Arcanist In Another World-Chapter 85: Interrogation

“There have been a few complications. We’re not giving you a tour of the city today,” Garran said, and glanced at the captain whose hat seemed like a rat being squashed in between his arm and his torso. Valens didn’t blame the little thing, nor did he blame the suit that seemed a second away from being torn into pieces by the sheer density of Captain Edric’s muscles.

Is he even comfortable in that suit? Isn’t it too tight?

Valens guessed there had to be a reason he wasn’t aware of here. Or else why would a man like the captain torture himself with a suit clearly unfit for his figure?

“Well, I did take a little tour myself,” Valens said. They were under the Golden Cathedral of the Sun’s Church, trudging silently across underneath it, already past the Bishop’s study and now digging deeper. “And I did pay a visit to that Mage Guild, too. Interesting people, to say the least.”

“Words change meaning depending on who’s doing the talking,” Captain Edric said with a mocking smile. “Those Mages sure like to babble on and off, but when it comes to doing real business, hardly you’d see a group of them walking about and raising hands.”

“It’s the walls,” Garran said.

“Walls?” Valens wasn’t getting it.

“The walls,” Garran nodded. “They don’t feel like doing it when there’s no walls around them. Precious people, those Mages.”

“Academic study is the foundation of our civilization,” Percival argued. In the short time since he met with the man, Valens came to realize that while he respected Templars, he wasn’t so easily appalled to keep his mouth shut in their presence. “Without our Mages, we would still be living in the dirt and under makeshift domes of clay and mud. It takes a bright mind to bring change to a bunch of hard-headed people.”

Garran gave the man a side glance, a smile playing upon his lips. “Bored, are you, Percival? Perhaps we should take you with us the next time some monster makes an appearance in those pit towns.”

“I’ll pass,” Percival smiled.

“What, you’re afraid?” Garran said.

“Afraid?” Percival arched an eyebrow at him, then nodded slowly. “Yes, I’m afraid. Afraid that without me you wouldn’t know which hole to dig, or which end of the shovel to hold. Someone has to do it, eh?”

Oh? Percival, you’re not bad!

“Do we have any leads on the last case?” Captain Edric muttered, acting as though the two hadn’t taken a shot at each other a second ago. Always the practical man, he was. “That fool of an apprentice doesn’t have it in him to even think about striking a deal with the Wretched Mother. Someone else is involved in this. Someone who knows their way around the capital.”

“Well,” Percival said, and lingered as he looked over at Garran. “The interrogation yielded little results, Captain, so much that we might as well haven’t taken the man in at all. He said, and I quote, ‘I don’t know. I don’t remember. It wasn’t me.’”

“Lying bastard.” Garran cracked his knuckles.

“Now you would think that, of course,” Percival said with an unapproving gaze. “And you would think after an effort at making him speak the man would spill out at least a few clues about the matter. That, unfortunately, wasn’t the case here. Our distinguished Templar team beat this poor Jack black and blue, Captain, but the man refused to speak. Perhaps he’s telling the god’s honest truth.”

“We’ll see,” Lenora said. She was walking at the head of the group, bare feet tapping a melodic rhythm across the hallway, the chains of her locket jingling in the silence. “It may be that he needs a different motivation. One that speaks to his soul rather than his flesh.”

Valens narrowed his eyes at the Hexmender. She walked a certain way, spoke with such allure that he had to remind himself not to get too caught in her melodic voice. They hated her, here. Hated her with passion, to his knowledge, and there had to be a good reason for that.

The captain, I can understand, as love has enough of a ground to conceive hate. Garran, though? I can’t tell. The woman seems… fine, to me.

Valens shook his head as they rounded a corner, down through a set of stairs, into a side corridor that reeked of damp and mildew. That was odd, since the Golden Cathedral had been clean up to this point. Too clean, perhaps, which made him think someone was doing a serious work of cleaning here all night long.

A giant gate barred the entrance of the corridor, cast from a mix of iron and steel, with chains circling a keyhole that had seen great use. Lenora looked at the group before stepping forward and tapped the tip of her right forefinger to the door.

The frequencies changed as mana poured into the mechanism under the ground. Gears shifted and turned, and without a need for a key, the giant gate clicked gently open.

“One of these days I’ll learn how to do that,” Garran frowned out into the gate as Lenora passed chuckling to the other side.

