He tried to bury the fear beneath rational thought and a practical attention toward possible escape. The building seemed to be a warehouse. Or a barn. A barn, yes. That loft had probably held bales of hay or straw, and those rot-riddled boards over there had probably once outlined neat stalls. Though the table near at hand was new, obviously brought in recently. Like the chains and their bolts. An old disused barn, then, freshly tricked out for its new and far more questionable role. Too far from the city, he was certain, for passersby to hear shouts.
Well, and come to that, why was Istierinan not already standing at that nice new table, with all the tools he might require laid out for use? Was he simply waiting for fear and cold and exhaustion to wear Tan down? The scene, one had to admit, was quite adequately set for the purpose. The slip-chain was a nice touch. How long could a man stay on his feet when collapse would mean strangling? A long time, Tan thought, but not forever, and when he died, his death would be, in a way, something he’d done to himself. Yes, that was the kind of subtlety that would appeal to Istierinan.
Tan had spent nearly seven years making a place for himself, or for the man he had pretended to be, in the old Fox’s court in Teramondian. Even before that, he had spent other, earlier, years living out other false lives in one part or another of Linularinum. He had done it because he loved Feierabiand, and because… well, for many reasons that had seemed good at the time. He had resented Linularinan arrogance and high-handedness; that had been part of it. He had feared what might eventually come about if the Linularinan king and court were allowed to disdain Feierabiand. And he had enjoyed the game of spycraft and his own skill at it. An agent operating in deep cover lived a life of slow, tedious deception that flashed with lightning-lit moments of brilliant terror, and Tan would not have traded those moments for a lifetime of secure prosperity.
Thus, for years Tan had walked the knife’s edge of deception, as they said. The knife in that saying was understood to be laid as a bridge across disownment—for spies, if caught, were very seldom owned by their masters—and death. And he had done it even though, in those years, he had learned to love Linularinum as well as Feierabiand.
Every confidential agent struggled with questions about loyalty and treachery. These were questions with which Tan had years ago made his peace. It had helped that he never felt any love for the old Fox, Mariddeier Kohorrian, who paid far too much attention to cleverness and the strictest possible interpretation of the law and not nearly enough to justice. But it had helped even more that in those last years, as he’d gained Istierinan’s trust, he’d also learned to hate him. The Linularinan spymaster had seemed to Tan to embody everything he disliked about the Linularinan people while specifically eschewing all their admirable qualities. He was not merely deceitful but falsehearted, not merely justifiably proud of his own skills but contemptuous of those owned by others, and slyly cruel even when he seemed overtly kind.
Maybe silence and cold was exactly the vengeance Istierinan had in mind. Maybe no one would come to question Tan, not even to watch or gloat. An uncomfortable idea, in its way worse than, well, other ideas. Maybe Istierinan was employing time itself as a subtle weapon as well, forcing Tan to suffer from the contradictory fears that someone would come and that no one would. Time to try to escape and fail, to wear out his strength to no avail, with the strangling chain waiting all the while to tighten when he could no longer keep his feet…
At the moment, however, Tan definitely was not desperate enough to wish for the arrival of his enemies. He turned his head, shuffled as far around as the chains would allow, inspecting the warehouse more closely. No windows, no visible door. The slanted golden light of late afternoon filtered in through missing boards high in the roof. The building was not, then, in good shape. He should be able to break a way out, if he could get out of the chains.
Which did not seem likely. The barn might be decrepit, but the chains were new and well-made, and they’d been bolted to a floor that seemed depressingly sturdy. No signs of wood-rot underfoot, no. Above… when Tan tensed the muscles of his neck and cautiously put pressure on the chain around his throat, he could feel no give to the boards above. Nor, when he tried standing on his toes and ducking, could he loosen the slip-chain enough to get his head through. He thought, briefly, about trying to jerk the neck-chain loose. But it would be unfortunate if he accidentally crushed his own windpipe instead of breaking the chain. Istierinan would laugh himself stupid when he finally arrived.
Tan stood quietly for some time, thinking and letting his eyes roam aimlessly about the barn, hoping for inspiration. None came. He found himself shivering and, as he had no other protection, tried to pretend that he wasn’t cold. Far too many little breezes and gusts could make their way through the cracks and gaps and the spaces left by missing boards. Spring it might be, but only just, and even in the Delta, it was too cold to go without boots or shirt. The light dimmed… overcast? Tan doubted the roof of this barn would prove tight against wind and rain. A chilly rain would be perfect to complete this situation. Though, as he had no water, he might soon be grateful for even the most bone-chilling rain. Or was it dusk? It seemed too early. But he did not, after all, know how long ago he had been captured. Hours? Days? He surely should be thirstier, if it had been so long.