Every head in the lower ring jerked toward the small pine chair before the ninth door.
In the sunken floor lock, Noll Vey felt the second clause of his own dawn claim—it knows every lie in the valley, even the ones a man tells himself—vibrating through the bedrock like a plucked harp string.
“Explain yourself, Debt Ten,” Master Serit said sharply, her hand closing over the velvet cloth of the Great Seal as she looked from the empty rush chair to Lord Auditor Orin Vane’s composed face. “The Hall’s verification line just confirmed that the Lord Auditor transmitted no hidden cipher and spoke no falsehood into the register.”
“He spoke no falsehood, my lady,” the Last Guest answered from the chair, its voice tight and rapid as the bowed oak panels behind it creaked under a sudden shift of weight. “When a man lies with his tongue, his thought splits in two—one shape for the room, another behind his teeth. Lord Vane’s thought did not split when he told the infantry to hold their lines. He truly intends for the foot regiments to stay where they are.”
“Then what is the trap?” Tessa Dene demanded, stepping down to the witness rail beside Prit’s stool.
