"Commander!" Brenn shouted when he saw Eirik. "Commander, I didn't—"

  A guard struck him across the mouth.

  Eirik realized the bait as rage burned in his chest.

  He could not let it show anything beyond what a commander ought to show when one of his men was being manhandled. Indignation, yes. But not rage.

  "What is this?" Eirik strode toward the group. "Release my man."

  The lead guard was a sergeant with a scar that ran through his upper lip.

  "Stand aside, Lord Stormcrow. This man is under arrest by order of Ser Konrad."

  "On what charge?"

  "Sabotage. He was observed near the point of origin of the first fire. Oil was found on his hands."

  Eirik's thoughts moved quickly. The question was how much they actually knew, and how much they were guessing.

  "This is absurd," Eirik said. "Brenn was assisting with the bucket brigade. Of course he has oil on his hands."

  "That's not what the witnesses say," the sergeant replied.

  "What witnesses?"

  The sergeant did not answer. "Bring him."

  They dragged Brenn toward the center of camp, where Velthan still stood beside the scorched remains of the trash heap.

  Eirik followed. Behind him, he could hear the footsteps of his Talons falling into formation.

  They reached the clearing.

  The Duke's son stood beside Velthan with his arms crossed over his chest. His white cloak was immaculate. Not a single sign that the man had spent the last twenty minutes fighting a fire.

  "Archmage," the scarred sergeant announced. "We've apprehended the saboteur."

  Velthan turned. His gaze moved from Brenn to Eirik to Brenn again.

  "Explain," Velthan said.

  The sergeant shoved Brenn to his knees.

  "Multiple witnesses," the sergeant began, "report seeing this man near the garbage heap moments before the first fire ignited. When we searched him, we found traces of rendered fat and lamp oil on his hands."

  Eirik looked at those stains and thought about what they actually proved.

  "Furthermore," the sergeant continued, "the fire near the supply crates originated from a point directly adjacent to where this man was stationed during the initial fire response."

  That was worse. The second fire was the one Brenn had actually helped to prepare.

  "That's a lie!" Brenn snarled through his bloody lips. "I was carrying water buckets! I never went near the crates!"

  The sergeant backhanded him.

  "Silence."

  Eirik forced himself to think clearly.

  Brenn was not a trained liar. The man was a soldier—a good one, brave and dependable—but he had none of Kael's facility for deception. Under pressure, his denials would grow louder and less convincing, and eventually he would say something that contradicted something else, and the contradiction would be seized upon as proof of guilt.

  The best thing Brenn could do right now was stop talking.

  The worst thing Eirik could do was tell him to stop talking.

  "Archmage Velthan," Eirik said. "This man is under my command. I request the right to speak on his behalf."

  Velthan raised an eyebrow. "You demand?"

  "I request. Brenn has served faithfully since the founding of my garrison. He would never actively sabotage the expedition."

  "Evidence suggests otherwise," Caelum interrupted.

  The Duke's son stood with arms crossed, showing the mild interest of a man watching a moderately entertaining street performance.

  The Duke's son was arrogant and cruel and had the emotional depth of a frozen puddle, but he was not stupid. He had been raised at court, surrounded by men and women whose entire existence revolved around reading the intentions of others. If Caelum was pressing this accusation publicly, in front of the entire camp, it was because he expected to gain something from it.

  The question was what.

  Eirik looked at the crowd. Perhaps sixty soldiers had gathered, standing in a loose semicircle around the clearing.

  "Your man was seen," Caelum said. "The grease on his hands is proof enough."

  "Grease proves nothing," Eirik replied. "Half the camp has grease on their hands from handling the horse tack."

  "Then perhaps half the camp is complicit."

  Eirik understood the trap now.

  If he defended Brenn too strenuously, then the watching soldiers would wonder why. An innocent commander would be angry, yes, but he would also be confident. He would trust the truth to emerge.

  But if he stepped back and let Brenn face this alone, then his own men would see it. The Talons who stood behind him, watching, would know that their commander had abandoned one of their own when the pressure came. And after that, nothing he said about loyalty or brotherhood would carry any weight at all.

  Caelum had constructed a situation in which there was no good response.

  "My lord," Eirik said. "A fire in a camp this size, in hostile territory, is no small matter. But Brenn is a veteran soldier with no motive for sabotage. I ask that we conduct this properly—a formal inquiry with witnesses questioned under oath."

