Before him, Dukes Peros and Borym blanched. They were soft, fat demons, conniving and ambitious, yet lacking the ruthlessness and drive that might have made them great. Peros looked like a vaguely ducal candle that had been placed too close to heat: his face appeared to have melted, so that his skin hung in hard folds over his skull, and any features that might once have resembled ears, a nose, cheekbones, and suchlike, had all been lost, leaving only a pair of green eyes sunk deep in the putty of his flesh. Borym’s face, meanwhile, was almost entirely lost beneath a massive brown beard, bushy eyebrows, and hair so unruly that it fought back against any attempt to cut it, as a number of Hell’s barbers had learned to their cost. Somewhere in Borym’s mass of curls were four pairs of scissors, any number of combs, and a couple of very small imps who had been sent in to retrieve these items and become hopelessly lost.

The dukes’ armor was even more ornate than Abigor’s, but far less practical, for Peros and Borym were of the school of military command that believed ordinary soldiers, not dukes, should fight battles. Dukes claimed the victory, and divided the spoils; soldiers could relish the glory of war, and later raise a drink to their exploits on the field, assuming their hands were still sufficiently attached to their arms to enable them to raise anything more than a stump. So, whereas Abigor’s armor, although beautiful, bore the marks of conflicts endured, the suits of Peros and Borym were decorated with feathers, ribbons, unearned medals, and carvings that depicted much slimmer versions of Peros and Borym vanquishing assorted enemies in unlikely ways, and therefore were barely on nodding terms with reality.

“My lord,” said Borym, who was smart enough to see trouble brewing, but not smart enough to avoid sipping from the resulting cup, “we were only following your orders. It was you who advised us to cross the Lake of Dry Tears in an effort to take Mrs. Abernathy by surprise.”

Abigor brushed his hands together, removing the last vestiges of the bone from his gloves. On the stones below, the dust and fragments began to move, flowing across the floor and gradually reassuming the shape of a skull.

“Ow,” said the skull.

“Are you suggesting that it was my fault?” asked Abigor softly.

“No, not at—” the skull began to say, before Abigor’s metal boot stamped upon it, shattering it to pieces again.

“Of course not, my lord,” said Borym. “I meant no such impertinence.”

“So whose fault was it, then?”

“Mine, my lord,” said Borym, in a vain attempt to rescue an already doomed situation.

“And mine,” said Peros, who was too stupid to keep his mouth shut.

“It is noble of you both to accept responsibility for your failure,” said Abigor.