“Mana is the lifeline of our world,” Percival didn’t seem too convinced as he glanced at Garran. “And I’m afraid not everyone can handle that delicate source. Certainly not you, honorable Templar. The sword fits you well.”

“I do happen to like it,” Garran said, opening his palm and closing it as if he already missed the leathery touch of the sword’s handle. “It has a simplicity to it. Not all too complicated like the magic stuff. Once, I had the great pleasure of twisting it in a Mage’s guts. His control over mana didn’t help much with that.”

“Hah!” Percival scowled. “There he is, the master killer himself. Even a Master Mage couldn’t have taught you a thing with that thick head of yours.”

Garran shrugged. Percival gave him a biting look before they all followed after Lenora into the other side of the gate.

The air was close here, damp with a stench of piss and sweat. Valens didn’t know why, but he missed this reek. The simple familiarity that it left in his nostrils was nostalgic, to say the least, and a touch traumatic, too, but he liked it. Reminded him of his time in those dark places.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Past the cells, most of which were empty save for the bloody stains spattered across their walls, bloody foot and palm prints too, with a few chains left dangling mindlessly about them, they trudged on. There were chairs in the cells, wooden chairs in each one of them, looking significantly worn as if used in high frequency.

“I can try,” Valens said when it got too silent for his taste. Garran and Percival turned at him, puzzled. “Magic, I mean. I can try to teach you a few tricks.”

“A Healer teaching magic to a Templar?” Percival’s eyes glinted. “I’m not sure, but I’ll have to check the codes to see if there’s anything against it.”

“Get a few levels first,” Garran smiled. “At least get that First Trial done, then we can talk. I’m not learning magic from a Pretrial mage.”

Ouch.

Valens fished for the mark in the right pocket of his coat, found it and flashed it out with the ease of a man who knew his business. When the two squinted at the little badge, Valens wiped its surface with his palm and brought it closer so that they could see the golden star painted atop its face.

“This here,” he muttered nonchalantly. “Marks me as a Master Mage of Resni’s Guild. I’ve been told I have quite the skill. Even got an invite to—“

“Give me that,” Garran reached and snatched the mark out of his hand, stared down at it for a few long seconds until Percival couldn’t hold it and squeezed closer to him to take a look as well. They exchanged a glance just then, eyes narrowed in doubt, before Garran pulled the mark close to his mouth and bit into it.

“Hey!” Valens revolted. “That thing is precious. You’re going to break it—“

“Calm yourself.” Garran licked his lips after lending the mark back to Valens. He took it, looked at it, wiped it on his coat, then tucked it safely back into his pocket.

“That shit’s real,” Garran said after a moment, eyeing him up and down. “But guess Healing is its own magic too. That’s why they thought you a Master, right?”

“That and a bunch of other things,” Valens said. “Other than healing, I just so happen to be a Master of Wind and Adept of Fire. Oh, and I’m one away from being the Master of Earth magic, too. How good is that?”

“Master of two—“ Percival cleared his throat. “Surely there has to be a mistake.”

“That’s exactly what Master Archibald told me!” Valens laughed. “You two have your similarities.”

“Master Archibald? The renowned Master of Blazing Storm? The one who scorched a whole swarm of Withered Specters? That’s who gave you the mark?” Percival shivered.

Old Master, you never told me about any of this. Thought your interest lay strictly in the academic side of things.

“That’s him,” Valens nodded. “We had a good chat.”

“But…” Percival frowned. “The last I’ve heard he was meaning to pay a visit to Caligi for health reasons. Told the Church that our Priests are, well, not up to his standards.”

“He’s right. They are not. Your Priests need some serious counseling. Experience itself isn’t alone an adequate teacher. It could be the worst, in fact, if you got the fundamentals wrong in the first place,” Valens said, and added for good measure, “Think of a sword. If you’re swinging it like a club, no amount of enthusiasm is going to make up for bad form. Might as well melt it down and give yourself a second chance at competence.”

“Eh?” Garran’s face brightened. “That’s actually a good way to put it.”

“I know,” Valens nodded.

“We’re here,” Captain Edric’s voice boomed from ahead of them, tinged with a hint of annoyance. He’d been keeping an ear over their group, and by the looks of it, he didn’t like where they were heading with it. “Get the prisoner secured, Garran. Make sure he stays in that chair.”

