The old man had watched the conversation, head turning between the two of them in an oddly birdlike motion. Wren hadn’t thought he understood—the two Penitent Damned had been speaking in Murnskai, which few understood this far south—but to his surprise the prisoner spoke in the same language, heavily accented but understandable.

“You may as well kill me and get it over with,” he said stiffly. “I’ll tell you nothing, you know.”

The Liar raised an eyebrow. “Do you deny you work for General Vhalnich?”

“I have had the privilege of serving him for many years.” The old man raised his chin. “Whatever it is you think you can do to me, I guarantee it won’t be enough.”

“Under ordinary circumstances, I don’t doubt it,” the Liar said. “After all, you’re not in the best of health. There’s a limit to how long we could usefully torture you. However.” He spread his hands, nails gleaming in the light of the small campfire. “Twist, hold him still.”

Twist grunted and put one hand on each of the old man’s shoulders. The prisoner struggled uselessly against the huge man’s colossal strength, and then froze as the Liar came close. The pointed tips of his thumbnails came to rest on the old man’s forehead, and he cupped his wrinkled face in his fingers, tenderly as a lover.

“Now,” the Liar said, repeating the assurance that had earned him his name, “this won’t hurt a bit.”

His fingers began to glow, blue and white, outlining the bones of his joints and knuckles. The light ran down to his fingertips, then out along his nails, caging the old man’s head in a radiant web. Then, slowly but inexorably, the nails sank smoothly into the prisoner’s face, cutting through flesh, skin, and bone without pausing. Blood welled around them, dribbling down the old man’s cheeks like tears. The prisoner opened his mouth and tried to scream, but his voice never emerged; instead a faintly glowing blue mist gushed out of his throat and swirled around his head in a thick cloud.

“What is your name?” the Liar said.

“Augustin,” the man said, slowly and precisely. “Jean Rigas Augustin.”

“Good. And do you know who we are?”

“Agents of the Elysian Church. Penitent Damned.”

“Very good.” The Liar glanced at Wren, then back to his prisoner. Augustin’s eyes were locked forward, wide-open. “Now. Were you with General Janus bet Vhalnich in Khandar?”

“I was.”

“And were you privy to his private conversations?”

“Yes. My lord trusts me implicitly.”

“Well, then,” the Liar said, “tell us what happened there. In particular, tell me everything you know about the Thousand Names.”

Wren leaned forward as the old man began to speak, and listened with all the power of his demon.

*   *   *

“That was more informative than I expected,” said the Liar, wiping blood from his nails with a damp cloth.