He grabbed the tip of Harker's nipple and dragged it roughly towards him. 'Ah!' squawked the one-time Inquisitor, the chair creaking as he tried desperately to twist away. 'No!'

'You think that hurts? Then I doubt you'll enjoy what's coming.' And Glokta slid the open jaws of the pincers around the stretched out flesh and squeezed them tight.

'Ah! Ah! Please! Superior, I beg you!'

'Your begging is worthless to me. What I need from you is answers. What became of Davoust?'

'I swear on my life that I don't know!'

'Not good enough.' Glokta began to squeeze harder, the metal edges starting to bite into the skin.

Harker gave a despairing shriek. 'Wait! I took money! I admit it! I took money!'

'Money?' Glokta let the pressure release a fraction and a drop of blood dripped from the pincers and spattered on Harker's hairy white leg. 'What money?'

'Money Davoust took from the natives! After the rebellion! He had me round up any that I thought might be rich, and he had them hanged along with the rest, and we requisitioned everything they had and split it between us! He kept his share in a chest in his quarters, and when he disappeared… I took it!'

'Where is this money now?'

'Gone! I spent it! On women… and on wine, and, and, on anything!'

Glokta clicked his tongue. 'Tut, tut.' Greed and conspiracy, injustice and betrayal, robbery and murder. All the ingredients of a tale to titillate the masses. Saucy, but hardly relevant. He worked his hand around the pincers. 'It is the Superior himself, not his money, that interests me. Believe me when I say that I grow tired of asking the question. What became of Davoust?'

'I… I… I don't know!'

True, perhaps. But hardly the answer I need. 'Not good enough.' Glokta squeezed his hand and the metal jaws bit cleanly through flesh and met in the middle with a gentle click. Harker bellowed, and thrashed, and roared in agony, blood bubbling from the red square of flesh where his nipple used to be and running down his pale belly in dark streaks. Glokta winced at a twinge in his neck and stretched his head out until he heard it click. Strange how, with time, even the most terrible suffering of others can become… tedious.

'Practical Frost, the Inquisitor is bleeding! If you please!'

'I'th thorry.' The iron scraped as Frost dragged it from the brazier, glowing orange. Glokta could feel the heat of it even from where he was sitting. Ah, hot iron. It keeps no secrets, it tells no lies.