the thumping heels and curses and hood-muffled moans. the limp of a man forced along on broken bones. the gut-thud and the shut up and the brass knocker rapping. the seneschal’s wait and the [res]trained, respectful tapping at his den’s door—Needsay hears it all along, all this and rather more.
he nods his show them in. the butler brings them shoeless. the gorillas tip their hats and grunt “good evening, sir, Your Trueness.” Needsay always smiles to see the muscle put on their manners. they hold their charge between, pull off his hood, say “this here’s Mr. Tanner.” he’s not in such bad shape as some who’ve been brought into this room, and he doesn’t have that defiant look that always attends a man on his way to the tomb; Needsay is glad. he hasn’t had a chance to be gentle for some while; the goons can tell he’ll go easy on this one by the way he doesn’t smile.
“there’s something these men would like you to tell me, i think. but first—” he pauses, cocks his head. “wouldn’t you like something . . . to drink?” now his voice is red.
Tanner’s tongue goes thick; he tries to talk, and coughs a sound as dry as snapping chalk. his eyes burn, but no tears will well. his ears fill with a crack[l]ing he feels on his skin; his nostrils crack and bleed, and he chokes on the smell. dust is flaking off his face, his heart is pounding high and thin and tight, and when Needsay draws near he struggles, making strangled sounds in desperate, desiccated fright.
a curve. cold, smooth. glass. a tilt, and Tanner moans as water meets his lips. he swallows and goes slack. the toughs have loosened their grips, and he falls floorward, flounders, lays there in a shriveled, shivering mess.
Needsay puts the glass on the table, and turns. “now then. Tanner. isn’t there something you’d like to confess?”