'Why is it that no one can answer the questions I ask?' Glokta stretched out his aching back, worked his creaking neck from side to side, rubbed at the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb. Nothing helped. But then nothing ever does. Why must they always make it so very difficult, for me and for themselves? 'Practical Frost, would you show the good master our work so far?'

The albino slid a dented tin bucket out from under the table and dumped the contents without ceremony in front of the prisoner. Teeth clattered, and slid, and spun across the wood. Hundreds of them. Teeth of all shapes and sizes, from white, through all the shades of yellow, to brown. Teeth with bloody roots and with shreds of flesh attached. A couple tumbled from the far end of the table and bounced from the grimy tiles, clicked away into the corners of the narrow room.

Farrad gaped down in horror at the bloody mess of dentistry before him. And even the very Prince of Teeth can never have seen such a thing. Glokta leaned forwards. 'I daresay you've pulled a tooth or two before yourself.' The prisoner nodded dumbly. 'Then you can probably imagine how tired I am after this lot. That's why I'd really like to be done with you as quickly as possible. I don't want you here, and you certainly don't want to be here. We can help each other.'

'What must I do?' muttered Farrad, his tongue moving nervously around his own mouth.

'It is not complicated. First you sign your confession.'

'Thorry,' mumbled Frost, leaning forward and brushing a couple of teeth off the document, one of them leaving a long, pink streak across the paper.

'Then you name two others.'

'Two other what?'

'Why, two other spies for the Gurkish, of course, from among your people.'

'But… I know no spies!'

'Then some other names will have to serve. You have been named already, several times.'

The dentist swallowed, then shook his head, and pushed the paper away. A brave man, and a righteous one. But bravery and righteousness are bad virtues to have in this room. 'I will sign. But I will not name innocent men. God have mercy on me, I will not.'

'God might have mercy on you. But he doesn't hold the pliers down here. Clamp him.'

Frost gripped Farrad's head from behind with one great white hand, tendons standing from the pale skin as he forced his mouth open. Then he shoved the clamp between Farrad's jaws and spun the nut round nimbly between finger and thumb until they were held wide open.

'Ah!' gurgled the dentist. 'Ayrh!'