The Historian’s Novel

With Thompson Brown leading Amelia’s way, and Jessen Enfaith having met them at the gate with a key in his hand and a smile, which betrayed nothing of why they had come, entering the merchant’s conglomerate office was much easier the second time around.

“Do you two know each other?” Amelia asked Thompson, hoping some idle conversation might distract from how eerily dark the staircase corridor they descended happened to be.

“Jessen?” said Thompson, as the wall torches intermittently bathed him in their dull light, “No, not personally. But I’ve dealt with him, and wouldn’t be against doing so again in the future.”

A faint groan came from the first of many locked doors dotting the basement hallway they reached, confirming Amelia’s once guess that the merchant’s had holding cells of their own.

“After all,” said Thompson, turning his head back to add with a dark laugh, “His name wasn’t on that list you so thankfully gave me.”

Going deeper, more noises of woe began joining the chorus. Amelia could only hope her shared knowledge hadn’t been too much of a burden. In the end, she might have given Thompson information on who among his fellow merchants were corrupt beyond redemption, but any spring cleaning would have been his burden to bear.

“Don’t worry about it,” Thompson said, reading Amelia’s face as they arrived at the end of the tunnel where Martel awaited, “If they didn’t want to get caged like rats they should have known when to stop. Am I right, or am I right,” Thompson added, for Martel, who nodded behind her expressionless mask.

Amelia cocked her head in confusion. The way Thompson spoke, was there reason to think he and Martel might have begun communicating at some point?

“I’m relieved my information was helpful,” Amelia said to Thompson, and she left the matter of merchants behind her to rush towards Martel who she gave a great hug.

“Nervous?” Martel asked, more than happy to offer comfort in return. The older woman was wearing the outfit she had donned on the night they had met. Functionality over form, and with enough leather straps to keep an arsenal of knives and concoctions in place, it was as if the murderous murderer from the Historian’s novel had returned to fulfill their role. Only now, instead of being ‘demonically handsome’, Amelia decided ‘devilishly pretty’ fit her description much better

“Sort of… I just want to go home. But it’s only a matter of time before word of what I told the King reaches the Marquess of Rutherford. And since only an idiot would keep their important stuff all in one place, every second we waste might be another piece of evidence burned.”

Thompson chuckled while Amelia felt bizarrely nostalgic. To know the Strightsworth’s manor would be waiting for her return once the Marquess of Rutherford was finally dealt with… Despite not all that much time having passed in the grand scheme of things, she was looking forward to returning home, where new possibilities seemed to await. With her relationship with her father mended and better than ever, hopes of re-decorating, managing the estate, and adding her own personal touch to the Strightsworth name were beginning to blossom.

“Last chance to back out before I start working,” said Martel, “I’m being serious, I don’t want you scared of me, it’s not conductive for lessons.”

Amelia remembered she also had her etiquette classes to look forward too. Verily, the future had never looked brighter… Except for the part where she would be separated from Grace by vast swaths of land since princesses were known to live mostly in their own castles. She couldn’t even explain away her burgeoning affection any longer. At this point, telling herself she only viewed Grace as a friend would be a lie Amelia could never hope to believe. But what could she do? Abandon her title to become Grace’s hand-maiden?

“Hey, time to focus,” Martel said, snapping Amelia out from her musings, as Thompson finished unlocking the door, “Are you good, or staying out here?”

“I’m good!” Amelia said, shelving that last thought since it felt like something she could potentially work with, “But remember,” she said, taking charge as the hallway’s light creeped into the cell and fell on the drunkenly laid out, sleeping form, of Gregory Rutherford, “If he’s willing to help us by turning in his father’s misdeeds, then we won’t do a thing. After all, we’re the good guys.”

**

“Then squeal for me, pig!”

With her eyes practically shining in awe, Amelia watched with rap attention as Martel yelled, and ripped free one of Gregory’s fingernails with the help of a knife, after the man had without logic, chosen to stay mum.

Holding his head by his hair, Martel forced Gregory to look up.

“Ready to tell her where your dad’s been stashing his good deeds?”

Gregory spat on Martel’s shoe. In return, she struck his chin with her foot. Only the chain looped around the kneeling man’s neck; connecting him to the wall, prevented him from falling completely.

“Y-You can’t do this to me,” said Gregory, while gasping for breath. He turned his defiant glare towards Amelia, “Do you think my father won’t t-take revenge for hurting me like this?!”

“He doesn’t know?” Thompson asked, from the other side of the cell’s door. The merchant had said he was just keeping watch but Amelia had seen his face turning green when Martel’s had described what she would do to Gregory should he not yield to Amelia’s wants.

“Know what?!” Gregory barked.

Martel raised a shushing finger to the front of her mask to let Amelia know she should follow Thompson’s silent example and refuse to answer for now.

“It’s better to keep whoever you’re working on in a state of doubt, or paranoia if you can,” Martel explained, before she removed her mask, flipped it around, and strapped it onto Gregory’s face. “My concoction works best when combined with heightened states of fear, pain, or arousal.”

“I see,” Amelia said, and she made sure to mentally jot each new piece of information down in case it might come handy in the future. Such as how Martel’s mask could apparently, either keep smoke from entering, or administer it.

