“My lovely and esteemed companion suggests,” Newt replied, “that we plant a knife in the Skullsworn’s eye for what she did to Finn.”

The Flea studied Pyrre for a moment, face unreadable, then turned back to Newt. “And you?”

The Aphorist shrugged. “Killing is easier than unkilling.”

“Does that mean kill her, or don’t kill her?” the Wing leader asked patiently.

“It means what it means,” Newt replied. “I have no vote.”

“I will abstain from voting as well,” Pyrre said, twisting her head around to face the Flea. “Though I appreciate the democratic process, I am ready to meet my god.” Her voice was as battered as her body, the words little more than dried husks.

“You can’t kill her,” Gwenna blurted, amazed to hear herself speak.

The Flea turned to her, eyebrow raised, but Sigrid coughed up another series of broken sounds before he could respond.

“Sigrid also suggests,” Newt interpreted, “taking Gwenna’s tongue. As a cautionary measure. My companion observes that the girl can do her work without a tongue and will prove considerably less trying.”

It sounded like a joke. Gwenna hoped it was a ’Kent-kissing joke, but Sigrid’s smile held all the mirth of a bloody knife.

“I’m not taking tongues,” the Flea said flatly, as though he had to deal with the suggestion weekly. “I’m deciding what to do with the Skullsworn, then we’re getting in the air. I’ll remind everyone that there’s an Urghul army riding for Annur right now, and, unless il Tornja has better intelligence than I’d realized, it’s going to hit him like a hammer to the back of the head.”

“That’s justice,” Annick said curtly. “Il Tornja killed the Emperor. He’s a traitor.”

“Sounds like he is,” the Flea agreed, “but he’s also the kenarang. We all have jobs, and it’s his job to stop the Urghul. If Long Fist’s army gets past the frontier, it’ll be all over except for the screaming, at least in Raalte and the northern atrepies. Doesn’t matter who’s loyal and who’s not when everyone’s dead.”

“But Valyn’s gone to kill il Tornja,” Gwenna said, shaking her head.

The Flea grimaced, wiped a hand down over his forehead. “Let’s hope he fails.”

“So,” Gwenna said, shaking her head, “you believe us, but you want to let il Tornja live?”

“Until he defeats Long Fist, yes.”