The Patriot Guards outside the Butchers’ Union saluted and opened the doors, and Maurisk led the stranger through the darkened space. The sun had set, and no light came in through the many narrow windows. This had once been the killing floor, before the pressures of commerce had moved sanguinary operations to less savory districts south of the river. After that, the vast open space had been sluiced down, refurnished, and rented to firms in need of temporary accommodation. With the drop-off in trade caused by the war, it had rapidly emptied out, and been taken over by the Directory for its own ends. During the day, it served as a muster hall and meeting ground for the Patriot Guard, and the cellars that had once secured sides of beef and curing hams had proven ideal for sensitive prisoners.

Another pair of guards waited at the stairs, and yet another outside the room itself. Maurisk kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Ionkovo skulking in the shadows, but the Penitent Damned made no appearance. One of the guards unlocked the door with a key from his belt, and Maurisk led the bald man into a dry, windowless space, illuminated by a single candle in a wall bracket.

In one corner, tied to a chair at his wrists and ankles, was the prisoner. He was a lean young man, with several days’ growth of beard and a wound under one ear that was crusty with dried blood. His clothing was rank and filthy.

“Shut the door,” the bald man said. He had a Murnskai accent, much thicker than Ionkovo’s.

Maurisk glanced nervously from the prisoner to the guards, then put his shoulder against the door. It swung shut with a hollow boom, locking itself with a final-sounding click.

“This is our man, then?” said Ionkovo, stepping out of the shadows.

Maurisk gritted his teeth to keep from shouting. Sorcery. He swallowed, regaining his composure, and nodded.

“What makes you think he’s one of Vhalnich’s?”

“He made regular visits to a particular set of cafés, always waiting in the same places, and every so often he’d leave what looked like a sign. Folded papers, twisted napkins, that kind of thing. A local woman tipped us off because she thought he was a spy.”

“So he’s a spy. But is he Vhalnich’s?”

“He’s Mierantai. If you can persuade him to speak, you’ll hear it in his accent. The men of Mieran County are notorious for their close-minded loyalty, so I can’t imagine him working for anyone else.”

The prisoner raised his head, regarding his captors through a ragged fringe of hair. His eyes went from Maurisk to Ionkovo as they spoke, but his face remained impassive.

“Well,” Ionkovo said, “we’ll know soon enough. My associate here is known, in our circles, as the Liar, and this is his area of expertise. If you would?”