For the hundredth time, Valyn wished he had known his own father better. Would Sanlitun have traveled alone across half the length of a continent to parley with some blood-soaked barbarian chief? He tried to dredge up his childhood memories, but could snag only fragments and shards: Sanlitun sitting the Unhewn Throne, a finger extended in judgment; Sanlitun teaching him to hold a blade, rapping Valyn on the knuckles again and again, insisting on a looser grip; Sanlitun seated cross-legged on the roof of Intarra’s Spear, gazing out over the ocean, indifferent to the wind tearing at his hair or the vast city sprawled below him, focused on something Valyn could neither see nor comprehend, something terribly distant. All of Valyn’s memories were like this: he could make out the lines of his father’s face, the burning eyes, the set of his shoulders, while the thought and emotion beneath remained opaque, unknowable.

“Your father had no desire for war with the Urghul. We are different peoples with different ways. He was content to leave it so. But there are factions within your empire who think differently.” He nodded toward Balendin. “Obviously.”

The leach shifted uncomfortably, opened his mouth to respond, but Valyn spoke into the pause.

“So, if you and my father were such great friends, if you’ve got such respect for the empire, why am I tied up? Why have your people been beating my Wing for the better part of a month?”

Long Fist tilted his head to the side.

“Huutsuu has given me to understand that it is you who surprised her, that you have killed many of my warriors during the long ride west.”

“We killed them,” Valyn spat, “because—”

The chieftain waved his objection aside with a languid hand.

“I understand. You are warriors. It is forgiven.”

He gestured, and Huutsuu stepped forward, knife in hand.

Despite the word forgiven, Valyn half expected the woman to plunge the steel into his stomach, and he shifted to put space between them, raising his hands in defense. She snorted in disgust.

“Stop moving. I am freeing you.”

Valyn stared as she sliced the rawhide cord binding his wrists, his elbows, trying to make sense of his sudden liberty. Before he could rub the blood back into his hands, the rest of his Wing was likewise free. Even Pyrre seemed subject to Long Fist’s sudden, shocking amnesty. The assassin smiled at Huutsuu as the Urghul woman cut her free, then sketched a curtsy, as though they were nobles at a ball.

“I can’t help but notice,” Balendin said, when all the cords but his had been cut, “that I’m still tied up. I hope it is an oversight.”

Long Fist turned those cat-calm eyes on the leach.

“By all means, feel hope if it gives you strength. I will remind you, however, that you have already admitted to your part in this plot to kill your Emperor.”