Chapter 8: Taran
"Name."
I ignore the question, staring past Gillert's shoulder as he speaks. My wrists are now cuffed in front of me to a metal table. I've been through this before. I'm not intimidated and I'm not impressed.
"Identification number." He stares at me malevolently.
Again, I ignore him.
He stands and walks behind me. I tense, but I don't move visibly. I hate having a man like Gillert at my back when I'm helpless to turn and face him. He grabs my hair and shoves my head forward until my forehead nearly hits the table, lifting the hair off my neck. He yanks on the hood of my vest, dragging it down, to have a look at the skin on my neck and the back of my shoulder.
"No identity mark." He drops my hair and goes back around the table. I'm relieved when he puts distance between us again. Despite Diogo's words that I shouldn't be touched, I suspect Gillert would love to get his hands on me. He seems the type to kick elderly ladies for fun and torture small animals. I hunch my shoulders in an effort to keep the skin under my torn vest as hidden as possible.
"It's illegal to be in the city without an identity mark."
No shit genius.
I'd had it removed shortly after the rebels took me in and claimed me as one of their own. This is for our safety and the safety of the families that shelter and protect us. If the Authority knew what house I belonged to they could arrest and interrogate anyone associated. And they aren't known for their kind-hearted methods. They will turn an entire family out of the city for the infractions of one. According to the Warlord's philosophy, if one is bad then anyone associated with the rebel is a risk as well. Plus, he enjoys setting an example. There are now few within the city that would risk both themselves and their families, proving the Commander's theory that it's better to rule by fear and obedience than kindness.
"Do you admit to the charges laid against you?"
I stare back at Gillert refusing to give him anything. No fear, no information. No reaction.
"This is your only chance to speak. If you don't give a statement now, then you'll be prosecuted without a defence."
I sneer at him, finally speaking. "Your kind doesn't believe in a defence. You force confessions, lock us up and kill us. Why should I give you anything, you stupid fuck?"
Predictably, fury flashes across his face. He moves forward until he's leaning on the table, the buttons of his uniform jacket straining against his chest and stomach. He's inches away from me. He takes my hands in his and closes his fists threateningly. I hold myself still despite the near overwhelming urge to jerk back. "If you want to live to see the sunrise then you'll give me something that I can give to Fuentes. Make me look good and I'll do what I can to help you. Maybe get you remanded into my custody." He leans back in his chair. "Now tell me your name and the house you belong to."
I laugh. Does this idiot really think I'm going to give him anything? "In what way do you think your custody is preferable to death, Gillert? I'm not giving you a damn thing. You can burn in hell right beside me for all I care."
His fists hit the table causing it to jump. He stands, his face turning red with anger. I lean back in my chair as far out of reach as I can get while still chained down. "You'll regret that you little urchin. Give me a name right fucking now!"
I can't help it, I start laughing again. The man is so fucking predictable! He calls me Street Urchin in one breath, like that's my real name, before switching gears and demanding my given name. "Fine, you've convinced me. Can I get a glass of water first? Watching you bust a neck vein is thirsty business."
His face is starting to turn purple and I think about saying something to the effect that he should be watching his blood pressure, when he comes storming around the table. He's about to reach for me when the door opens and the Warlord strides in. He takes in the scene at a glance and then turns his glacial expression on Gillert.
"You were about to lay hands on the woman?" It's clear from his voice that he's not asking a question and doesn't expect an answer.
Gillert backs away from me. I still can't really see him from my foreword cuffed position, but I can tell by the atmosphere in the room and the sweat-fear stench that Gillert's about to wet himself. "She she was threatening to hurt herself. I was just gonna make sure she wasn't hurt."
I twist my head around as much as I can to look at him. Is that the best he can come up with? "What exactly was I supposed to be doing over here with my hands chained to a table? Swallowing my own tongue in protest?"
"Shut up," Diogo says walking around the table. He places his hand on the chair opposite me and stares down at me coldly. Without turning to look at Gillert, he says, "You can leave, I'll talk with you later about following my instructions. Don't go far. I want the Judge sent in as soon as he gets here."
I tip my head toward Gillert as he walks by. Stupid fuck. Bet he won't even get that order right.
Diogo drops into the chair, leaning back, his legs spread and his arms held loose in front of him. I think it's a deliberately relaxed-looking pose. I can feel the tension flowing between us, like a live electrical charge. I've seen how fast he can move. If he wants, he can drop the pretense and be across the table in an instant.
I stare back wordlessly.
"I think I can safely assume that you gave officer Gillert nothing." I don't answer, but he seems almost pleased that I didn't give up my identity or anything important. This worries me. If Diogo Fuentes is pleased, then there's something terribly wrong happening in my world. We're on opposing sides of a philosophy, each practicing different moral goals. If he's happy then I can't be.
"Let's start over with the processing then," he says smoothly, pinning me with those chilling dark eyes. "Name."
I don't speak.
He nods his head a little and relaxes further into the chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. He looks different. It takes me a moment before my brain kicks in and I realize that he's no longer wearing desert gear, he's in a crisp clean uniform. It's militaristic in style, severe and fitted to his tall, muscular frame. A collared jacket over a dress shirt with creased pants. The jacket is emblazoned with the symbol of the desert hawk. Underneath are the three bars that indicate the highest authority in the city.
"Give me a name, little Wren." His voice is soft. Deadly. I feel that I'm not going to like the next words out of his mouth. And when, again, I don't speak, he says, "There are three refugees in processing at this very moment. They walked up to the gates yesterday. Two are healthy and strong, one is not. He's young and frail. Give me a name and I won't have him turned out."