But more real than any of these things in that it could be divided into equal shares.

A lie carved at the joints.

Sarl explained all, his face reddening, then reddening again, his head bobbing to the more strident turns of speech, his body given to illustrative antics, standing at attention, trotting in place, pacing while the voice pondered. And all was disciplined silence throughout, something which, given the crazed composition of the Skin Eaters, Achamian would have thought a miracle had he not shared bowls with their Captain.

“You have until tomorrow morning to decide,” Sarl announced in wide-armed conclusion. “Tomorrow to decide whether to risk all to become a prince! or cradle your pulse and die a slave. Afterwards, departures will be considered desertion—desertion!—and Cleric, here, will be set to the hunt. You know the rule of the slog, boys. The knee that buckles pulls ten men down. The knee that buckles pulls ten men down!”

Watching them break ranks and fall to talking among themselves, Achamian found himself comparing them to the hard-bitten men of the First Holy War, the warriors whose zeal and cruelty had allowed Kellhus to conquer all the Three Seas. The Skin Eaters, he decided, were a far different breed than the Men of the Tusk. They were not ruthless so much as they were vicious. They were not hard so much as they were numb. And they were not driven so much as they were hungry.

They were, in the end, mercenaries … albeit ones touched by the gibbering ferocity of the Sranc.

Lord Kosoter seemed to acknowledge as much over the course of the rare glances Achamian exchanged with him. It was a bond between them, Achamian realized, their shared experiences of the First Holy War. They alone possessed the measuring stick, they alone knew the rule. And it had made them kinsmen of a sort—a thought that at once awed and troubled Achamian.

During that night’s obligatory revels, Sarl approached him. “The Captain has asked me,” he said, “to remind you these men are Scalpoi. Nothing more. Nothing less. The legend of the Skin Eaters resides in him.”

Achamian thought it strange, a man who despised speaking confiding in a man who could do nothing else. “And you? You believe this?”

The same eye-pinching grin. “I’ve been with the Captain since the beginning,” he cackled. “From before the Imperial Bounty, in the wars against the Orthodox. I’ve seen him stand untouched in a hail of arrows, while I cringed behind my shield. I was at his side on the walls of Meigeiri, when the fucking Longbeards fell over themselves trying to flee from his blood-maddened gaze. I was there, after the battle of Em’famir. With these two ears I heard the Aspect-Emperor—the Aspect-Emperor!—name him Ironsoul!” Sarl laughed with purpling mania. “Oh, yes, he’s mortal, to be sure. He’s a man like other men, as many an unfortunate peach has discovered, believe you me. But something watches him, and more important, something watches through him …”