Walking over the farm's soft earth, every step came with an unpleasant stickiness, a somewhat gooey feeling.
When he lifted his feet, he could hear a faint, wet squelch.
Corleone could not tell whether what clung to his boots was wet mud or blood that had long since cooled, congealed, and seeped into the soil.
The fruit trees all around were hung with tenant farmers who had once toiled alongside him in Ser Finn's orchard.
The shadows hanging from the branches swayed slightly in the night breeze, like ripe fruit growing on the trees.
Corleone did not dare look around. He simply stared straight ahead, acting like a complete stranger, as though the tragic fate of these fellow men stirred nothing within him.
His position among the Brave Companions had not substantially changed because he had treated Vargo. He was still a prisoner who could be executed at any moment, merely one who had some temporary use.
Yet that small measure of standing was not enough to give Corleone freedom of movement.
Perhaps, once Vargo Hoat woke from his drunken slumber in the wooden cabin, Corleone would be hanged from an apple tree for no reason at all.
Freedom?
There was no such thing.
"Escorted" to the edge of the woods by a bandit, the two of them stopped.
"Go on in, doctor."
The noseless Rorge gestured with his chin.
He was somewhat hunched, heavily built, and covered in black hair, looking more ferocious than anyone else in the Brave Companions.
But appearances were deceiving, it had to be said. This fellow happened to be the most polite of the bandits.
Corleone had rehearsed his words countless times in his mind for this meeting.
Unexpectedly, however, when he made his request to Rorge, who was guarding him, the man agreed without asking a single question, saving him a good deal of talking.
"Thank you very much for bringing me here, sir."
Corleone bowed sincerely, his voice steady.
"You're welcome."
Rorge grinned, placing a large, hairy hand on Corleone's shoulder. "I never turn down a doctor's request. After all, no one can guarantee he'll never get hurt, can he?"
"Go on. Urswyck's in there, but I'd suggest waiting until he's finished before speaking. That fellow never likes being disturbed when he's having his fun."
As he spoke, his smile grew even brighter, and a trace of goodwill actually showed on his vicious face.
"I will remember your kindness, Rorge."
At those words, the corners of Corleone's mouth lifted, and he returned the smile with a slight nod.
Without further talk, he took a deep breath and walked alone into the dim woods, keeping his footsteps as light as possible.
After he passed a few apple trees, a small, relatively open clearing suddenly appeared ahead. At its center, a mass of pale fat was tied to a thick tree trunk.
He was roughly ten to thirteen years old, but his enormous body made him look like a malformed adult.
Corleone recognized him at once as Derek, Ser Finn's only son.
The landlord's idiot son, Corleone assessed inwardly.
A short distance in front of him, Urswyck was wholly absorbed in his "game." Young Master Derek, fatter than a pig, had been stripped to the waist and tied to the tree like a fat hog awaiting slaughter.
Rather than a blade, Urswyck used a sharpened stick to leisurely jab at the boy's greasy flesh, drawing blood mixed with fat.
Listening to the stifled screams and pleas for mercy, a trace of sick satisfaction actually appeared on his face.
"As a doctor, my lord Urswyck, please allow me to offer a professional suggestion."
Rather than follow Rorge's instructions, Corleone boldly stepped forward and spoke. "Your method is too inefficient, and it can easily send him into shock from blood loss or pain, making him lose consciousness too soon. That would be no fun!"
Still holding up his stick, Urswyck froze before he even had time to become angry.
He had tortured many people, but this was the first time anyone had offered professional advice on his methods in such a tone.
"...What did you say?"
Almost believing he had misheard, he frowned and turned to look at Corleone.
Corleone shrugged, then pointed to the haphazard wounds on Derek's body and spoke calmly. "Although shallow cuts hurt, heavy bleeding dilutes the pain and can easily cause shock."
"Damaging areas densely packed with nerve endings, such as the fingertips or armpits, does cause intense pain, but it doesn't last."
As he spoke, he gradually drew closer, seemingly without intention. "If you want more lasting, more profound feedback..."
"I suggest avoiding the major blood vessels and organs and trying to pierce muscle groups in non-weight-bearing areas, such as the front of the thigh or the upper arm. Keep the depth between half a finger and a full finger, avoiding the femoral and brachial arteries."
"That will cause persistent burning pain and impaired function without killing him immediately."
His description was so clear and calm that even an old hand like Urswyck felt an inexplicable chill.
But what followed was tremendous excitement and curiosity at having discovered a "kindred spirit," or even an "expert."
Now, that was professionalism!
"Fuck... Doctor, you're a fucking monster!"
He pulled back his stick and stared fixedly at Corleone, his eyes showing a mixture of surprise, appreciation, and intense interest. "I like it! Keep talking!"
"Please give me a dagger."
Walking up to Urswyck, Corleone held out his hand, his tone utterly calm and matter-of-fact.
Raising an eyebrow, Urswyck deftly took a small knife from inside his clothes and handed it over.
Taking it, Corleone walked up to the fat boy tied to the tree. Looking into his despairing, hateful eyes, he spoke softly.
"I don't hate you, young Master Derek."
"Although you always liked joining the steward in whipping us, pressing your more than three hundred pounds onto the tenant farmers and riding us like horses."
"Do you remember? You crushed two people to death and crippled three others that way."
Seeing Derek's eyes begin to fill with bewilderment and fear, Corleone shook his head, seemingly with some regret.
It seemed he did not remember.
But that was normal enough. After all, the boy looked less intelligent than an ordinary person. Corleone surmised that it was probably due to inbreeding.
It was said that Ser Finn had married his own first cousin.
"I don't hate you."
Corleone repeated, "Nothing I'm about to do has anything to do with revenge, either. This is merely a necessary business transaction."
"Of course, no transaction can benefit everyone. Someone has to make a few sacrifices."
"You, for instance."
Squelch-
The dagger plunged swiftly into the thigh, twisted, and came out, avoiding all the major blood vessels.
Derek let out a piercing scream, his body convulsing violently, yet he remained exceptionally lucid as he endured the persistent, sharp agony.
"Look."
"This way, he can suffer for a long time, but he won't die immediately."
Turning around, Corleone handed the bloodstained knife back to the dumbstruck Urswyck, his tone somewhat instructive, as though giving a medical demonstration.
"This is what I meant earlier by control and efficiency."
By now, Urswyck was stunned.
The bloodstained dagger was right before his eyes, already out of the victim's body, yet the fat boy was still convulsing and wailing violently. That continuing pain could not possibly be faked.
Professional!
So professional!
"Teach me!"
Urswyck licked his lips, his eyes filled with a thirst for knowledge and the excitement of inflicting violence. "Doctor, I want to learn this!"
The corners of Corleone's mouth rose slightly.
The first step, establishing a sense of kinship, had succeeded.
"You may call me Vito Corleone, my lord Urswyck."
"Rest assured, I'll teach you everything."
Smiling, he placed the bloodstained dagger in the other man's hand, but then changed tack, his calm smile brimming with a peculiar persuasiveness:
"But torturing an insignificant fat boy is merely a minor pursuit."
"Wouldn't you like to apply this 'precision' and 'control' to a grander goal?"
"Such as... deciding who deserves to hold the title of Earl of Harrenhal forever?"
Before you continue