rattled her. She didn’t want to go there.
‘Tragic,’ he tutted, slowly shaking his head. ‘Such a waste.’
‘That has nothing to do –’
‘Think about it, Serrah. Your daughter. The ramp. Isn’t it possible …’
‘No.’
‘… given the circumstances of Eithne’s death, seeing the drug there, faced with the traffickers …’
‘No.’
‘… that your judgement was clouded? That, understandably, you reacted emotionally and –’
‘No! I’m a professional! I work on facts, not emotions!’
‘Really? The way you’re behaving now hardly bears that out.’
That struck home. With an effort of will she calmed herself. ‘My daughter has nothing to do with any of this. Last night wasn’t the first time I’ve been up against ramp dealers. I hate them, yes, but that’s never affected the way I do my job. But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you needing a sacrifice.’
‘You still don’t understand the extent of this thing, do you, Ardacris?’ There was no vestige of sympathy now. ‘What you allowed to happen has repercussions, and they go all the way up to the Empress herself.’
‘I’m flattered,’ Serrah replied cynically.
‘Enough,’ Laffon decided. ‘There’s no more to be said on the subject.’ He delved in his pocket and brought out a folded parchment. With an irritated flick, he shook it open. ‘You can make a start at rehabilitating yourself by signing this.’ He held out the confession to her.
Everything crystallised in Serrah’s mind. She abandoned hope of justice. All that kept her alive was that scrap of paper remaining unsigned. The only choice was to be defiant.
‘Well?’ Laffon demanded.
‘No,’ she said.
‘You’re refusing?’
‘I am.’
‘Be absolutely sure about this. Because what happens next won’t be to your liking.’
She shook her head.
Laffon could see her resolve. He stood. ‘You’ll regret taking the hard road. I’ll leave you this for when you change your mind.’ He dropped the document on the bed. Next to it he tossed a small, reddish, tubular object. A graphology glamour, useless for anything but. Probably strong enough for no more than her signature.
‘I won’t be needing it,’ she told him.
He paused on the point of leaving. ‘Remember, you’ve brought this on yourself.’
Three men entered as Laffon slipped out. It happened so quickly, Serrah was taken off-guard.
They were muscular, stern-faced individuals. Each held a short length of thick rope with one end knotted. She started to get up.
Without warning, the nearest man swung his rope cosh at her. It cracked hard across her shoulder. She cried out and fell back. He moved in and lashed again, striking her just below the throat. Scrambling away from him, she kicked wildly, catching his shin. He cursed and backed off, hindering the other two.
Serrah rolled from the cot, landing heavily, and snatched the bucket. Ignoring the pain, she rose quickly, swinging it. The bucket raked the second man’s temple as he rushed in, knocking him senseless. But the first man had recovered. He landed a hefty punch to her stomach and she doubled over. The third man joined him and they rained blows on her. Serrah tried to ward them off with the pail, using it as both shield and weapon. A stinging rap across the knuckles broke her grip and sent it flying.
The man she had downed was on his feet again, adding his fury to the beating. She covered her head with her hands and retreated. But only a step or two took her to the tiny cell’s limit. She was trapped in the narrow space between bed and wall. It cramped her attackers and they had to take turns to swing at her. But that didn’t stop them delivering continuous punishment to her arms, legs and body.
Serrah half dived, half pitched sideways, onto the bed. That only made it easier for them. They set to with a will then, bent like men threshing corn, not speaking, dedicated to their work. She curled into a ball and suffered the storm.
When she was sure they would go on until they killed her, the beating stopped.
All she knew was pain. Every inch of her body was ablaze. The battering left her ears ringing and her vision blurred. She was bloodied, sweat-sheened, drifting on the rim of consciousness. Breathing hard, she flopped onto her back.
One of her tormentors loomed over her. He reached down and grasped the hem of her smock. With a violent jerk he yanked it up above her waist.
They laughed, jeered, made lecherous comments. Then they told her plainly and crudely what would happen if they had to come again. At the last, somebody threw the confession down on her.
They left, slamming the door.
Serrah coughed weakly, pain stabbing her ribs. Blood trickled from her nose and a corner of her mouth. It was agony to think, let alone move.
She passed an indefinite period of time immersed in an ocean of misery. Eventually nature took a hand and despite her injuries she fell into an exhausted slumber.
That gave the nightmares their chance to afflict her.
Leering faces and flaying bludgeons. The dungeon shrinking to crush her to pulp between its rigid walls. Her daughter sucked into a pitch black maelstrom, fingertips brushing Serrah’s as she strained to reach her. Dreams of fire and suffering and loss.
She woke with a start.
Blood had crusted on her face and arms, and bruises were already rising. She ached horribly, fit to vomit.
It seemed to her that the cell was even more dimly lit than before. And the silence was oppressive. Then an indefinable but not unfamiliar feeling dawned; that sixth sense which let her know when someone quietly appeared at her back. The tickle up her spine that said she wasn’t alone. Painfully, she struggled to a sitting position and blinked into the gloom.
Somebody else was in the cell. Standing by the door, quite still. Their features hard to make out.
‘Who’s there?’ Serrah called, her voice cracked, hoarse.
There was no answer, and the stranger didn’t move.
‘Show yourself!’
Still nothing. Serrah had a dread that it was her torturers back to do worse. Toying with her first, to heighten her fear or their pleasure. But no assault came, so she began the agony of standing.
She narrowly won the battle to get to her feet. When she moved, she shuffled like an arthritic old woman. As she approached the figure she realised it had its back to her. It wore a dark, full-length cloak, tightly gathered. There was a hint of blonde hair above the upturned collar.
Serrah challenged the intruder again. ‘Who are you?’ This time it was nearly a whisper.
The figure turned.
Reality crumbled. Shocked disbelief hit Serrah like a tidal wave. Her pain was forgotten. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move. What she saw made her distrust her sanity.
The apparition stretched out a hand and lightly touched her arm. Its caress was warm, solid. Real. There was no threat in it. Serrah fought to say something. No words came. She took in the other’s long, golden locks, hazel eyes, slightly plump, puppy-fat features. Her visitor smiled.
‘Mother,’ she said.
‘Eithne?’