Yyathum Proth writhed in the chair in helpless terror. He rocked himself from side to side with all his remaining strength, tearing manically at the leather straps that held his wrists and ankles, but the solid oak and iron held him securely and in the end he could only flop helplessly, panting in exhaustion.

     The leather bonds were only a small part of his terror. His chief fear came from his inability to change his shape or appearance. The theft of the wonderful power he'd had ever since budding from his parent nearly two hundred years before. With that power he could have shrunk himself to the size of a goblin and slipped out of the slack straps, or swelled to the size of an ogre and smashed the chair to firewood. It was the iron collar around his neck that held him rigidly to one shape, and the pain of it was almost too great to bear. It seemed to send feelers into the very heart of his being to draw away his strength, like a monstrous leech sucking his blood, leaving him as weak as a baby and trembling with the knowledge of his danger and vulnerability.

     Finally he gave up, realising there would be no escape that way and knowing that, even if he could have freed himself from the chair, he would then have been faced with the greater challenge of escaping from the cell, which seemed to have been carved out of the living rock. He was underground, of course, and the door was made of inch thick iron bars, strong enough that even in his ogre form he would have been unable to bend them. No escape that way. The clay man forced himself to calm down, to think rationally. He was aware that he was more intelligent that all but a handful of humans. He might be able to outwit his captors. Yes, that was it. He would escape by using the formidable power of his brain, not his body. He made himself look around, therefore, and take stock of his surroundings. Every scrap of information he could infer or deduce might be useful to him.

     He had to be in Lexandria Valley. It had been a wizard who'd captured him as he'd emerged from the teleportation cubicle in Tara, plunging him into a spell induced coma just as he was congratulating himself on his escape. Where else would a wizard have taken him but to the centre of wizardry on Tharia? He could sense the anti-magic permeating the walls, floor and ceiling of the cell. That wasn't decisive in itself, of course, as many of the larger cities had one or two magic proof cells in their prisons for the confining of wizards who broke their laws, but in his own mind the case was settled. He was in the cells of the proctors, dug out of the heart of one of the mountains surrounding Lexandria Valley.

     And he was still alive! He hadn't been killed out of hand, as clay men careless enough to be captured so often were. Everyone feared and hated clay men. Only in one of their secret communes could they declare themselves openly and walk about in their natural form. Any clay man caught by humans was killed, and yet here he was, still alive. That meant they wanted something from him. Information, probably. The names of those who had employed him. He grinned evilly. He had a bargaining chip. They couldn't simply read the information out of his mind because of the mind protection spells the Shadowwizards had cast on his body back in the war. They could try to torture it out of him, but if he was strong enough to resist they would eventually have to bargain with him. He had no compunctions about betraying his employers. He would give them to the proctors without a moment's hesitation as soon as he'd bargained a good deal for himself.

     In front of him was a crude wooden table, bare and empty. Made of some kind of hard black wood. Deeply scored and stained by many years of use. One stain on the side facing him looked unsettlingly like dried blood, no doubt left there deliberately for the psychological effect it would have on their next captive. It reminded him of the wound on the side of his neck. Now that really annoyed him! Who would have thought that that scrawny little human would have had the strength to resist him? A wizard, of course, but even so... He put the recriminations out of his mind. He could take his revenge later on the wizard who'd spoiled all his plans. Right now, he had some serious thinking to do.

     On the other side of the table was a single chair. Smaller than the one to which he'd been strapped. Just about as crude and simple as a chair could be and still fulfill its function. Above him, a small ball of polished marble floated near the ceiling, radiating just enough light to see by once the eyes had adapted to the darkness. The corridor on the other side of the door was more brightly lit, and by twisting his neck as far as it would go he could barely see the patch of stone floor lit up by the light filtering through the bars. He saw a tiny black beetle wandering into the light, turn around in alarm and dart at speed back into the darkness.

     That was it. The sum total of his knowledge. Not even his mighty intellect could do much with such a meagre supply of data. He would just have to wait until his interrogators came. He had no doubt that, once the questioning began, he would learn much more from his captor than his captor would learn from him. Few humans, not even wizards, knew the full extent of a clay man's psionic powers.

     He didn't have long to wait. Less than half an hour after regaining consciousness he began to sense the outer fringes of a potent mentality approaching. A few moments later he was surprised to hear three sets of footsteps clapping on the smooth stone floor. Three! But he'd only sensed one approaching mentality! Were the other two zombies?

