Hardly subtle, but then the time for subtlety is behind us. The Arch Lector's confession, or someone close to him… Sult would have been better, but if we cannot have the brains, I suppose we must make do with the arsehole. 'Where is that girl with my instruments?' Ardee crept cautiously into the room, came slowly across to the table and put the case down.

Glokta snapped his fingers, pointed. The fat mercenary ambled up and took a firm grip on Goyle's free arm, dragged it sharply out across the table. 'I expect you think you know an awful lot about torture, eh, Goyle? Believe me, though, you don't really understand a thing until you've spent some time on both sides of the table.'

'You mad bastard!' The Superior squirmed, smearing blood across the Union with his face. 'You've crossed the line!'

'Line?' Glokta spluttered with laughter. 'I spent the night cutting the fingers from one of my friends and killing another, and you dare to talk to me about lines?' He pushed open the lid of the case and his instruments offered themselves up. 'The only line that matters is the one that separates the strong from the weak. The man who asks the questions from the man who answers them. There are no other lines.'

He leaned forward and ground the tip of his finger into the side of Goyle's skull. 'That's all in your head! The manacles, if you please.'

'Eh?' Cosca looked to the fat mercenary, and the man shrugged, the blurred tattoos on his thick neck squirming.

'Pffft,' said the dwarf. Boil-face was silent. The one-handed mercenary had pulled down his mask and was busy picking his nose with his hook.

Glokta arched his back and gave a heavy sigh. There really is no replacement for experienced help. 'Then I suppose we must improvise.' He scooped up a dozen long nails and scattered them jingling across the table-top. He slid out the hammer, its polished head shining. 'I think you can see where we're going with this.'

'No. No! We can work something out, we can—' Glokta pressed the point of one nail into Goyle's wrist. 'Ah! Wait! Wait—'

'Would you be good enough to hold this? I have only one hand to spare.'

Cosca took the nail gingerly between finger and thumb. 'Mind where you aim with the hammer, though, eh?'

'Don't worry. I am quite precise.' An awful lot of practice.

'Wait!' screeched Goyle.

The hammer made three metallic clicks, almost disappointingly quiet, as it drove the nail cleanly between the bones of Goyle's forearm and into the table beneath. He roared with pain, spraying bloody spit over the table.