Tanaros folded his arms. “Who are you?”

“Speros of Haimhault. I’d make a proper bow, Lord General, but …” The prisoner twitched his hands, dangling limp in their iron manacles. His fourth and fifth fingers ended in raw wounds. “Well, you see.”

“And you seek to offer your service?” Tanaros raised his brows. “Others in your position might complain of such treatment.”

The prisoner Speros shrugged, causing his chains to rattle. “I came unannounced. Darkhaven has cause for suspicion. Shall we say as much and begin anew?”

Vorax stifled a yawn and settled his bulk on a three-legged stool left by the prisoner’s questioners. Tanaros ignored him, eyeing the young man. “Lord Vorax says you claim to be a horse-thief.”

“I have done.” Brown eyes glinted through matted hair. “Stole a Seaholder lordling’s mount, once, when I was employed at a blacksmith’s forge. Cut purses, wooed women I’d no intent to wed. Served as second-in-command to the volunteer militia of Haimhault, for a time. I’ve done lots of things, Lord General. I’ve lots of ideas, too. I’m chock full of ideas.”

“Have you shed innocent blood?” Tanaros asked brusquely.

There was a pause, then, punctuated only by another stifled Staccian yawn.

“Aye.” The prisoner’s voice was soft. “That, too.”

Tanaros paced the narrow cell, his boot-heels splashing in the standing water. In the wavering torchlight, Vorax watched him without offering comment. As it was, as it should be. It was true, this was one of his, one of his own. He fetched up before the prisoner, peering at his bruised face. “You do know where you are? This is Darkhaven, lad. Beyond the wall, the world is our enemy. If you swear loyalty to Lord Satoris—for it is him you will serve, and not me—it will be your enemy, too. Your name will become poison, a symbol of the worst betrayal a man may commit.”

“Aye, Lord General.” Speros straightened in his chains. “I know.”

“Then why?”

An inch could have closed the space between them; even in chains, Speros could have flinched. He didn’t, clenching his manacled fists instead. Blood fell, drop by drop, from his wounded fingertips. It made a faint splashing sound as it struck the water. “You need to ask?”

Tanaros nodded. He could smell the prisoner’s suppurating wounds. “I do.”

“I’m tired of paying for my sins.” Speros smiled, taut and bitter. “I never set out to become a thief and a killer, but it’s funny the way things go. You make enough mistakes, comes a day when no one will take a chance on you. Arahila may forgive, General Blacksword, but her Children do not. I am weary to the bone of courting their forgiveness. Lord Satoris accepted your service. Why not mine?”