They caught the boy—one with some spirit in him meriting a better employment—crawling through the scrub half a day beyond River Ward, and brought him before Persilope, where he scratched and cursed awhile and then fell sullen under their questioning. Let them kill him, he said, but he would not tell where his people were, nor how to get at them.
“Nay, we will not kill you, lad,” Noche reassured him, “we love you so much.” Here he wrapped his great arms about the boy, handfast behind his back as the captors had brought him in, and lifted him against his breast.
“So,” he laughed, “will you not tell me for love where the Far-Folk are?”
“No.” The boy’s face flushed purple, the breath came whistling through his teeth.
“One,” said Noche, and the muscles of his back began to swell.
“Two,” said Noche.
“Yes-s-ss!” sung the boy’s rattling breath.
And when Noche, who would have cracked the ribs of a grown man as well, set him down, the boy staggered and was sick, and admitted they were at the Smithy. He had been entirely within his instruction in that, but he must have seen the unwisdom of telling the truth as he had been instructed, when the Outliers set out immediately in that direction. His distress was evident and genuine, he moaned and whimpered, came fawning to Persilope.
“Why, what ails the boy?” said he, perplexed. “We want no more of you.”
“But, oh, I have lied to you,” whined the lad. “I have lied; you will kill me when you learn how I have lied. They are not at the Smithy.”