2. The Man in the Box

There was something about being locked in a box, Tam reflected, that inspired… well… reflection. After he’d shouted, then screamed, then whispered himself beyond hoarse; after he’d thumped, banged and pounded on the insides of the excessively cramped chest, there was little left to Tam but thought. The breaking point had been, Tam decided, when he had lost his temper and shouted at Higgins that he was a sad, scared old man who preferred to lock his treasures away rather than let them see the light of day. Higgins had been working up to a hanging, and there hadn’t seemed to be much point to holding his tongue any longer. Tam wouldn’t have given the magistrate credit for being so… creative. Hanging would have been kinder than the box.
After one more round of strappings, Tam had been stuffed in the finely decorated chest and, he guessed from the way he’d been bumped around, loaded onto a wagon. He had then been left for all he knew to scream himself hoarse in utter isolation. He’d heard the chains being draped across the box, and all his banging around inside had done nothing he could tell but to scrape the half-healed welts on his back open further. It was difficult enough to breathe with his head on his knees, and his hands doubled up behind his back, but as the sun continued to bake the box, he felt his sweat pooling around his knees, making the limited air in the box humid and stuffy. The box rocked, and he heard the faint jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves on cobbled stones.
Tam wondered how long he’d been in the box. Two days, maybe three? He remembered Old Man Sully, who’d been trapped by a cave-in back when Tam was a child. The old man’s screams and pleas for help had gone on for three days while the villagers tried to clear a path. No sorcerer or Stonewalker could be found to get to Sully, and he’d died of thirst before he could be freed. Towards the end, Sully had barely been able to whisper his pleas. Tam tried to whisper. It sounded… weak. How much longer did Tam have left? Not long, surely.
Tam was just trying to figure out if his eyes were closed, making the visions of dancing girls holding pitchers of ale a dream, or open, making them a hallucination, when a crack and thump was followed immediately by a man’s cry of pain, then shouting and the clang of steel on steel. The box rocked, knocking Tam about from side to side, and he grunted hoarsely when his head smacked the side of the box.
Soon after, Tam heard booted feet and the rattle of chains. Men’s voices, muffled and indistinct, called from all around. Tam felt the box being lifted, then he heard a voice, clear and distinct above the rest.
“Bring me the chest.” Tam went very still. He figured Higgins’ men must have been attacked by bandits, but would they be angry when they found not gold, but a scrawny youth? Maybe there had been other treasures to whet their greed.
“Want me to get it?” This second voice was a male, but surprisingly soft.
“Don’t be a fool, Carter. The chest alone is worth more than anything else we found in this miserable little caravan.” The first voice- it had to be the leader- was deep and graveled. A moment later, Tam heard a faint scraping at the lock. Frantically, he tried to force his brain into action. There had to be some way to talk his way out of this. What could he say? But all he could think of was how much he hurt, and how nice it would be to stretch out.
　
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Sol wrinkled his nose as he knelt next to the treasure chest. The Magistrate’s guards may have been surrounding this thing as though it held the Lost King’s Crown, but it smelled more like a rotting skunk. Nevertheless, you didn’t put that many guards on something unless it was worth protecting. With a grunt of satisfaction, he felt the tumblers in the lock click into place. He gave the lock a twist, feeling the latch scrape open, and pulled out his picks. Carefully, he tucked the twists of wire into their pouch, and the pouch into his pocket. Rising, he motioned to Carter and Diggs to open the chest.
Carter was tall, broad-shouldered and balding. He wore the biggest sword Sol had ever seen strapped over a tunic in the plaid of the Highlands. Diggs was maybe an inch or two taller, and lean where Carter was bulky. Diggs wore the same dark greens and browns as the rest of the Band, and the hilts of his two swords stuck up over either shoulder. He claimed his odd, flat-brimmed hat had once been the property of a Skydancer, and had magical properties. Sol had never seen any sign of magic from the damnable thing, but it was as rare to see Diggs without his hat as it was to see Carter without the giant slab of steel he called a sword.
The two men knelt and lifted the lid of the chest. Sol leaned forward, eager. The smell intensified, and he saw a young man bent over, kneeling in the chest. His arms had been bound tightly behind his back, the cords digging into his flesh. For a moment, Sol thought he’d gone to the trouble of raiding a Magistrate’s guard train to capture a pretty chest and a corpse. The corpse twitched, and Diggs, who had clearly been thinking the same thing, jumped back and cursed. A muffled groan came from the box. The entire Band fell silent. The young man groaned again. Sol bent closer, trying to hear what the lad was saying.
“… Just gonna… Stand there… and look… or is somebody gonna… help me up?” The lad’s voice was scratchy and weak. Looking closer, Sol could see that his back was a mass of half-healed cuts and welts.
“Carter, help him. Diggs, fetch Winnow.” Diggs grimaced, but turned and disappeared into the woods. Carter bent down and slit the cords binding the man’s arms, then gripped one elbow and pulled. The lad cried out in pain. Carter rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and, holding it, gripped the boy under both arms and lifted him straight out of the box. For a moment, the lad’s legs stayed tucked up against his chest. As gravity overtook cramped muscles, the young man moaned in pain.
His face was swollen and puffy, his lip split, one eye swollen nearly shut. He’d been stripped down to his loincloth, and nearly every inch of him that Sol could see was covered in mottled purple bruises and the signs of torture. His lower legs were nearly as swollen as his face, and a dark, unhealthy red. Badly infected, Sol realized. Despite this, the boy wore a lop-sided grin.
