Fire rubbed her temples harder. "You do Brocker's ally great honour," she said dryly.

"Well, but listen to this. She's quite a drinker, Hart's wife, and do you know what we were drinking?"

"I've no energy for riddles."

He was smiling now. "A rare Pikkian wine made from the juice of frozen grapes," he said. "They've a whole case of it hidden at the back of their wine cellar. She didn't know where it came from – she only just discovered it while I was there. She seemed to find it odd, that her husband should've hidden it away, but I think it was a wise thing for a known ally of the king to do, don't you?"

Nash felt Captain Hart's treachery very personally. For indeed, it took little more than a week of redirected questioning, and of watching Hart while seeming not to watch him, to learn that Lord Mydogg on occasion made a present of his favourite wine; and to learn that the messengers Hart sent south to deal with his speculations in the gold mines met with interesting and obscure fellows along the way, at inns, or over drinking games, who were then seen to strike out in a northerly direction that was the straightest path to Mydogg.

It was enough for Garan and Clara to decide Hart must be questioned. The matter on the table next was how.

On a moonlit night in mid-November, Captain Hart set south along the cliff road that led to his second home – a pleasant, seaside cottage to which he retreated on occasion to find respite from his wife, who drank far more than was good for the health of her marriage. He rode in his very fine carriage and was attended, as usual, not only by his drivers and footmen but by a guard of ten men on horseback. It was how a wise man travelled the cliff road in the dark, so that he could defend himself from all but the largest company of bandits.

Unfortunately, the company of bandits that hid behind the rocks on that particular night was quite large indeed; and led by a man who, if shaved, and dressed at the height of fashion, and seen in daylight engaged in some highly correct activity, might bear a resemblance to the king's steward Welkley.

The bandits set upon the travelling party with great, bandit-like howls. While the majority of the ne'er-do-wells roughed up the members of Hart's entourage, went through their pockets, bound them with ropes, and collected Hart's very fine horses, Welkley and several others entered the carriage. Inside, an irate Captain Hart was waiting for them, brandishing sword and dagger. Welkley, with a highly athletic dodge to left and right that many at court would have found quite surprising, stabbed the captain in the leg with a dart tipped with sleeping poison.

One of Welkley's fellows, Toddin, was a man whose shape, size, and bearing were quite similar to Hart's. After a patch of speedy undressing and dressing inside the carriage, Toddin was wearing Hart's hat, coat, muffler, and yellow monster skin-boots, whereas Hart was wearing much less than he had been before, and lying insensible in a pile of Toddin's clothing. Toddin now grabbed Hart's sword and rolled with Welkley out of the carriage. Cursing and grunting, they set to sword fighting very near the cliff, in full view of Hart's bound servants, who watched with horror as the man who appeared to be Hart fell to the ground, clutching his side. A trio of bandits picked him up and hurled him into the sea.

The company of bandits now fled, with their plunder of miscellaneous coinage, fourteen horses, one carriage, and one captain inside the carriage sleeping like the dead. Closer to the city Hart was slipped into a sack and passed to a delivery man who would bring him into the palace with the night's grain. The rest of the booty was rushed away, to be sold on the black market. And finally the bandits returned to their homes, transformed themselves into milkmen, storekeepers, farmers, gentlemen; and threw themselves down for a short night's sleep.

In the morning Hart's men were found by the road, bound and shivering, much ashamed of the story they had to tell. When the news reached the palace, Nash sent a convoy to investigate the incident. Welkley arranged a bouquet of flowers to be sent to Hart's widow.

And everyone was relieved that afternoon, when word finally came from Toddin's wife that Toddin was in good health. He was a phenomenal ocean swimmer with a great tolerance for cold, but the night had clouded over, and the boat sent to pick him up had taken a long time to find him. Naturally, everyone had worried.

When they first dragged Captain Hart before Fire, his mind was a closed box and his eyes were screwed shut. For days Fire could get nowhere with him. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that an old friend and colleague of Lord Brocker's should be so strong," she said to Musa, Mila, and Neel in the questioning room, after yet another session during which Captain Hart hadn't looked at her once.

"Indeed, Lady," Musa said. "A man who accomplished all that Commander Brocker accomplished in his time would have chosen strong captains."

Fire had been thinking more of what Brocker had endured personally than what he had accomplished militarily – King Nax's mad punishment for Brocker's mysterious crime. Fire watched her three guards absently as they brought out a quick meal of bread and cheese. Mila handed Fire a plate, avoiding her eyes.

This was Mila's way now. In the last few weeks, since Archer had ended things, she'd shrunk somehow – gone silent and contrite around her lady. Fire, in turn, had been trying to be extra kind, careful not to subject Mila to Archer's presence any more than was necessary. Not a word had passed between the two women on the subject, but both of them knew that the other knew.

Ravenous, Fire tore off a piece of bread and bit into it; and noticed Mila sitting mutely, staring at her own food but not eating it. I could flay Archer, Fire thought. Sighing, she pushed her attention back to the matter of Captain Hart.

He was a man who had achieved much wealth after retiring from the army, gradually accustoming himself to comfort. Might comfort soften him now?

Over the next couple of days, Fire arranged for Hart's cell in the dungeons to be cleaned and improved. He was given fine bedding and carpets, and books, and lighting, and good food and wine, and warm water to wash whenever he asked for it; and rat traps, which were perhaps the greatest luxury of all. One day with her hair swirling around her shoulders, and wearing a dress perhaps a bit more low-cut than was her usual style, she wandered down to his underground lair to visit.

When her guard opened the door for her, he looked up from his book to see who was there. His face slackened. "I know what you're doing," he said. And perhaps he did. But it wasn't enough to stop him staring, and Fire knew she'd found her way in.

She imagined a man in prison might be lonely, especially if he had a pretty wife at home who preferred wine and young men to her husband. She sat next to him on his bed during her visits. She ate whatever food he offered her, and accepted cushions for her back. Her nearness loosened him, and a battle began that was far from easy. At his weakest, Hart was still strong.

Clara, Garan, and Nash soaked up what Fire learned like the sand of Cellar Harbour during a rainstorm.

"I still can't get him to say anything useful about Mydogg," Fire said. "But truly, we're in luck, for he happens to know a great deal about Gentian, and he's less unwilling to spill Gentian's secrets."

"He's Mydogg's ally," Clara said. "Why should we trust what he thinks he knows about Gentian? Couldn't Gentian be sending out false messengers for Mydogg to catch, just as he does with us?"

"He could," Fire said, "but I can't quite explain it – the certainty with which Hart speaks. The confidence in his assertions. He knows the tricks Mydogg and Gentian have been playing on us. He's quite positive his knowledge of Gentian is not of that ilk. He won't tell me his sources, but I'm inclined to believe his information."