To Wren’s ears, the sound of horseshoes on the packed dirt of the road was audible long before the horses came into view. He could even pick out his companions’ animals, having ridden so long beside them, and so he was not surprised when Twist’s big gelding hove into view, followed the Liar’s more modest mount. What did surprise him was the third man, sitting beside Twist, his hands tied in front of him. Shade could hear his heart beating in a panic and the breath that rasped in his throat.

“You were supposed to be back by sundown,” Wren said as the two Penitent Damned brought their mounts to a halt. The Liar slipped carefully from the saddle, favoring one leg in a long-suffering fashion Wren suspected was affected.

“We were delayed,” the Liar said, stretching his back, “by an unexpected opportunity.”

“Him?” Wren said, indicating the stranger as Twist lifted him, one-handed, to the ground.

“Yes,” the Liar said. “We should get off the road.”

Wren dumped the rest of the water and carried the barrel, and Twist led his horse with one hand while carrying the stranger over his shoulder. The Liar brought up the rear, leading his own mount and muttering about his aches. Wren let his demon flow into his eyes, until the growing darkness was as bright as noon and he could see every snag and deadfall. When they reached their little camp by the stream, where the rest of the horses were tethered, Twist set the stranger down on a rock.

He was an old man, much older than the Liar, with silver hair and a pained, wrinkled face. He wore neatly tailored black, as the better class of servant might, and he stared at his captors with a defiant expression.

“Who is he?” Wren said, examining the man with his enhanced vision. He could count the hairs in the man’s nose, and the signs of his fear were obvious, though he was doing a good job of concealing it from ordinary notice.

“I am assured,” the Liar said, “that he is the personal servant of no less than General Janus bet Vhalnich himself. A man who has accompanied him everywhere, including on the Khandarai campaign.”

Wren regarded the old man dubiously. “Khandar? Him?”

The Liar looked down at his inch-long fingernails. They were lacquered white, but the tip of each was stained the brown of dried blood. “So I am told. While my informants cannot lie, they may of course be mistaken.”

“Even if it’s true,” Wren said, “does he know anything useful?”

“There’s an easy way to find out,” the Liar said.