On the morning of day 1173, Arven offered to identify the person who had ordered the attack if Pale Reach released the other two prisoners.
Tavin listened from the other side of the table in Veit’s unused workshop. Rain tapped against the boarded windows. Two local guards stood outside the door; Kesh remained inside with a notebook and the brass tag recovered from the crawler’s cord.
“Names first,” Tavin said.
“Release first.”
“The people you shot at live here. I can’t promise what their council will decide.”
Arven’s wrists were bound in front of them. They had refused the chair until Kesh sat down, then taken it as though the choice had been theirs all along. Their neck graft showed above the collar, a dull metal curve set against old scar tissue.
“The crossbowwoman is my niece,” they said. “She joined for the pay. She didn’t know what the company wanted.”
“And the staff fighter?”