  "There is no time for formal inquiries." Caelum stepped closer. "We are deep in enemy territory, Lord Stormcrow. The Skarl patrols will have seen the smoke. By dawn, we may have raiders on our position. We cannot afford to carry traitors."

  "He is not a traitor."

  "Then prove it."

  The two words fell into the space between them.

  Eirik stared at Caelum's face and tried to read what was behind it. The Duke's son was smiling, enjoying himself, perhaps.

  "You vouch for this man." Caelum turned to address the assembled soldiers. "Very well. I will give you the opportunity to prove his innocence."

  He raised a hand.

  "Bring the tools."

  A soldier hurried forward. He carried a leather roll that field surgeons used to transport their instruments.

  Eirik looked at the contents. "What is this?"

  "A test of truth," Caelum said.

  He crouched beside the leather roll and selected a curved blade, no longer than his index finger. He held it up and turned it slowly, letting the firelight run along its length.

  "If your man is innocent, then the fat on his hands came from legitimate sources. The bucket brigade, as you claim."

  He stood and moved toward Brenn.

  "But if he deliberately set that fire, then the fat did not come from buckets. It came from the garbage heap where the Skarl bodies were stripped. And that fat would contain traces of human tissue."

  "You cannot be serious," Eirik said.

  "I am entirely serious." Caelum knelt before Brenn. "We will examine his hands. If the tissue samples are clean, then your man is vindicated."

  He pressed the blade against the center of Brenn's right palm.

  "But if we find human tissue—if we find proof that your man's hands were steeped in the fat of the dead—"

  The blade bit into skin.

  "STOP!"

  Eirik lunged forward. He made it two steps before hands seized his arms from both sides. Two of the elite guards had moved up behind him without a sound.

  "This is justice," Caelum said. "Northern justice, Lord Stormcrow. The kind our own people practiced for centuries before the soft southerners brought their paper tribunals."

  The blade went deeper.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  This time Brenn screamed.

  Eirik was still being held. The guards had adjusted their grip so that his arms were pinned behind his back, and the angle put pressure on his shoulders in a way that would become genuinely painful within a few minutes.

  "And I find myself wondering," Caelum paused with the blade still embedded in Brenn's palm, "whether someone knew."

  He looked up at Eirik.

  "Did you order this, Lord Stormcrow? "

  "No."

  "Then why are you so desperate to stop me from finding the truth?"

  "This is torture dressed up as investigation," Eirik said. "You are not looking for evidence. Any man will confess to anything if you hurt him long enough."

  "Will he?"

  Caelum twisted the blade.

  Brenn screamed again. Blood ran down his wrist and dripped onto the frozen earth.

  "STOP!" Eirik's voice cracked. "STOP. Just stop."

  The blade paused.

  The Duke's son's face was calm and faintly curious.

  "You have something to say, Lord Stormcrow?"

  Eirik's chest heaved against the guards' restraint. His mind was moving in several directions at once, but one path crystallized with sudden clarity.

  "Yes," Eirik said. Forcing his voice steady. "A question, my lord, if you'll permit it."

  Caelum's eyebrow raised.

  "You say Brenn's grease-stained hands are evidence of arson." Eirik met Caelum's eyes. "Tell me—how many men in this camp currently have grease on their hands?"

  "That is irrelevant."

  "Humor me. How many?"

  "Some of them, I imagine."

  "Not some. Most." Eirik paused. "But let's address your specific claim, my lord. You say the fat on Brenn's hands came from the Skarl corpses at the garbage heap. Very well. Tell me—who moved those bodies?"

  Caelum's expression didn't change.

  "The bodies had to be stripped and dragged to the heap," Eirik continued. "That's dozens of corpses, each one handled by multiple men. So I ask again: who moved them?"

  The scarred sergeant shifted uncomfortably.

  "Various soldiers were assigned to corpse detail throughout the afternoon," the sergeant said.

  "Various soldiers. How many?"

  "Perhaps... Thirty."

  "Thirty men," Eirik repeated, turning back to Caelum. "They would all test positive for your 'human tissue' if you carved into their palms. So how does finding it on Brenn distinguish him from the others?"

  "The location—"

  "I'm not finished." Eirik spoke over him. "Let's discuss the bucket brigade. When the first fire started, how many buckets were passed hand-to-hand through how many soldiers?"

