China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

And the real truth, indeed, was only a hairsbreadth away: That he’d known the word had got out, that it was all his fault, and that he’d been so full of guilt that he was ready to sacrifice his life to save his master.

And now there was nothing to do except interrogate this man who, if he talked, might destroy him.

—

“They normally talk,” said the sergeant after a couple of hours. He inspected the prisoner’s fingers and showed Shi-Rong. They were reduced to a bloodied mess. The flesh had come away from the joints, and Shi-Rong was staring at bare bones. “He won’t be using them again,” the sergeant remarked.

“What do we do now?” Shi-Rong asked.

“Ankle press,” said the sergeant. “You’ll see.”

It took a little while for them to bring the ankle press. It was nearly six feet long and also made of wood. They laid it on the floor.

“It’s big,” said Shi-Rong nervously.

“Same idea,” said the sergeant. “Only for ankles. This one really breaks ’em up.” Shi-Rong wasn’t sure if he meant the ankles or the victims. Both, probably.

The base of the ankle press was thick as a prison door. At one end was a board with two holes to hold the victim’s wrists, like a stocks. At the other end, standing vertical to the base, were three boards, like the slats on the finger press, but many times larger and heavier. Instead of rough twine, these were squeezed together near the top by ropes.

They laid Sea Dragon on the wooden base, facedown, imprisoned his wrists in the stocks, and placed his ankles in the slots between the heavy upright boards.

The young assistant took a thick rod, like a long truncheon, and began to twist the ropes with it. The press made a creaking sound. He paused, walked around, pushed his narrow face into the prisoner’s to see how he was doing, and returned to his work. The press creaked again as the ropes tightened further and the boards seized the ankle bones in their fiendish grip.

Shi-Rong saw the prisoner’s mouth clench. Sea Dragon had gone deathly pale.

“Crushes the ankle bones,” remarked the sergeant. “Turns the joints to mush, given time. We can wait now,” he added.

Shi-Rong did not know it, but he was now as pale as the prisoner. He had never witnessed excruciating agony like this, and it was almost more than he could bear. The minutes passed. Three times, during the next hour, they increased the pressure, and three times he told the prisoner: “Speak and the pain will be less. Just say your name.”

Nothing. Finally he went over to the sergeant and whispered to him: “You say they always talk?” The sergeant nodded. “How long does it take?”

“Maybe hours,” said the sergeant. “Maybe more.”

“What if he still doesn’t talk?”

“We keep going.”

At times, the fellow’s torment was so terrible that Shi-Rong almost wished that he would talk—no matter what he said. Anything, just to end the horror.

The assistant was observing him with just the same expression of cold curiosity that he’d bestowed upon the prisoner. What did he know? What was in his mind? Shi-Rong decided he didn’t care.

“Why did you want to kill Commissioner Lin?” he demanded.

Silence. Then, to his surprise, he heard the sergeant murmur, “Stupid question. Half the province wants to kill him.”

It was true. But it showed the sergeant’s contempt for him that he would dare to say it. He looked at the prisoner to see if he would react. But the prisoner made no response. Surely he must be close to breaking?

—

They continued all that night, but still the prisoner gave them nothing. And Shi-Rong was feeling completely drained by the morning, when he went to give Commissioner Lin his report.

Lin was working in the library. He looked up briefly from the papers on his desk. After delivering his report, Shi-Rong wondered if the commissioner would take any pity on the prisoner—or at least give the interrogators some rest. But he said only, “Continue,” and looked down at his work again.

When he got back, Shi-Rong found that they’d given the assassin water and a little rice, which he’d thrown up. His eyes were sunken.

“We’re to go on,” Shi-Rong said to the sergeant. “Did he say anything?”

The sergeant shook his head. He was tired and irritated. He looked at the man on the dragon bed with fury. “Time to talk,” he said. And now he took a wedge and a heavy wooden mallet. Forcing the wedge down between the slats, he gave it a sudden vicious blow with the mallet that sent a frightful shock onto the half-shattered ankle bones.

The scream that came from the prisoner was not like anything Shi-Rong had heard from a human being before. Once, camping in a forest at night, he had heard something like this. A wild creature, he did not know what, had uttered a primal scream as it was being attacked—an unearthly scream, echoing through the trees in the darkness. And every man in the little camp had shuddered.

He started in horror. Even the sergeant looked shocked, to conceal which, he shouted angrily at the prisoner: “Now talk, you son of a dog.” And seizing the rod from his assistant he yanked it around a full turn, as if this would finish the business for good.

The prisoner’s gasp of agony and the moan that followed were so piteous that Shi-Rong doubled over. As he forced himself to straighten up, he was trembling. He saw that the assistant was still watching the proceedings with a calm curiosity.

“Ask him a question,” said the sergeant. But Shi-Rong could not.

“Talk, or I’ll do it again!” the sergeant snarled at the prisoner with a curse. But the prisoner had lost consciousness. Shi-Rong could only hope he had died.

But he hadn’t.

—

Two hours later, the sergeant went out and came in after a short while carrying a fresh set of boards. Working together, he and the assistant removed the three uprights and inserted the new boards in