The shards from the lamp. They had embedded deep into his palm when he’d hauled up the iron gate to escape his trap.

Tensen said, “The god of luck must love you.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Give the gods their due, Arin, or they might not look kindly on you during the next assassination attempt.”

“I’m not sure he meant to kill me. At least not right away.” Let’s make you pretty, the man had said. Arin had the sense that his face had been a piece of paper meant to be scrawled with a message. Arin told Tensen as much, including that the dead man had worn the insignia of the palace guard. But Arin said nothing of the dagger and its seal. He had slipped it inside his boot, where it fit badly to the sheath for his own knife. He felt the Valorian blade rattle whenever he shifted his feet. The pommel peeked out over the top of Arin’s boot, but he had tugged the legs of his trousers down to hide it.

Tensen went to work on him. The cut to Arin’s forearm had been a glancing blow muffled by the wool of his jacket. Tensen cleaned the wound, bound it tightly, and left it alone. Then he began to rub soap into a froth in his hands until they held a quivering white cloud, bubbles popping lightly. It was lovely, this cloud. It smelled of summer flowers; it was an airy poem. It looked very innocent. But Arin knew what Tensen meant to do with it.

“This,” Tensen said, “will feel very pleasant.” He patted the foam into the slash on Arin’s face.

Murderous. The soap ate into the wound. It licked a burning tongue into Arin’s flesh. He couldn’t breathe. If he breathed, he would scream.

Tensen rinsed it all away. Then more soap. More water. By the time he finished, Arin was limp in his chair and desperately grateful when Tensen pressed a new cloth to the cut. The fire in his face throbbed down. Arin kept his eyes closed and slipped back into the old, familiar, seeping pain as easily as into a warm bath. How much better that old pain seemed now. How comforting, how like a friend. Arin was half in love with it.

But Tensen was moving around in the suite, and Arin knew what would happen next. He opened his good eye to see Tensen sterilizing a needle in the flame of an oil lamp.

“No,” Arin croaked. “Get Deliah.”

“You’re not a dress.”

“Do it,” he said, though he’d seen Tensen patch wounds together on a battlefield. It was why he had agreed to take an elderly man on every military mission in Herran—that, and the fervency in Tensen’s green eyes, the truth in his voice when he had sworn to do anything for his country. Tensen had an actor’s knack for becoming whatever he wanted to be. If it was a doctor, he would be one. He used to joke that it was because he had once played the role of a doctor in a theatrical production. Arin didn’t much care where Tensen’s skills came from. He appreciated them. But he wouldn’t let Tensen sew his face.

“I’m not sure it’s wise for Deliah to know,” said Tensen.

“Do you think this can be kept a secret?”

Tensen gave a slight smile to show that a point had been made. Arin would never look the same again.

The minister left.

When he returned with Deliah, the cloth on Arin’s face was seeping blood and he felt almost sleepy. Deliah gave him a grim look edged with weariness, as if Arin were a child who had gotten himself hurt doing exactly what she’d told him not to do. The expression made her look a little like his mother. That’s what Arin imagined as she threaded the needle and put her cool hands on his hot face. It wasn’t hard to see his mother when he squinted through one eye that watered. The needle went in. It pushed out. There was the grating tug of the thread. A tightening pain. Tensen blotted away blood so that Deliah could see better, and it began again. A bolt of lightning stitched down his cheek.

Maybe it was because half of his face no longer felt like his face. Maybe it was because he wanted so very much to forget what Deliah was doing, or needed to believe that things could be worse. Arin thought of the beating he’d received the day before Kestrel had bought him. He had been shoveling gravel with other slaves put to laying a new Valorian road. He’d been keeping his head down. He was being good … until there came a scuffling sound.

Arin had looked up. Two Valorians were dragging an easterner toward the other slaves. A murmur went through the Herrani working on the road. From what Arin heard, the eastern slave had managed to escape several days before. He had just been caught.

The Valorian law on runaway slaves was clear.

Arin had lunged forward. He shouted at the Valorians. He cursed them.

His masters that day didn’t understand Arin’s language well, or his punishment would have been worse. The overseer punched Arin in the face. The Valorians ordered the Herrani to hold Arin down. They did. They shoved him into the gravel. The overseer hit again, and even from where Arin lay he could see the other masters preparing the eastern runaway. They dragged the slave’s head back by the hair.

The easterner caught Arin’s gaze as a Valorian drew his dagger. “Don’t worry,” the slave called to Arin in Herrani, which wasn’t very different from the eastern language of Dacra. “The emperor will get what he deserves.”

Then the Valorians cut off his ears and nose.

“There,” Deliah said, snipping the thread. “Thirteen stitches, two separate seams: forehead and cheek. I left the eye alone.”

The blood merely oozed now. Arin opened his stinging left eye. With both of his eyes open and clear, Deliah didn’t look like his dead mother at all. She washed her red hands in a bowl.