  Silence.

  "Forty? Fifty? Every man in that line handled the same buckets, worked shoulder-to-shoulder with men who'd been on corpse detail an hour earlier. In a bucket brigade, my lord, everyone's grease becomes everyone else's grease."

  A murmur ran through the watching soldiers.

  Caelum's smile had frozen on his face.

  "You're very eloquent, Lord Stormcrow. But eloquence doesn't change the facts. Two fires, both originating near points where your man was stationed. That is not coincidence."

  "Isn't it?" Eirik leaned forward as far as the guards' grip allowed. "Let's discuss probability, then. In a camp of one hundred men, during a fire response, with buckets being passed in all directions and soldiers running to every corner of the encampment—what are the odds that any given soldier would be near multiple fire locations? I'd wager quite high, actually."

  He paused to look at the men gathering.

  "But let's say you're right. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that Brenn did set these fires." Eirik's voice dropped. "Why would he do it?"

  "Sabotage."

  "To what end? Brenn has served in my garrison since the very beginning and put down countless Skarl raiders alongside me." Eirik tilted his head. "So what possible motive would he have for burning our supplies in enemy territory? Does he suddenly develop Skarl sympathies?"

  Caelum said nothing.

  "Or perhaps there is no motive" Eirik's voice grew softer. "Perhaps you don't actually believe Brenn set these fires at all."

  The clearing went very quiet.

  "Careful, Lord Stormcrow."

  "Answer the question, my lord. If you truly believed Brenn was a saboteur, why would you torture him for evidence you claim to already possess?" Eirik met Caelum's gaze and held it. "The grease on his hands either proves guilt or it doesn't. If it does, you don't need a confession. If it doesn't, then cutting him open serves no investigative purpose at all. Unless this isn't an investigation."

  Caelum stood slowly.

  "And what would you call it, Lord Stormcrow?"

  "A show of force," Eirik said quietly. "A message to every man here that you can do this to anyone, anytime, on any pretext you deem sufficient."

  The Duke's son's smile was completely gone now.

  "Perhaps you're right, Lord Stormcrow," Caelum said. "This is a show of force."

  He moved back toward Brenn.

  "Wait—"

  "The problem with your argument, Lord Stormcrow, is that it assumes I need certainty." Caelum crouched beside Brenn again. "I don't. We're in hostile territory, days from the Sunless City, and I cannot afford even the possibility of sabotage."

  He placed the blade against Brenn's palm again.

  "STOP."

  This time it was Velthan who shouted.

  The Archmage stepped forward, his robes whispering across the frozen ground. He had been silent throughout the entire exchange.

  "That's enough, Caelum," Velthan said.

  Caelum looked up. "Archmage, this man—"

  "I heard Lord Stormcrow's argument." Velthan's voice was almost bored. "It was quite compelling, actually. Circumstantial evidence, lack of motive, probability analysis. He makes several valid points."

  He moved closer, until he stood directly over Brenn's bound form.

  Velthan whispered his following words to Caelum's ears.

  "He's forced you into an untenable position. If you proceed with this... examination, you'll look like someone who tortures a man for theater. The soldiers will remember that. Morale is a crucial concern too, Caelum. Perhaps even more important than supply crates."

  Caelum's grip tightened on the blade's handle. "The fires—"

  "Will be investigated properly." Velthan waved his hand dismissively. "By me."

  He crouched and held his palm over Brenn's injured hand. Light gathered, and pulled blood upward into a crystalline stream.

  The Archmage examined it in silence.

  Eirik held his breath.

  "Horse tallow," Velthan said finally. "Leather conditioning oil. Traces of pine resin from the fire braziers."

  He looked at Caelum.

  "This man did his job. Nothing more."

  Silence followed.

  Caelum stood slowly. His face didn’t show, but Eirik could see the rage simmering behind his eyes.

  "Very well," Caelum's voice was ice. "Release him."

  The guards let go of Eirik's arms. He moved to Brenn without hesitation, kneeling in the blood that had already begun to freeze on the ground.

  Velthan turned to the assembled soldiers.

  "The matter is closed. Return to your duties."

  The crowd began to break apart. Whatever they thought about what they had witnessed, they kept to themselves.

