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aware of that much. And from what the man had said, Marcas knew he held one of the highest ranks, that of vengeance.
    He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the grand secretary, Guy Andrivaux.
    â€œThis is terrible. Blood in the temple. The grand master is out of town. If there’s anything I can do…”
    Marcas sat down on a wooden crate. “I know the killer came in here. But then he vanished. Either he can walk through walls, or, mor e likely…”
    â€œHe found another way out,” Guy said.
    â€œB ut where?”
    The grand secretary looked around the stage. “You haven’t looked hard enough, brother.”

18
    ÃŽle de la Cité
    March 13, 1355
    â€œW here is the prisoner?” the torturer asked, his face stern. He enjoyed watching the guard s stiffen.
    One answered. “She is on t he stone.”
    The torturer usually handled suspects right from their arrival and settled them in, but someone had already done it for him. Clearly, the royalty wanted something important from this woman. He would make her talk.
    He took the stairs to the lower rooms, which were dank and cold. The dungeon itself was below these rooms. Prisoners who didn’t confess were tossed down there. Either the rats or the waters that routinely flooded the dungeon would finish them off.
    He headed to the vaulted interrogation room, which stank of saltpeter and fear. He thought about the centuries that prisoners had been interrogated in this sewer-like cellar, the hundreds of years they had been chained to the stone, polished by suffering and blood. He had introduced his own innovation: replacing the chains with leather straps that ate into the prisoners’ wrists and ankles as they tried to escape the torment. Then he would dip the straps in vinegar and put them back on to eat away the flesh and expose the tendons. At that stage, the prisoners were begging for death.
    He opened his collar and removed the key hanging around his neck. The door scraped against the rough cobblestone as he entered the room.
    The woman on the table moved. It was the startled movement of someone awakened from a nightmare.
    Small oil lamps burned at the corners of the room, throwing a pale flickering light on the walls green with fungus. A dark layer of dried blood and filth covered the stone floor. The torturer wouldn’t allow anyone to clean it. Prisoners entered barefoot, and some confessed before they were eve n tied up.
    The torturer examined his new victim. She was young. Her hair formed a corolla around her delicately chiseled face. She was naked, except for thin linen panties covering her pubic area. It was the same fabric found in shops that supplied the nobility. She had a canvas gag in her mouth, and leather straps secured her to her be d of pain.
    He verified the bonds.
    Now he would let this angel know that her master from hell ha d arrived.
    When the first drops of burning wax hit her stomach, she started shaking. As the hot liquid molded to her shape, she let out a long moan.
    The torturer lodged the burning candle in her navel. “I see your eyes. They say pain. They say fear. And yet you know nei ther yet.”
    The woman’s eyes g rew wider.
    â€œYou think you have suffered, but you are wrong. True suffering is beyond what you can imagine. Pain has no limits. And fear—that has no limit s either.
    Sweat was pouring out o f her now.
    â€œThis is only the beginning. Soon your entire being will let go. I won’t even have to touch you. Fear overcomes all modesty. But don’t worry. Shame will no longer be a concern for you. Give yourself up. Soon you will have so much water in your belly you will beg me to open your entrails and p urge you.”
    The woman turned a bright red as an acrid odor filled the room. She was shaking.
    â€œIf I removed the gag you would already speak. But that doesn’t interest me. I’m going to leave you to reflect on your destiny. To meditate. I will