I could tell he was thinking about it. His eyes glassed over, and his jaw wobbled softly as he argued it over inside. If the Angels had any mercy, they would let him crack the rest of the way right now. I knelt next to what was left of him and waited, hoping it would end here.

When Athel finally came back up from wherever he had been, I could see the Angels weren’t on my side tonight. Despite all he had gone through, he was still able to summon up a piercing look and give me the weakest shake of his head.

I placed his head gently back on top of the barrel and stood.

“I need to know who he sold it to,” I said. “I need a name.”

“I’ll get you one. Don’t worry,” said a voice from the darkened warehouse around us.

Shatters came walking into the candle’s circle of light, his two assistants behind him. One was carrying a bucket of seawater.

The Agonyman was small, even shorter than I, with broad shoulders and no neck to speak of. His hands were long and expressive, like an artist’s, and he was constantly cracking his knuckles as he walked. Shatters stopped beside me and smiled a cruel, hungry smile. “He’s close to the edge now. Won’t take much more to get him babbling like a drunken whore.” He popped a thumb joint for emphasis.

The assistant with the bucket stepped forward and emptied it over Athel. The smuggler sputtered, then howled as the salt water reached his ravaged hands. I turned away as the other assistant began sorting through the torturer’s tools that had been set aside during my interview.