just going to kill me anyway, aren't you?"

More than likely they were. Cillian blinked and cast a glance toward the other Brother. No sense in lying; the Glacien would not believe him. His colleague could ask the first question. As of now, all he personally wanted to do was begin his work on this savage.

"It will be in your best interest to cooperate."