The Tyrant's Law (Dagger and the Coin)

against the throne? —sometimes became tedious, the pleasure of catching out a liar never lost its charm.
    Abden Shadra had been head of the one of the most powerful of the traditional families. His sons and daughters, nephews and nieces and cousins had controlled almost a third of the nation that had once been Sarakal. He knelt on the black floor without even the strength left to rise. His hair was white against his dark scales, his lip swollen. Bruises didn’t look like bruises on Timzinae. The blood pooling under their skin shoved the scales up and stretched them. Abden Shadra’s left arm looked almost like a sausage because of it. The rags that hung from his shoulders might have been fine robes once. They were certainly humbled now.
    Geder leaned forward on his elbows, looking down at the man.
    “You know who I am?” Geder asked.
    The Timzinae’s gaze swam up and up until it found him. Even then, it seemed that he lost his train of thought, forgot the question and then remembered it. He licked his lips.
    “Palliako,” he said.
    “Yes, good,” Geder said. “Tell me about your part in the plot against my life.”
    Abden Shadra swallowed, worked his mouth like he was trying to expel some foul taste from it. Even from where he sat, Geder could hear the dry clicking of tongue against teeth. The man’s eyes shifted to the left and then the right and then back again. Geder felt the stirrings of hope, of excitement.
    “You started the war,” Abden Shadra said. “We didn’t attack you.”
    “No. Before that,” Geder said. “Did you meet with Dawson Kalliam?”
    “Never met him.”
    Geder glanced up, and Basrahip nodded. It was true.
    “Did you meet with his agents?”
    “No.” True.
    “Did you conspire to have me or Prince Aster killed?”
    “No.”
    “Do you know who did?”
    “A great lot of your own people.” Geder didn’t bother looking at Basrahip for that one.
    “Who in Sarakal? Who among the Timzinae?”
    “I don’t know of anyone,” the man said. “You could talk to Silan Junnit. He had a reputation for caring about you people.” Geder glanced up. True. And interesting. He added a name to the list he had built. Silan Junnit. He’d have to see if that was one of the prisoners he’d taken. He’d had a few suggestions like this before, but more often than not, the person named was already dead. It was frustrating. The conspiracy always seemed on the edge of exposure, and then it would dance just out of reach. It never seemed to be the person he’d captured, but one they knew of or had heard about.
    It frustrated him. And it frightened him more than a little.
    “Will you swear to take no action against Antea, the Severed Throne, me, or Aster?”
    “I will. If that’s what you want from me, I’ll do it.” Basrahip hesitated, shrugged, nodded. It was true. Geder’s eyes narrowed. This was always the hardest part, but he felt he was genuinely getting better at it.
    “Would you mean it?”
    “Yes.” Basrahip shook his head. No. He wouldn’t, and he knew he wouldn’t, and now Geder knew it too. It was as predictable as it was disappointing.
    “Take him back to his cell,” Geder said. “Bring in the next one.”
    Two guards stepped forward and hoisted Abden Shadra by his shoulders.
    “No!” the Timzinae said. “I’ll swear whatever you want! I’ll do what you say, just don’t send me back there.”
    Geder leaned forward.
    “You,” he said coldly, “don’t get to lie to me. Take him back.”
    The man’s cries echoed as they hauled him back. The great doors opened and then closed again. Two new guards hauled a woman’s form into the light. She was younger, her scales a glossy black. Her dress was rough canvas, and likely given to her in the prison. When they let her go, she sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around her chest. Geder checked his list.
    “Sohen?” he asked. “Sohen Bais?”
    The woman nodded, but the only sounds she made were sobs. Geder looked at Basrahip, but the priest neither nodded nor shook his head. In the absence of the living voice, there was nothing. A gesture was only a gesture, whatever the intent behind it.
    “You have to answer,” Geder said. “You have to actually talk. Do you understand?”
    The woman wailed. Geder felt a pang of guilt followed instantly by resentment at having been made to feel guilty. He pressed his thumb against his nose and considered calling the proceedings to an end for the day. He didn’t want to be