Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence #1) - Robert Thier Page 0,120

finally came to me. I…’

He cleared his throat again - and then the sneaky son of a bachelor bent down and whispered something in Mr Ambrose’s ear! And Mr Ambrose, Mr Immovable Stone-Face Ambrose, actually lifted an eyebrow.

‘Is that so? And did it work?’

‘Did what work?’ I demanded.

‘Oh yes,’ Karim said with grim relish, ignoring me completely. ‘He is talking like a trader in the bazaar. Only he does not wish to sell, but give it all for free.’

‘What did you do?’ I demanded. ‘Karim, what did you do to the poor man?’

This time, they both ignored me.

‘Very well then.’ Taking the keys from his pocket once more, Mr Ambrose unlocked and unbolted the door. ‘Let us see who is behind this infernal intrigue!’

He thrust open the door and stepped forward, into the dark.

The Adversary

I followed Mr Ambrose into the dungeon, and even by the dim light of the oil lamp I spotted Simmons immediately. He was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, his arms tied to the backrest, and over his head…

I blinked, not sure I was seeing correctly in the gloom. Finally, I leaned over to Karim.

‘Why does he have a bucket of water with a hole in the bottom hanging over his head?’ I asked him out of the corner of my mouth.

‘I do not hear your voice, Ifrit! Allah is my strength and will protect me from thee!’

‘Oh. Thanks for the helpful information.’

Mr Ambrose approached the thin, blonde man in the chair, whose back stiffened at the sudden sound of footsteps. He hadn’t seen us until then, with his head sunk on his chest and his eyes closed, but when Mr Ambrose stepped closer, he raised his head to face his former master.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir.’

Simmons' voice was rough. It sounded like he hadn’t used it for conversation in days.

Drip.

A drop of water fell out of the hole in the bucket and landed on Simmons' forehead. He shook himself.

‘Could you…’ His voice dwindled, and he coughed. ‘Could you please tell your servant to get rid of that bucket? It is quite annoying, having water drip onto you all the time.’

He didn’t seem afraid any more. I wondered why. When we had caught him, he’d been terrified. Then I abruptly realized why. What was the sense of being afraid? The worst was already behind him. He had been broken and made to confess.

‘Please…’ Simmons rasped. ‘Please, get rid of the bucket.’

Mr Ambrose considered in silence for a moment - then he made a hand gesture to Karim. The Indian stepped forward and, with a speed that made me yelp in surprise, whipped his scimitar[33] out of its sheath, severing the rope that held the bucket. It fell, sloshing water in every direction, and with a resounding thump bounced off Simmons' head, drenching him in cold water.

Simmons' face contorted in a grimace. ‘That’s not exactly what I meant.’

‘It’s down, isn’t it?’ Karim growled. ‘Now start talking, or I’ll start doing things with this you’ll like even less.’ He held the point of his scimitar to Simmons’s throat. ‘Talk!’

‘I believe Karim has voiced my expectations very succinctly,’ Mr Ambrose said, crouching down so that his dark, sea-green eyes were on a level with Simmons’. ‘Talk.’

‘What do you want me to say?’ Simmons asked in a voice that sounded very tired and, yes, now very afraid again, too. Looking into Mr Ambrose’s eyes obviously made him feel there might yet be worse things in store for him. I knew the feeling.

‘When did all this start?’ Mr Ambrose asked.

‘All this, Sir? I’m afraid I do not…’

‘Don’t play games with me, Simmons! With me, the stakes are far too high.’

Simmons swallowed.

‘I know,’ his former employer continued in a cold voice, ‘that you must have been in the pay of one of my enemies for some time. They could not simply convince you to break into my private safe overnight. You are far too insecure and timid for that. So I repeat: when did this all start?’

‘S-six or seven weeks ago, Sir.’

‘I see.’ Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to be fazed by the information. But then, when did he ever seem fazed by anything? ‘How did it happen?’

‘Th-they came to my house one evening. They told me that they had a proposition for me, that they would pay much better than that miser Ambro-’

Simmons almost bit his tongue off, realizing a bit too late that it might not be very wise to relate the men’s exact words. I had to stuff