     As they got closer he realised the truth, and it dismayed him. He could now sense three mentalities, two of them ordinary humans, but the third was an intellect of such power that at a distance it had completely eclipsed the other two. Even before the man came into sight, Yyathum Proth knew that this was a mentality superior even to his. Surely one of the most powerful human minds on the planet. And it was coming to interrogate him! Fear surged through the clay man again and he struggled once more in his bonds, as uselessly as before. The collar burned his neck like a circle of fire. Bargaining chip! he reminded himself. I've got a bargaining chip! They want information from me! He clung to the thought as a shipwreck survivor in the water might cling to a fragment of timber.

     There was the rattling of keys, the muttering of a pair of magic words and he heard the squeal of neglected hinges as the door swung open. The squeal terrified him, and he quailed at the thought that the door might have remained closed for years, perhaps decades, before he'd been brought to be imprisoned here. After all, how often did a wizard commit an offence so serious that he needed to be locked up? And if this dungeon area was so infrequently visited, wasn't it possible that a prisoner might be forgotten here? Left to starve until his weakening screams echoed from the bare stone walls, never quite reaching the realms of life and sunlight so far above...

     The collar the clay man wore forced it to fall back into its natural form, which would have appeared hideous to most humans, and the three wizards scowled as they entered the room and looked at it. It was a small, shrunken being, its hairless skin pink and wrinkled like that of a newborn baby. Its hands were chubby with short, stubby fingers, its stomach bulged and loose flaps of skin in its groin concealed structures that could imitate either male or female genitalia. It had a tiny pug nose and tiny ears stuck on the sides of a large, bulging head that concealed a formidable brain.

     The leader of the three wizards spoke some magic words, and the clay man felt a tingle in his head that told him that a mind reading spell was being aimed at him. The reminder of his mental defences did something to restore his confidence. No good, wizard, he thought with a mental sneer. If you want what I know, you must come to me with gifts.

     "That's how he got past the mental vetting, Head Proctor," said one of the other wizards. "The creature's proof against ordinary mind reading spells."

     Something in the tone of his voice sent a chill of fear down the clay man's spine. Ordinary mind reading spells? No, the wizard was trying to frighten him, trying to undermine his confidence. The Shadowwizards who'd armoured his mind had known what they were doing. Some of them had been University wizards themselves, lured into the Bone Prince's service by the promise of immortality. This proctor was trying to bluff him. He steeled himself to remain firm, to resist any further ploys or tricks, but Gods, the power of this human's mind...

     The Head Proctor stared at the clay man for a moment longer, then reached into a pouch for a milky white gemstone carved into the shape of a teardrop that hung from a loop of fine silver chain. The chain was just long enough to fit around the top of his head, leaving the gem hanging above and between his eyes. A bluff, Yyathum Proth told himself firmly. A trick. His defences were the strongest possible, sufficient for him to worm his way into the highest levels of the Beltharan command hierarchy, where he'd been surrounded by the most powerful wizards and priests in the world. It was inconceivable that this wizard could read his mind.

     The gem began to glow with a soft inner light, and the clay man winced as a sudden lance of pain shot into his head. The pain intensified as something bored deeper and deeper into his mind and consciousness. Some kind of drill composed of pure magical energy that would penetrate his defences by sheer brute force. Yyathum Proth tensed as the agony built up to a crescendo. Tensed until he feared he would tear the muscles from his bones. A strangled sound escaped from his clenched teeth, a hiss that only failed to become a scream by the exertion of all his willpower. The drill plunged deep into the fleshy tissues of his brain; violating his mind, tearing down every obstacle in its pitiless search for information. The agony was more than he could bear! He had to stop it anyway he could. Tell them everything...

     Suddenly the pain stopped. The drill had failed, and just as it had been on the verge of breaking his will. He shuddered, a wracking laughter that he was powerless to stop. His mental defences had held! He should have had more faith! Now they would negotiate, and he would hold out for far more than he'd originally intended, to pay them back for their treatment of him.

     But the human wizard didn't look disappointed. Instead there was a thoughtful look on his disturbingly reptilian face as he talked to one of the other wizards in a voice too low for him to hear. Neither of them looked at the clay man, which it recognised as a standard interrogation technique. Don't treat the prisoner as a person. Treat him as an object. A fruit that will yield juice when crushed to a pulp. So they hadn't given up on him, but what more could they do? Their drill had failed, all it could do was cause him pain, and he steeled himself to endure anything they might do to him. Eventually they would have to negotiate. They would have to!

     The Head Proctor turned to face him again, and the gem began to glow once more. The pain returned, but this time it was different. It had a different feel to it, and it was concentrated in a different part of his head. Terror swept over him in a tidal wave, with panic and despair. They were trying different combinations! How many combinations were there? The pain grew and grew until it seemed that his head would explode from it, and this time there was nothing the clay man could do to keep himself from screaming...