Giving Valens another look, Garran pulled himself, smiling, toward the cell, whose gate was already open by a bored-looking Lenora who waited on the side. Valens peeked after him.

Inside the damp prison sat a man who had clearly seen better days. Swollen eyes, swollen cheeks, bruised and likely broken arms dangling lifelessly down the sides. There was a tear over his right eye, a long wound patched up by dried blood, and clear finger marks across his neck.

Valens paused at the sight of him. They’d beaten the man senseless. Left him here rotting in this damp cell, alone atop that singular chair, tied up all around by thick chains. The worst part was the man seemed like a simple mason who wasn’t even over Level 30.

Two sides to each coin. Two sides to the Sun itself, it seems, and the other side is not all too pretty.

There was a bad taste in his mouth as if he ate something rotten. Bad taste down his throat and around his nose, too, the reek of the cell stabbing at his mind. The place looked disturbingly similar to his own, save for the simple metal bars. They didn’t have rootmetal here.

But still, he called for the Inferno to see if it would answer.

It did.

He quenched the flames before they could burst alive, and dampened their songs. Pushed the spell formula deep back into his mind, heart thumping in his chest.

He didn’t like it.

He hated the simple sight of this damned place.

You have to live with your demons.

“Valens,” came a voice. Captain Edric’s voice. Pulling Valens from the dark place he found himself in his own mind, forcing him to blink at the man who came near him. He placed a gentle hand over his shoulder, then gestured at the prisoner. “It’s not pretty, eh?”

“Pretty brutal, I’d say,” Valens muttered heavily. “But I’m not surprised. Give any man the power of authority, then you’ll have the same damn sight before you. Never changes, this practice. The strong are always better.”

I don’t belong to this place.

“Then it’d do you good if you learn that this man is responsible for cursing a whole street,” Captain Edric’s face was taut and strict as he continued, “He specifically targeted the widows. Around a dozen of them involved in this matter, half of them already gone when the police got to them. They found their pieces buried under the houses. Arms. Legs. Fingers. Someone has torn them into pieces, and this man here, this poor Jack, is the only lead we have as of now.”

“You want me to fix him?” Valens asked. He didn’t know if the captain’s description of events helped him with seeing the prisoner as something other than human, but it sure eased some of his worries. “So that you can have another session with him?”

“No,” the captain shook his head. “He told Garran and Dain that he doesn’t remember. Stuck to his word until he passed out. I want you to check on him.”

“Check on him?”

“His memories,” the captain said. Just then Lenora turned slowly toward the pair of them, eyes glinting in expectation. “You did it with Selin, now I want you to do it on this man. This gift of yours will save us a lot of trouble if it works as intended.”

“Why not ask for me before any of this, then?” Valens said. The man looked miserable, bloodied and bruised from all around, left there over the chair like a lifeless husk too spent to move even a finger. “Why bother beating him when you know I’m here?”

“We didn’t want to bother you on your day off.” Garran slapped his hands down at the chair, standing behind the prisoner like a fancy-looking guardian. That suit and the hat, the hair and the boots. Everything about him screamed that he didn’t belong here but that sly grin across his lips.

That smile betrayed the whole scene. That smile showed Valens that the man regretted not a single thing he’d done.

“You beat this man into a pulp because you didn’t want to bother me,” Valens muttered, more to himself than the others, digesting the words and their meaning. Then he raised his chin and gave them a cold look. “You’re not expecting a thank you, do you?”

“The righteous healer,” Garran chuckled. “I knew he wouldn’t like it.”

“Can’t blame him,” Percival sighed.

“A child’s innocence,” Lenora said, then tapped a finger to the bars. “Now get to work. I like to see how you will deal with the intricate part of one’s soul.”

Valens’s neck tightened. He strode off into the cell, past Lenora and the captain, waved Garran off to give him some space before leaning down at the man. He felt his pulse. Weak. He checked his body with a Lifeward. Some internal injuries. He washed them off with a Lifesurge, stitched the big wound over his eye, poured gentle warmth across his bruises, watched him come to himself with a wheezing breath.

“Hey there, Jack,” he said, voice cold.

Jack blinked wearily up at him, face still swollen, looking greatly puzzled.

Valens didn’t blame him.

“This will hurt,” he said, and then sent a Lifeward up toward his brain.

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