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“On the contrary,” Reginald said, rising to his feet. “It’s helping me understand how much force I’ll need to exert to get this creature to open his mouth.” He took a step toward the prisoner, knife brandished, and the Sel didn’t look at him; his gaze stayed level, somewhere around Reginald’s waist, and he pressed his head back against the damp stone of the wall, resigned.

But Leif could hear the wild thumping of his heart. He could smell magic, still, but now that he was closer, he could tell what sort of magic it was: it was a binding. He didn’t know the whys, hows, or whos, when it had been applied or what spells or sacrifices or intent had been required by the wielder of the magic, but it smelled similar to the torq Ragnar wore. A magic that had been pressed on the man, and not anything he’d conjured on his own. And beneath that magic, that binding, he smelled acrid fear sweat, and sensed a desperation that was shocking in its intensity.

As if sensing his notice, the prisoner’s gaze flitted, briefly, to meet Leif’s, and then his pale throat jerked as he swallowed; he turned his head, tipped it against the wall. When he did, his hair slid off the side of his neck, and revealed a small, dark mark at his base, where neck met shoulder.

A tattoo.

Ah.

Leif strode forward, ignoring the pain that flared in his ribs, ignoring Ragnar and Amelia’s protests. He snatched the knife from Reginald’s hand – “Hey!” – shouldered past him, and went to the prisoner.

The Sel jerked against his bonds, head pressed back to the wall, neck tilted so he could look, wide-eyed, up at Leif, a plea in his gaze. Not for mercy, no. Leif knew what needed to be done.

“What are you doing?” Reginald demanded behind him. “Shit, don’t–”

“Leif!” Amelia shouted.

“Let him,” Connor said. “We’re not getting anywhere anyway.”

“He’s going to kill him.”

“No,” Edward said, and sounded sure about it. “He’s not.”

Leif gripped a fistful of white hair, cranked the man’s head to the left, and brought the knife flashing down with his other hand.

Reginald let out a wordless shout of protest.

Ragnar said, “And everyone thinksI’mimpulsive.”

With a deft flick, Leif used the very tip of the knife to take off the top layer of skin, removing the tattoo with it. A thumbnail-sized wound remained, and it began to bleed immediately, a fat pearl of blood welling and trickling down inside the man’s shirt.

As for the prisoner himself, he sagged forward, all of him caving in save his wrists, still chained to the wall. His head bowed, and his spine curled, and he let out a deep gasp, and then what sounded like a muttered curse in his own language.

Leif still held his hair, and lifted his face; he came easily, and his expression, now, was mobile in a way it hadn’t been before, his relief transforming him into a person, rather than a pale, stinking statue. He panted a moment, and wet his lips, then said, in accented, but perfect Continental, “Thank you.”

He smelled like nothing now except dirty human. The scent and hum of magic was gone.

“The tattoo was enchanted?” Leif asked.

“The ink was,” he panted. He was winded like a man who’d just run a race, or been holding his breath under water too long. “A shaman said a few words over the bowl, before they were put on.”

“You couldn’t remove it yourself.”

He grimaced. “Every time I tried, my hand froze. I couldn’t follow through with it, and then I’d black out, and when I came to, I’d forgotten I’d attempted…until the next time.”

“How do you speak the language so well?”

“I speak dozens. Trained since birth. The emperor wants us to know what the peoples we conquer are saying about us behind our backs.”

“Um,” Reginald said. “Excuse me, but what the fuck are you doing?” He stepped up beside Leif and took his knife back – Leif didn’t try to stop him.

“Interrogating the prisoner.”

“I had the knife,” Reginald said, pointing to the man’s bleeding neck with it. “Icould have done that.”

Leif sighed. “He wasn’t resisting you out of obstinance – the tattoo prevented him from spilling secrets.” He frowned, when he recalled the general kneeling at his feet in the great hall at Aeres, his spat insults, his predictions, and the whistle and thunk of Erik’s sword. “Not all of you have one,” he said with a pointed lift of his brows.

The man swallowed with obvious difficulty; his throat was doubtless dry. “Not the generals. The loyal few. Every foot soldier has one. Just in case.”