Something flickered in his eyes. "I can’t say."
"Can’t or won’t?"
"Can’t," he said. "The information was burned away when the magic happened."
And that sounded a little too convenient. "So who gave you the ability to shift shape?"
He shrugged. "We weren’t allowed to see the practitioner."
I raised an eyebrow. "And how, pray tell, did they achieve that miracle?"
"We were knocked out. Apparently it would have been too painful otherwise."
Well, given the fact that the magic had twisted their beings at a cellular level, I’d guess that was something of an understatement. It was pointless asking where and when—apparently one of the benefits of being a Razan was a very long life, and though these men looked to be little more than midthirties, they could have been hundreds of years old. And I doubted the shifting ability was new. They were too good at controlling it for it to be a recent event.
Although it seemed odd that these Razan wouldn’t have a stronger connection to their masters than just a telephone number.
But maybe the Razan ranks had levels. Maybe it was only the ones like Handberry who had a direct connection to their master. Maybe the grunts were kept ignorant for safety reasons.
"There’s nothing else you can tell me about the ceremony or the people who performed it?"
"It was a man. Other than that, your guess is as good as mine. How about releasing me now? My arms are going fucking numb."
"Can’t say I’m sorry about that, considering what you were intending to do to me." I swung around and left.
"Hey," he shouted after me. "You said you’d release me before the Directorate got here!"
"No, I said I’d consider it," I flung over my shoulder. "Which I have. Consider the request denied."