‘Choose between a bribe and a threat? I would not. I consider the former and the latter worth only of being spat on.’

‘Just one tiny piece of information,’ Boreas Mun said, clearing his throat. ‘Is that so much? We’ve known each other long, Mr Esterhazy, and Coroner Skellen’s name is known to you—’

‘It is,’ the swordsmith cut in, ‘it is indeed. The misdemeanours and exploits with which that name is associated are also known to us. But we are in Ebbing, an autonomous and self-governing kingdom. Only seemingly, perhaps, but nonetheless. Thus we shall tell you nothing. Continue on your way. As a consolation, we’ll pledge to you that if in a week or a month someone asks about you, they will hear just as little.’

‘But, Mr Esterhazy—’

‘Must I make it clearer? Prithee, get out of here!’

Chloe Stitz hissed furiously, Fripp and Vargas’ hands crept towards their hilts, and Andres Vierny laid his fist on the war hammer hanging at his thigh. Neratin Ceka did not move and his face did not even quiver. Kenna saw that his eye never left the bone whistle. Before they entered, Boreas Mun had warned them that the sound of the whistle was the signal for bodyguards–consummate men-at-arms–called ‘quality controllers’, who were waiting, concealed, in the swordsmith’s workshop.

But, having foreseen everything, Neratin and Boreas had planned their next move. They had a trump up their sleeves.

Kenna Selborne. Psionic.

Kenna had already probed the swordsmith’s mind, had gently pricked him with impulses and cautiously pervaded the tangle of his thoughts. Now she was ready. Pressing a kerchief to her nose–there always existed the danger of a nosebleed–she forced her way into his brain with a throbbing and a command. Esterhazy began to choke, flushed, and grasped the table he was sitting behind with both hands, as though he feared it would float away to distant lands along with the sheaf of invoices, the inkwell and the paperweight depicting a nereid cavorting with two tritons at once.

Keep calm, Kenna commanded, it’s nothing, nothing’s the matter. You would simply like to tell us what we wish to know. For you know what interests us, and the words are positively bursting forth from you. So go on. Begin. You will see that you only need speak and the humming in your head, the roaring in your temples and the stabbing in your ears will cease. And the spasm in your jaw will also subside.

‘Bonhart,’ Esterhazy said hoarsely, opening his mouth more often than would be expected from the syllabic articulation, ‘was here four days ago, on the twelfth of September. He had a wench with him he called Falka. I was expecting his visit, for two days earlier a letter from him had been delivered…’

A trickle of blood seeped from his left nostril.

Speak, Kenna ordered. Speak. Tell us everything. You can see what a relief it will be.