Chapter 5 The Interrogation

Ablan's eyes widened, and he pulled the sheet up a little further. Then he shook his head and gulped as Zorrik stepped closer.

"I don't know what you want," he insisted.

"I think you do, Mister Ablan." Zorrik held the tip of his gleaming knife toward the merchant. His patience was infinite, a skill he'd worked on just as deliberately as he had his sword and fighting skills. Unfortunately, he didn't have a lot of time. Assassins did their work in secret, and secrecy meant darkness and nighttime. He took a breath and walked over to the window, glancing out at the sky beyond the city. It was still dark, but the nights were short in Aquilara.

"The sun will be up soon, Merchant," he said, his voice casual, but laced with implications.

"Why don't you tell me what you want?" Mr. Ablan asked, and then balked at the sound of his one voice. "Please!" he quickly added. "I don't want to die."

"No one ever does," Zorrik answered. He didn't look away from the window, but his gaze dropped to the floor. Long lost memories swirled in his mind's eye, but he blinked them away. Now was not the time.

With one last glance at the starry night sky, he turned back to Mr. Ablan. The black cloth mask over his mouth and nose made his breath hot. Between that and the dust in the air, his breath felt heavy and strangled, so he untucked the material and let it fall from his face. The merchant gasped at the sight and turned away.

Zorrik chuckled. "Do you think it bad luck to see an Assassin's face?"

Mr. Ablan shook his head emphatically and squeezed his eyes shut, but didn't answer.

"Tell me, what have you heard?" Zorrik asked, his voice smooth, with the hint of an accent heard only in far-off realms.

Mr. Ablan was breathing hard and didn't want to open his eyes. He tried to catch his breath and managed to squeak out, "Seeing your face means I am already dead."

Zorrik cocked his head and thought for a moment. Then he nodded and said, "I suppose that could be true, if you believed my mask a disguise. But you already know who I am. Why would I kill you for that?"

The merchant slowly opened his eyes, not sure if Zorrik was playing a trick on him or not, and then looked at the Assassin, confused. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing. Zorrik seemed to be waiting for an answer, though, and was looking at him expectantly. He opened his mouth to point out that he knew who he was, but hadn't known what he looked like, but was cut off before he could get a word out.

"But, I digress," Zorrik said, in the same light tone. But, suddenly, his demeanor changed, and a mirthless smirk crossed his face. "I came here for answers, merchant, and whether you give them to me might determine whether you survive the night or not."

"Answers?" Mr. Ablan repeated. "About what? The only thing I know about is trading. I buy and sell exotic wares."

"I can see that," Zorrik quipped. He turned toward the wardrobe behind him. "Have you ever seen a sea dragon?" he asked.

"What? Um, no, no, I haven't."

"That's a shame," Zorrik said, turning back toward his quarry. "Magnificent creatures." He paused, staring at the man until the merchant couldn't take it any longer and looked away. "Mister Ablan," he said, lowly, "I believe you know more than you're letting on. You aren't just a humble merchant, are you?"

"Yes, I am! Honestly," Ablan pleaded.

Zorrik shook his head and "tsked" again. "This game grows boring. Tell me about the Rebels, Mister Ablan."

The merchant's eyes widened again, and his breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, he threw off the sheet and scrambled out of the bed. He ran to the door, but swiftly and surely, Zorrik sprinted to it first and caught Ablan by the arm. The man cried out in pain, but Zorrik covered his mouth and bared gleaming white teeth at him in anger. Then he dragged Ablan to the bed and once again threw him down on it. Frightened tears ran down the merchant's cheek, and he tried to stifle a sob.

"Don't try that again," Zorrik warned, looming above him at the edge of the bed.

"I...I swear I don't know anything about any Rebellion," he whispered.

Zorrik sat down, perched lightly on the edge of the mattress. "We have spies everywhere, Mister Ablan," he said, his voice calm and measured again. "We know what you've been up to, the kind of 'clients' you've been doing business with lately." When Ablan only shook his head vehemently again, he added, "We're going to find them one way or another, with or without your help. It would be much simpler for us and much more beneficial for you if you told us their names and where we could find them."

Mr. Ablan gulped, understanding now how much the Guild had already found out, and knowing that he had little choice but to cooperate.

"The group is small," he said. Once he started talking, everything he knew quickly came tumbling out. "At least, as far as I know. You see, they never meet at the same place, and never all together, so it's not like I've met them all. And they only give out as much information as needs to be known by who they're giving it to."

"So, you don't know how many Rebels there are or where they are?" Zorrik said, slowly and deliberately.

"I told you I didn't know much!"

"No, you told me you didn't know anything. Which, I suppose, isn't far from the truth." Zorrik paused and thought a moment. "So, what good are you to me, then?"

"No, wait, wait. There's more!"

Zorrik smirked again and nodded, "Go on, then."

"I can give you a list of what they've bought, and what else they're looking for," Ablan said and then added, "And I might know where their next meeting is being held."

Zorrik waited while the merchant scribbled his list of Rebel inventory, and then pocketed it in the folds of his shirt. Then he crawled back over to the merchant and held his curved blade at the man's throat.

"I thought you weren't going to kill me if I cooperated," Ablan pleaded.

Zorrik smiled, slowly.

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