“Great and little gods, I didn’t think I was gonna get out of there alive! Aah… Fresh air…” He took a deep breath, and winced, grabbing at his side. Carter’s hand on his arm was the only thing holding him up.
“The Magistrate seems to have taken a special dislike to you, boy.” Sol was beginning to wonder if the lad might not be worth a great ransom to the Magistrate. If Higgins had gotten this personal with this torture, he might be interested in being able to do it all again. Confessors were supposed to do no more than necessary to get a confession from their victims, but who could say? Higgins certainly had a dark reputation. How much would he pay? Sol put on his most grandfatherly smile. “Tell me, lad, how could he have come to such a poor view?”
The lad started to reply, then broke into a fit of coughing. Sol gestured, and Carter pulled a flask from under his tunic, and handed it to the boy. With one arm still in Carter’s tight grip, the lad fumbled the flask open, and took a deep swallow. He choked, then took a slower, more respectful pull. Handing the flask back, he said, “You, sir, are a good man and true. Name’s Tam.”
“Carter.” The big man tucked the flask back into his tunic, then looked up and to his left. The sound of brush breaking announced the arrival of Diggs with Winnow.
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Tam stared in fascination. The woman with the tall guy in the stupid hat wore all black. Black leather bodice, heavy black skirts and black sleeves that started in the middle of her hand and ran up to her elbow. The milky white of her skin was made brighter by the tight fitting black strap she wore around her throat, black lips, and the black rings around her eyes. Even her hair was a flat, lifeless black. As she drew close, the members of the bandit gang pulled back, some making covert hex signs to ward against evil.
“A Soak?” Tam gasped, which set off another round of coughing. Every muscle in his body screamed in agony, his ribs felt as though someone was jabbing an ice pick in his sides at every breath. He slipped out of Carter’s grip and landed on his butt in the leaves and dirt.
The bandits’ leader gestured at Tam. “Winnow, if you please?”
The girl’s nose crinkled. “Really? You couldn’t even wash him first?” Her voice was low, not quite husky, and had a bored, plaintive edge to it. Tam felt Diggs slip into place on the other side of him from Carter, and the two men together lifted Tam back to his feet.
“Man,” Diggs breathed, “You wouldn’t believe what she was doing when I found her. She was-”
“Cutting on herself. Shh.” Carter’s voice was low, his tone repressive.
“She was- Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Long story. Just wait.”
Tam watched, transfixed, as the Soak reached out her hands. He’d heard legends about Soaks, people who thrived on pain and suffering. In every story he’d heard, they’d inevitably been the root cause of some great evil. No wonder the bandits were scared of her. Even her fingernails were black, Tam noted wildly. She gripped his head in both hands. They were cool and firm. She looked Tam in the eyes, and he was surprised to see that they were a striking bright blue-green. Tam’s gaze was locked into hers. He couldn’t turn his head, and he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from hers. He heard her say, “Life is pain.” It sounded almost as if he voice was coming from inside his head.
Without thought, Tam repeated the words. She nodded, and said, “I accept the pain of life.” Again, Tam felt the words inside his own skull.
He heard his own voice saying, “I accept the pain of life,” and then he heard himself screaming. It felt as though every kick of the guards’ boots, every lash of Higgins’ strap had hit him at once. He collapsed, writhing, and jerked out of the Soak’s hands. As he did, the pain left him. He heard another scream, and looked up to see blood spurt from the girl’s nose, her eye swell up, and her entire face grow swollen and puffy. Welts appeared on her bare shoulders and upper arms. Diggs dropped his hold on Tam to catch the girl, who sagged, panting.
In silent horror, Tam watched the welts fade from her shoulders, and the blood stop flowing from her nose and mouth. The mouse over her eye faded and shrank, and her face returned to its original, pasty white complexion. The Soak- Holy Gods, a real live Soak- sagged in Diggs’ arms. He held her, a weird twist to his lips. Pity? Surely not…
Her eyelids twitched, then fluttered open. For a moment, as she surveyed the bandit camp, she seemed confused, lost, alone. She also seemed totally unaware of Diggs’ arms around her. When her gaze landed on Tam, she grinned.
There was something disturbing in Winnow’s grin. She tamped the broad stretch down with a visible effort, but her lips curved right back up in a small, secret smile. Her whole face was alight with some kind of secret joy, her cheeks flushed. Winnow started to move, then realized that Diggs was still holding her. She pushed her way forward, breaking out of his grip, not looking back. Diggs, smiling his own weird little smile a moment before, scowled. Winnow walked, swayed really, towards Tam. Her smile widened, her lips parting. Red lips, not black. Not a line of her had changed, but she was entirely transformed. She looked… Alive again. Tam’s gaze locked onto her eyes.
She took his head in her hands once more, but this time Winnow’s grip was warm and gentle. Still with her eyes locked into his own, she said, “Your pain is my life. Thank you, for sharing your life with me.” And she kissed him, full on the mouth.
A great whooping cheer arose from the watching bandits. Caught off-guard, Tam acquitted himself rather less skillfully than he would have liked. At length, Winnow drew back from him. She patted his cheek.
“Try not to think of me as your mother next time, and I’m sure you’ll do better.”
Tam goggled at her and while he tried to jack his brain into coming up with a better response than either throttling her on dragging her to a tent to show the Soak just how much he didn’t think of her as his mother, Winnow turned to address the bandit gang at the top of her voice. She bellowed, “Somebody get this poor boy a pair of pants!”
Only Diggs was not laughing.