There was very little torture in the Nie Sect dungeons, and no neglect. Prisoners were given a blanket and a bit of straw to lay on, two bland meals a day, and--once a week--a bucket and a grimy cake of soap. The dungeons were dry and mostly free of pests, and though the temperature was not comfortable, it was insulated enough by the rock walls so that it was merely chilly year round.
Three weeks ago, Wang Lingjiao had been left in Nie Sect custody. Two weeks ago, the sun had been shot down. Since then, the remainders of the sect had been gathered up and the sect leaders had been busying themselves with courtesy and politics, while Nie Huaisang went on quietly maintaining the bureaucratic affairs of Qinghe in his brother's absence.
No one had come to ask for Wang Lingjiao. Nie Huaisang suspected that she'd been completely forgotten. The other members of the Wen Sect had been killed or conscripted into labor, from what Huaisang understood of the situation, and it would be reasonable enough for him to turn her over, but... to what authority, really? Jin Guangshan kept making power plays, but there was no real reason why the Jin Sect alone should be the arbiters of justice. Wang Lingjiao was in the custody of a major sect and could reasonably be subject to their justice. She'd wronged the Jiang Sect most, and it was possible that Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian would find some solace in her harsh execution, but they were busy with grief and reconstruction. Huaisang saw little benefit in reopening that particular wound. And yet, if the Nie Sect kept her and did not kill her, Huaisang had no idea at all what he would do with her.
He had no plan, and yet he loathed the principle of leaving people to languish indefinitely in a dungeon. If no purpose could be found for her, then he'd bring her existence back to the attention of his brother, and she could be executed or maimed and exiled as he saw fit.
It was early for Wang Lingjiao's weekly bucket and soap, and those were usually brought at mealtime. Today, however, the hatch in her door was opened and a Nie Sect retainer pushed through a bucket, soap, and ... then a clean bundle of clothing. There was not a word of explanation provided, no matter how she might ask. Discipline was unyielding in the Nie Sect. Wang Lingjiao would have found no guards at all able to be swayed by pleas, promises, threats, melodramatics, or even performances of weakness or injury.
The clothing was plain, gray, drab clothing, the apparel of the lowest of Nie Sect servants. Once an hour after the initial delivery, the hatch would open again. Whenever she was found to be wearing the new clothing--whether at once or after a matter of hours--the door would open, and she would be escorted up into the sunlit halls of Qinghe. There was still no explanation, no fanfare, only the escort of unyielding guards. If she chose to fight and quarrel, she would be dragged back to her cell, and the whole procedure would begin again after another week of silence.
Only once Wang Lingjiao would walk in relative cooperation between her guards would she be brought to a quiet reception hall. There was no pageantry on the halls, no court or ministers in attendance. It was an empty room whose entire purpose was to be purposeless. Matters conducted here had none of the authority of the great hall, the Sect Leader's study, the bureaucratic offices. It was an anonymous parlor, just a little dusty. At the far end, easy to overlook, was a young man curled up in a chair, looking all the younger for the way that he lounged with one leg up over the arm of the chair and the other tucked beneath him. He had a book open in his lap, and looked for all the world like an underclerk sneaking away from duties or studies in order to hide in a room where he would be unlikely to be noticed. The only thing to tell the lie of this was the way that the guards stopped at the entrance to the room, leaving her to choose her own course of approach to the young man with his book. He didn't even seem to have noticed that anyone had entered.
Usefulness; for dis_arming
Three weeks ago, Wang Lingjiao had been left in Nie Sect custody. Two weeks ago, the sun had been shot down. Since then, the remainders of the sect had been gathered up and the sect leaders had been busying themselves with courtesy and politics, while Nie Huaisang went on quietly maintaining the bureaucratic affairs of Qinghe in his brother's absence.
No one had come to ask for Wang Lingjiao. Nie Huaisang suspected that she'd been completely forgotten. The other members of the Wen Sect had been killed or conscripted into labor, from what Huaisang understood of the situation, and it would be reasonable enough for him to turn her over, but... to what authority, really? Jin Guangshan kept making power plays, but there was no real reason why the Jin Sect alone should be the arbiters of justice. Wang Lingjiao was in the custody of a major sect and could reasonably be subject to their justice. She'd wronged the Jiang Sect most, and it was possible that Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian would find some solace in her harsh execution, but they were busy with grief and reconstruction. Huaisang saw little benefit in reopening that particular wound. And yet, if the Nie Sect kept her and did not kill her, Huaisang had no idea at all what he would do with her.
He had no plan, and yet he loathed the principle of leaving people to languish indefinitely in a dungeon. If no purpose could be found for her, then he'd bring her existence back to the attention of his brother, and she could be executed or maimed and exiled as he saw fit.
It was early for Wang Lingjiao's weekly bucket and soap, and those were usually brought at mealtime. Today, however, the hatch in her door was opened and a Nie Sect retainer pushed through a bucket, soap, and ... then a clean bundle of clothing. There was not a word of explanation provided, no matter how she might ask. Discipline was unyielding in the Nie Sect. Wang Lingjiao would have found no guards at all able to be swayed by pleas, promises, threats, melodramatics, or even performances of weakness or injury.
The clothing was plain, gray, drab clothing, the apparel of the lowest of Nie Sect servants. Once an hour after the initial delivery, the hatch would open again. Whenever she was found to be wearing the new clothing--whether at once or after a matter of hours--the door would open, and she would be escorted up into the sunlit halls of Qinghe. There was still no explanation, no fanfare, only the escort of unyielding guards. If she chose to fight and quarrel, she would be dragged back to her cell, and the whole procedure would begin again after another week of silence.
Only once Wang Lingjiao would walk in relative cooperation between her guards would she be brought to a quiet reception hall. There was no pageantry on the halls, no court or ministers in attendance. It was an empty room whose entire purpose was to be purposeless. Matters conducted here had none of the authority of the great hall, the Sect Leader's study, the bureaucratic offices. It was an anonymous parlor, just a little dusty. At the far end, easy to overlook, was a young man curled up in a chair, looking all the younger for the way that he lounged with one leg up over the arm of the chair and the other tucked beneath him. He had a book open in his lap, and looked for all the world like an underclerk sneaking away from duties or studies in order to hide in a room where he would be unlikely to be noticed. The only thing to tell the lie of this was the way that the guards stopped at the entrance to the room, leaving her to choose her own course of approach to the young man with his book. He didn't even seem to have noticed that anyone had entered.