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he was gone!”
    For a long moment, Mordecai said nothing, only eyed the soldier malevolently, as though he was personally responsible for the disaster.
    â€œForgive me, Your Grace,” repeated the soldier in a pleading voice.
    Instead of answering him, Mordecai nodded in the direction of one of the liveried servants pressed against the wall. Instantly, the man strode forward and, without a flicker of expression on his face, dealt the soldier a vicious blow—the kind of blow that Mordecai himself would have dealt if he’d been able. The soldier—who didn’t lift so much as a finger to defend himself—was knocked backward by the force of it. When the soldier was finally able to drag himself back into a kneeling position, Mordecai was pleased to see that the blow had knocked out the man’s two front teeth.
    â€œThis news displeases me,” he said, smiling broadly to display his own perfect teeth. “I dislike excuses and I grow tired of hearing them. Lately, I can’t seem to turn around without finding myself subjected to the insufferable babblings of some untried New Man who has failed in his duties.” Mordecai steepled his fingers and frowned as though thinking hard. “I cannot believe that after all these years General Murdock has suddenly grown incompetent, so I am forced to conclude that the men under his command are the problem. Perhaps my problem would be solved if I sent General Murdock different men—andshipped you, your brother and the other incompetents onward to the mines.”
    At this, the soldier grew even paler—so pale that the blood that continued to stream from his ruined mouth looked as red as rubies by contrast. “No, Your Grace, please ,” he gasped, his voice garbled both by the blood and by the loss of teeth. “My battalion is already tracking the scoundrels responsible for the theft of the prisoner, and I swear to you that we’ll find them. And when we do, we’ll take them apart piece by piece and deliver the prisoner here to you in Parthania or die trying!”
    Beneath the brittle veneer of bravado and shining optimism, the man’s terror was clearly visible, and the air was thick with the smell of it. Mordecai was seized by a sudden urge to have the wretch beaten to death for being such a cowardly waste of a healthy body, but he forced himself to resist the temptation.
    It had already been a long day, after all, and if he overexerted himself with entertainment tonight, he would pay dearly for it tomorrow.
    â€œOh, stop your snivelling,” he finally muttered, “or it will be you who is taken apart piece by piece. Return to General Murdock and tell him that if the scoundrels turn out to be kinsmen of the prisoner and he manages to slaughter them all, I will pay double the normal rate for the proof of his accomplishment,” said Mordecai as he absently resumed petting the collection of glossy human scalps that lay in his lap.
    â€œYes, Your Grace,” gulped the soldier. “I’ll leave at first light.”
    â€œYou’ll leave now,” said Mordecai, pulling his warm robe tighter about his thin shoulders.
    The soldier—who was wet, hungry, bleeding and exhausted from having ridden four days without rest—staggered to his feet, bowed and murmured, “Yes, Your Grace.”
    Mordecai said nothing. The soldier lingered in awkward silence for a moment or two longer until he was certain that a formal dismissal was not forthcoming, then he pulled on his cap and fled the room.

    After the soldier had departed, Mordecai slouched low in his chair and let his head fall forward in order to relieve the strain on his aching neck.
    Then, in a sudden fit of fury, he flung the collection of human scalps into the fire. As he watched it writhe and twist in the flames, he cursed the loss of the prisoner whose dungeon accommodations had been prepared for a fortnight, ever since Mordecai had first