☆☆☆

     Consciousness returned slowly and with difficulty, as if his mental pathways had been damaged by the merciless violation. He became aware of voices nearby, voices with tones of satisfaction, glad of a job well done. He had difficulty remembering who he was and what he was doing there until one eye creaked open, seemingly of its own accord, and he saw the three proctors gathered in a little group in front of him. Memory came back all at once and he wept in despair. They must have penetrated his defences, raped him of everything he knew. Now he had nothing, no bargaining chip. They could do whatever they liked with him.

     "Mengull will be delighted," the Head Proctor was saying. "This is one of the new breed. They say one of them was able to fool even the great Resalintas himself. We should learn a lot from the dissection." He slipped the jewel from its head, dropped it back into its pouch and the three of them moved towards the door. That creaky door that, once closed, might not open again for another ten years.

     "Wait, please wait," Yyathum croaked through a throat that bled from screaming. Terror was too small a word for what it felt. It was ready to do anything to escape its fate. Anything at all. "You still need me. I can help you. You won't get the soldier back without me."

     Seskip paused, but only to sneer at the broken captive. "You would betray us at the first opportunity. No, better to do without you. You may be able to imitate a human, but a human wizard can imitate a clay man. We don't need you."

     "You could put a spell on me, to control me! Please, I can help you!" The creature broke down completely, its whole body shuddering and wracked with choking sobs. Its naked soul was visible in its eyes as it begged and pleaded. "Please! Oh pleeeease!"

     "I suppose it would make the job slightly easier," One of the other proctors mused thoughtfully. "And there is some small element of danger involved. Better that he take the risk than one of us."

     "Yes! Yes! I can!" cried Yyathum in desperate hope. "You can take whatever precautions you like! I'll do anything! Anything!"

     Seskip looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "Very well, but one word, one single word that I don't like and you're for Mengull's slab.

We'll come for you presently."
     Then they left, leaving the clay man weeping piteously behind them and crying out desperate promises of fealty and obedience.

☆☆☆

     The door squealed again as the three proctors closed the door of the cell and set off along the corridor.

1
     "We should put some oil on those hinges," said Ewen Petrie, the youngest of the three when they were far enough down the corridor to be out of earshot.

     "It's supposed to sound like that," replied Seskip Tonn with an uncharacteristic smile. "A little trick dreamed up by Fisher Holl, one of my predecessors. He was an expert in psychological warfare, had studied the art for years before accepting the Headship, and these cells are full of his little tricks and gimmicks, most of which had been long forgotten. Most people these days just assume that they're part of the dungeon's general ambience. People come down here and have no idea why they're suddenly feeling anxious and insecure, until I did a little research. Anxiety and insecurity are not emotions I'm accustomed to feeling and I knew there had to be a reason for it.

     "Wretched creature," said the second of his companions. "And the smell! How can they possibly imitate a human, smelling like that?"

     "They can change their smell as easily as their appearance," the Head Proctor answered distractedly. "They can fool all five of the natural senses, and those bearing mind protection spells can even pass a telepathic interrogation. They would be fearsome and dangerous creatures indeed if they weren't so self obsessed, so concerned with their own survival. Witness that one back there, willing to sell out its own employers to save itself."

     "I've heard that a clay man will never betray another clay man," said Ewen Petrie, Seskip's first companion. "Is that true?"

     "Probably just a myth," Seskip replied. "I've never known one of those creatures to show any trace of nobility."

     "Not as intelligent as rumour makes them, either," added Borgh Ulbah, the third proctor. "It turned out to be remarkably easy to fool it."

     "It has left us in a dangerous position, though," agreed Seskip. "If it should learn of our ignorance, we would lose our hold on it. We must make it lead us to the saboteurs while maintaining the illusion that we already know as much about them as it does."

     He paused for a moment at the foot of the flight of steps leading two hundred feet back up to the surface. "You won't get the soldier back without me. That's what it said. It must have been referring to the soldier it was imitating. He's still alive, then. I wonder why? What does the creature gain by sparing his life?"

     He spoke a word and began to float slowly and majestically up the stairwell, leaving his two companions to puff their way up the steps behind him. Reaching the top, he paused to allow them to catch up with him. "Borgh, you're going past the Yolanda-Whitemay building, aren't you?"

     "Yes, master."

     Seskip took the milky white gemstone from his pouch and handed it across. "Give this back to Tassley Kimber and thank her for lending it to me. She bought it from a village peddler for two silver crowns, to wear to her sister's wedding."