What a convenient tool for interrogation indeed. Amelia watched Gregory begin to mumble and groan. Then, upon being encouragingly pushed forward by Martel, Amelia re-asked the man for the combination to the safe the Marquess of Rutherford kept under his bed; mentioned on page a hundred and seven in the Historian’s novel.

Twitching, Gregory divulged a slurry of numbers.

“He’s still lying.” Amelia complained, greatly upset to know that Gregory could resist Martel’s truth serum better than she ever could.

“Then, if he isn’t disoriented enough, what do you think we should do next?” Martel asked Amelia, like a teacher leading her class.

Bouncing up and down on the heels of her feet, Amelia excitedly answered with the first idea she could think of.

“Step on him!”

Martel tussled Amelia’s hair. “We’re going to have to talk about the information you’re getting from those books Grace told me about.” Wiping the sweat from her brow, the older woman retrieved one of the knives she had earlier stabbed into a torch.

“It would’ve just been to start,” Amelia mumbled, ashamed her idea to start small and work her way up had been misconstrued in such a way by Martel. Moreso when Martel proved there were easier ways to torture someone when she proceeded to skip stepping and move right on to branding.

“You’re not even flinching, good job.” Martel said, as Gregory howled. His muscles tensed, straining to break free of their bonds with little success. Amelia hoped he was regretting his choice to get drunk and have fun after having been placed under house arrest by his father. “Most people can imagine doing it, but in practice it’s harder to commit.”

“Is it weird I don’t care?” Amelia asked, “Mom always told me that sometimes, bad people need to be hurt for good people to prosper.”

“Lots of people have codes they live by,” interjected Thompson, “Yours sounds decent enough. There’s no point in comparing.”

Martel nodded, then clapped her hands. “Alright, time to resume,” she said, pointing to her jacket, strewn over a bench, “Mind being a dear,” she said to Amelia, “Could you get me another vial of truth serum please?”

Amelia hurried to fulfill her role as assistant torturer, “Is it really that much more effective when their thoughts are distracted by pain?” she asked, eager to learn the tools of the trade.

“It depends,” Martel answered, upon injecting the vial into Gregory via her mask, “But above all I just wanted to hurt him.” She slapped his face twice, “Ready to talk? Let’s start with… I don’t know, your dad’s business ledgers. Where does he keep them?”

“My father will know that you did this! That you hurt me!” screamed Gregory, who found a second wind for thrashing about even as his body was pumped full of the drug. “Stop… Stop acting like he won’t care!”

Had the Marquess’s son bought a ten-thousand-year elixir that could grant anyone will-power? By now Amelia had begun feeling downright impressionable.

“No sweetie, it just takes longer the denser you are,” Martel said. “Go on,” she added, as Gregory’s hysterics began to lessen and slump. Behind the mask, his eyes were starting to glaze, “I think he’s ready to hear what you’ve managed since the time you last met. Really sharpen those words, it’s time to push him over the edge with a good tongue lashing.”

Amelia approached Gregory. She wondered if her current perspective of the helpless man was anything like how he had once viewed her.

“Gregory… I don’t think your father is in a position to care. My dad killed the Leviathan. We already won the duel and to be frank, there’s a pretty good chance he’s going to choose to run away without you. I mean… You seem to have a problem following simple instructions, why would he bother to search for a wastrel if it meant risking his own future?”

Gregory, fell silent. Amelia wondered if she should continue. Deciding in the end that yes, she should. If only because all of this felt extremely cathartic for some reason.

“Why, if you don’t cooperate, I could have you tortured like nobody’s ever been tortured before. Eventually, you’re going to start telling the truth. So why don’t you start answering before I have to call my dad in to heal you back from the brink of death?”

“Your Dad knows you’re here?” Thompson suddenly asked, sounding shocked. And Amelia blanked as she realised that she’d forgotten to tell him about this part of her plan.

“Umm… Well, we’re still going to hurt you a lot,” she said to Gregory, trying to salvage her threat.

Martel came to the rescue. “Don’t worry, your father knows both what we’re doing and that we’re here.”

“Really? When did you tell him?” Amelia asked.

“I didn’t.” Martel answered.

Amelia wondered if she should again ask for clarification, when the older woman lowered her shirt’s collar to reveal what looked like a sort of bite mark on her neck.

Luckily for Amelia who was now even more confused, Thompson interrupted again, although this time he sounded much more urgent than the two times before.

“There’s a Knight from the Duke of Winchester running towards us” he said, “I... I think one of you should meet him!”

Amelia hurried to leave Martel’s creepy smile behind. Careful to exit while keeping the cell’s door mostly closed, to avoid accidentally revealing what they were doing to Gregory, she greeted the Knight who appeared out of breath.

“Hello,” Amelia said, as the knight saluted despite his exhausted condition, “What’s going on? Does my grand-father want me for something? Aren’t you one of my grand-father’s men who my dad threw around? I hope you’ve fully recovered since then.”

“No, not at all my Lady, that was an honor,” said the Knight, removing his helmet to speak. With dismay Amelia found he appeared very distraught. Sensing danger, her hand felt for the dragon tooth she had begun keeping on her person at all times.

“It’s… It’s terrible!” said the Knight between breaths, “The princess, the one who you found… She’s gone missing! And the harbor is under attack!”