It was hard to say precisely why il Tornja would want to antagonize the Urghul, but history furnished a few examples. Maybe he was angling for more coin in the coffers of the Ministry of War. Maybe he was looking to expand the upper ranks of the army, to justify the promotion of a few confederates. Or maybe he wanted an open war. Valyn forced himself to consider that last option. It made a certain mad sense, especially if the kenarang aspired to the Unhewn Throne itself. A sufficiently violent conflict would terrify the people of Annur, maybe terrify them enough that they would accept a seasoned warrior on the throne and overlook the fact that il Tornja lacked Intarra’s burning eyes.

Valyn hesitated, Sami Yurl’s final words echoing in his ears. “What about Csestriim?” he asked slowly. “Yurl claimed that the Csestriim were involved.”

Balendin stared at him, incredulous. “I understand that growing up in a palace could give you an inflated sense of your own importance, but I didn’t realize it went this far.” He shook his head. “Csestriim.”

Valyn frowned. There was something . . . strange in the leach’s words. Something missing. Before he could put his finger on it, however, Long Fist was putting down his pipe. He looked first at Balendin, then at Valyn.

“What, precisely, did this person—Yurl—say?” For the first time he looked truly invested, leaning forward slightly, hand on his knee.

Valyn shook his head. “He said the Csestriim were involved somehow. That they were behind it.”

“And there were those creatures, too,” Talal added. “The ak’hanath.”

Balendin shook his head. His face had gone ashen, but he kept his feet. Whatever else was true about him, the leach had spent half his life with the Kettral, and the Kettral trained you to deal with pain. “Yurl was an idiot. He fought well, but he was an idiot. We knew about the ak’hanath. Adiv told us they had something to do with the Csestriim originally, not that the Csestriim were still alive, still involved.”

He was lying. Valyn knew all at once, without understanding how he knew. Something about the smell of him, an oily scent that was not a scent at all, a sweet intangible reek of the raw nerves that accompanied deceit.

“Another finger?” Huutsuu asked, looking to the chieftain.

Long Fist nodded.

“No,” Balendin protested. “You fucking fools . . .”

But the Urghul woman was already on him, peeling back the small finger on the other hand, then driving the knife into the joint, twisting and sawing, blood spattering her face as the leach thrashed. When it was all finished, Balendin slumped against the warriors who restrained him.

Long Fist looked at him for a long time. “The Csestriim?” he asked again.

“There were no Csestriim,” Balendin spat. “Unless you think il Tornja is Csestriim.”