The door opened and three petty constables in the Duke’s colors entered, supporting a fourth man between them.

The blue-tinted spectacles were long gone, and every button had been pulled from his jacket. He was wigless and his brown hair had curled and matted itself into ingenious shapes. A chain linked the manacles around his ankles, and his arms were fastened behind his back. Red-rimmed, sleepless eyes winced at the dim light of the little room as if it were blazing sunlight. His clothes smelled of damp straw and despair.

“Pertellis, do you know who is speaking to you?” The constable asked coldly.

“Yes, I think so.” Pertellis’s face was dazed and deathly white, and he spoke stumblingly. “I’m terribly sorry but I . . . can’t remember your name. I’m not myself right now.”

“You’re not likely to be yourself much longer, or anything else for that matter,” muttered the constable with grim humor, and he walked over to stand before the manacled attorney. “We know all about the barge captain now.” The constable bristled as Pertellis gave a short, mournful breath of a laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I lose track of all the things I’m supposed to have done. Everyone tells me that I’ve been running an illegal printing press, and I’m very much afraid I haven’t. And all week people have told me that I’m the leader of a radical plot against the Twin Queens, and I’m really not, you know. And this morning someone ran in to tell me that I’ve been melting down religious statues to make bullets. Which is quite a clever idea, but I never thought of it.”

“Pity you didn’t think of a better way of getting rid of poor Partridge than throwing him in the river,” remarked the constable drily.

Pertellis’s eyebrows drew up as he peered intently at the constable’s middle button. He seemed to listen for a few more seconds, as if the constable’s words were still echoing in his ears.

“I beg your pardon,” he said at last, “but am I supposed to have killed someone?”

“That won’t wash with me,” the constable muttered through his teeth. “That pious act of yours may fool good and simple people into thinking that you’re some saint acting for the greater good, but you don’t kid me. I’m not some wide-eyed child you can fill with hellskate ideas about equality and overthrowing rulers . . . poisoning their innocent minds . . .”

“You have children,” Pertellis said suddenly, his eyes widening.

“How do you know?” The constable sounded frightened and suspicious.

“I’ve only just guessed. You worry for your children, and so of course you hate me.” Hopewood Pertellis looked up at the constable, and attempted a smile. “How old are they?”