  Brenn was slumped forward on the frozen ground. The right palm was a ruin—the incision Caelum had made ran from the base of the thumb to the center of the hand. Blood pooled in the hollow of his palm and overflowed between his fingers and dripped steadily onto the ground.

  "Brenn." Eirik knelt beside him. "Brenn, look at me."

  The old soldier raised his head. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, the pupils dilated to different sizes.

  "Commander," Brenn whispered.

  Eirik pulled a strip of cloth from his own sleeve and began wrapping it around Brenn's hand, tight enough to slow the bleeding. The cloth turned red in seconds.

  "Get him to the medical tent," Eirik turned to Olaf, who was watching in silence. "Now."

  Olaf bent and gathered Brenn up. He settled Brenn's weight across his shoulders and moved without a word into the darkness between the tents.

  Eirik stayed where he was.

  He was kneeling in Brenn's blood. The cold had already begun to freeze it into a dark stain on the packed earth. In an hour, the snow would cover it. By morning, no one would know that anything had happened here at all.

  He thought about what Velthan had done.

  The Archmage had cleared Brenn. That much was straightforward.

  But why?

  Eirik considered the question with the attention it deserved.

  It might have been he didn't find sufficient evidence. Whichever the type of fat was on Brenn's hands, it was terrible evidence and everyone knew it. It established nothing substantial, even with locations sighting. Unless someone had come out and said out loud they saw Brenn was setting the fire before it started, he wouldn't be convicted of anything.

  Or Velthan saw something else and decided not to report it.

  Eirik turned it over in his mind.

  If Velthan suspected the fires were deliberate, then clearing Brenn was not an act of mercy. The Archmage needed Eirik. A direct confrontation in the camp now, before they reached the Sunless City, would lead to a huge mess. Velthan had done the calculation and decided that Brenn's innocence narrative was an acceptable price for continued cooperation.

  Eirik rose slowly from his knees.

  The second possibility was perhaps worse than the first one.

  The Archmage had allowed—or arranged—for one of Eirik's men to be brutalized in front of him, knowing full well that the charge was flimsy and the evidence was meaningless. He had watched Brenn scream and Eirik thrash against the guards and the whole ugly spectacle unfold, and only then had he stepped in to end it.

  Why?

  Because now Eirik knew what they could do.

  The fire had been a provocation. The torture was the response, deliberately excessive. It was a message delivered in the language that all men understood, regardless of their station or their cleverness:

  We can hurt you whenever we wish. And the next time, we might not stop.

  Eirik stood in the cold and let the understanding settle into him.

  He had expected them to suspect. But he had not expected them to move directly to a man's flesh before the last fire was out.

  That was a failure of imagination, and he could not afford another one.

  Around him, the camp was returning to its routines. Soldiers moved between tents, carrying equipment, checking horses, stamping out embers from the controlled fires.

  Eirik made his way through the camp toward the medical tent.

  Olaf had laid Brenn on a low cot inside.

  A healer knelt beside the cot. He was working quickly, cleaning the wound with a solution that smelled of alcohol and something astringent, his movements practiced and impersonal.

  "How bad?" Eirik asked.

  "Not terrible if he were put under proper care. The wound needs rest, warmth, and time." The healer did not look up. "But in this weather, he might never have full use of that hand again."

  So Caelum had known what he was doing. The blade work was not random cruelty. It had been designed to permanently damage Brenn's ability to grip a weapon.

  A soldier who could not grip a weapon was not a soldier.

  "Can he march?"

  The healer's expression said everything he thought about the question.

  "If he must," the man said. "But I will not guarantee his survival."

  After another round of treatment, the healer left the tent for supplies, leaving just Eirik, Olaf, and Brenn inside.

  Eirik moved to the cot.

  Brenn's eyes were closed. The waxy pallor of shock had deepened into a grayish hue.

  "Brenn."

  A long pause. Then Brenn's voice dropped until it was barely audible.

  "Did it work?"

  Eirik thought about the substitute that now sat in the Master Jar, waiting for Serin to dispense it into Caelum's waterskin at the next refill.

  "Yes," Eirik said. "It did."

  Brenn nodded slowly. His eyes closed again.

  "Good. Then it was worth it."

  His uninjured hand found Eirik's wrist and gripped it. The grip was weak, but it was there.

  "One more thing, Commander."

  Eirik leaned closer.

  "Make them pay."