Incarceron (Incarceron, Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

and raw metal. Enough for everyone's share to be plentiful."
    A buzz from the room. But everyone meant only the Comitatus; the hangers-on would live on the scraps.
    "And yet not as profitable as it might have been. Some fool annoyed the Prison." He spat out the ket and took another piece from the ivory box at his elbow, folding it carefully into his cheek. "Two men were killed." He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on Finn. "And a hostage was taken."
    Finn opened his mouth, but Keiro trod firmly on his foot. It was never a good idea to interrupt Jormanric. He spoke slowly,
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    with irritating pauses, but his appearance of stupidity was deceptive.
    A thin sliver of red spittle hung on Jormanric's beard. He said, "Explain, Finn."
    Finn swallowed, but Keiro answered, his voice cool. "Wing-lord, my oathbrother took a great risk back there. The Civics could easily not have stopped or even slowed. Because of him we have enough food for days. The woman was a whim of the moment, a small reward. But of course the Comitatus is yours, the decision yours. She means nothing, one way or the other."
    The of course was a silken sarcasm. Jormanric didn't stop chewing; Finn couldn't tell whether the needle-stab of such a veiled threat had even registered.
    Then he saw the Maestra. She was standing at the side, guarded, chains linking her hands. There was dirt on her face, and her hair was coming undone. She must have been terrified, but she stood tall, her gaze on Keiro and then, icily, on him. He couldn't meet that scorn. He looked down, but Keiro nudged him and at once he forced himself upright, outstaring them all. To seem weak, to look doubtful here, was to be finished. He could never trust any of them, except Keiro. And then only because of the oath.
    Standing arrogantly he returned Jormanric's glare.
    "How long have you been with us?" the Winglord demanded.
    "Three years."
    "Not an innocent anymore, then. The blankness has gone
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    from your eyes. You no longer jump at screams. You no longer sob when the lights go out."
    The Comitatus tittered. Someone said, "He hasn't killed anyone yet."
    "About time he did," Amoz muttered.
    Jormanric nodded, the metal in his hair clinking. "Maybe that's so." His eyes watched Finn, and Finn stared straight back, because this was a bleary mask the Winglord wore, a bloated, slow disguise over his shrewd cruelty. He knew what was coming now; when Jormanric said, almost sleepily, "You could kill this woman," he didn't even blink.
    "I could, lord. But I'd rather make some profit. I heard them call her Maestra."
    Jormanric raised a ket-red eyebrow. "Ransom?"
    "I'm sure they'd pay. Those trucks were heavy with goods." He paused, not needing Keiro to tell him not to say too much. For a moment the fear shivered back, but he fought it down. Any ransom would mean Jormanric would take a share. Surely it would sway him. His greed was legendary.
    The cell was dim, its candles guttering. Jormanric poured a cup of wine, tipped a splash down for the small dog-creature, and watched it lap. Not until the slave sat back, unharmed, did he drink himself. Then he raised his hand and turned it outward to show the seven rings. "Do you see these, boy? These rings contain lives. Lives I stole. Each one of them was once an enemy, killed slowly, tormented in agony. Each one of them is
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    trapped here in a loop around my fingers. Their breath, their energy, their strength, drawn out of them and held for me, until I need it. Nine lives a man can live, Finn, moving from one to another, fending off death. My father did it, I'll do it. But as yet I only have seven."
    The Comitatus eyed one another. At the back women whispered; some strained to see the rings over the heads of the crowd. The silver skulls shimmered in the drug-laden air; one winked at Finn, crookedly. He bit his dry lips and tasted ket; it was salty as blood, made blurs swim in the corners of his eyes. Sweat soaked his back. The chamber was unbearably hot; high in the rafters