The Alloy of Law - Brandon Sanderson [57]
“Has he said anything so far?” Wayne asked Brettin and several of his minions, standing outside the door and looking in at the tubby, scraggly-haired bandit. He had his arm in a dirty sling.
“Not much,” Brettin said. “Actually, none of them have given us much of anything. They seem…”
“Afraid,” one of the other constables said. “They’re afraid of something—or, at least, more afraid of talking than they are of us.”
“Bah,” Wayne said. “You just need to be firm with them! No coddling.”
“We haven’t been—” the constable began, but Brettin raised a hand to quiet him. “Your time is slipping away, Captain.”
Wayne sniffed, then sauntered into the room. It was small, practically a closet, with only the one door. Brettin and the others left it open. The bandit sat in a chair, manacled hands linked by chains to his feet and both locked to the floor. There was a table between them.
The bandit watched him resentfully. He didn’t seem to recognize Wayne. It was probably the hat.
“So, son,” Wayne said. “You’re in a heap of trouble.”
The bandit didn’t reply.
“I can get you off easy. No hangman’s noose for you, if you are willing to be smart.”
The bandit spat at him.
Wayne leaned in, hands on the table. “Here now,” he said very softly, changing his speech to the natural, fluid accent that the bandits had been using. A cup of canal worker for authenticity, a healthy dose of bartender for trust, and the rest Sixth Octant, north side, where most had sounded like they’d come from. “Is that the way to speak to the bloke who killed a conner and took his uniform, all to get you outta here, mate?”
The bandit’s eyes opened wide.
“Don’t do that, now,” Wayne said softly. “You’re looking too eager. That’ll make ’em suspicious. Damn it all. You’re gonna have to spit on me again.”
The man hesitated.
“Do it!”
He spat.
“Ruination!” Wayne bellowed, swapping back to the constable accent. He pounded the table. “I’ll tear your ears off, boy, if you do that again.”
The bandit looked at him. “Er … should I?”
Ah, good. Got the right neighborhood. “Like hell,” Wayne hissed. “I really will rip yer ears off if you do.” He leaned in, speaking in the street-tough accent, low enough so those outside couldn’t hear. “The conners say you haven’t talked. Good job on that. The boss’ll be pleased.”
“You’re gonna get me out?”
“What do you think? Can’t leave you to sing. It’s either get you out or see you shaking hands with Ironeyes.”
“I won’t talk,” the man said urgently. “No need to kill me. I won’t talk.”
“And the others?”
The man hesitated. “I don’t think they will either. Except maybe Sindren. He’s new, and all.”
Good, Wayne thought. “Sindren. Blond fellow, with the scar?”
“No. He’s the short guy. Big ears.” The robber squinted at Wayne. “Why don’t I recognize you?”
“Why do you think?” Wayne said, standing back and resuming his constable voice. “Now, no more griping! Where is your base of operations? Where are you men working from? I want answers!” He leaned in again. “You don’t recognize me because I’m too valuable to be seen by the common men. They might give me away. I work with your boss. Tarson.”
“Tarson? He’s not boss of anything. He just hits stuff.”
Also good. “I meant his boss.”
The bandit frowned. He was growing more suspicious.
“Your attitude is going to get you hanged, mate,” Wayne said softly. “Who recruited you? I want to … speak with him.”
“Who … Clamps does all the recruitment. You should know that.” His eyes grew hostile.
Excellent, Wayne thought. “Done!” he said, turning around. “This one won’t talk. Closed-mouthed git.” He walked out of the room to join Brettin and the others.
“Why were you whispering so much?” Brettin demanded. “You said we could listen.”
“I said you could listen,” Wayne said, “but not that I’d say anything you could hear. You’ve got to speak low and threateningly