"Yes," Tamar went on, ignoring the questions. "Fordak is going to do a great deal for us. To begin with—" he dropped a hand lightly on the man's shoulder "—he is going to tell us what he did with the slave-girl, Dylara!"
As Tamar spoke the last few words his fingers bit fiercely into the bare flesh beneath his hand.
The speed with which Fordak lost his smile was almost laughable. He bellowed out something unintelligible and started to rise; but Jotan, his face suddenly white beneath its tan, crossed the room with a single bound and slammed him back on the stool.
Tamar flipped a knife from its sheath and pressed the point lightly against Fordak's spine. "Sit still, you!" he said frostily.
Jotan's face was haggard. "Has anything happened to Dylara?" he asked thickly. "In the name of the God, Tamar, tell me quickly."
"Just this," Tamar said. "While you and Javan were asleep I went to the palace to ... on a personal matter. While there, I learned that Dylara had been taken from the slave quarters by this man on the pretext of taking her to Urim. Another man helped him; who, I don't know. Knowing you would be interested in learning what had happened to her, I brought our friend, here, along to answer your questions."
Jotan thanked him with a glance. Then he turned to the seated Fordak.
"All right," he ground out savagely, "what have you done with her?"
Fordak looked at him sullenly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled. "You have no right to keep me here."