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Knowing there’s nothing you can do to change Ashur’s mind, you do the only thing you can—turn your attention to the evil magister lord, ensnared in the magical bindings that are one of Mae’s signature spells.
“Talk,” says Tarquin.
The man raises an eyebrow at him. “And sacrifice my only chance at survival?”
“If you won’t talk, what use are you?” Tarquin challenges him, raising his sword a fraction of an inch. It’s enough. You see the magister’s eyes travel to it.
“All right,” he says, trying, but failing, to summon a sardonic smile. “I’ll give you what you want. After all, it would be terribly unfair of you to kill me after I’d helped you.”
At this point, even Mae’s patience is running low. “He said, ‘talk.’”
“Your friend is at the Grand Proving Arena,” the magister says. “That’s all I know. But it’s what you need, right?”
Tarquin looks at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“So… now what?” the magister asks. “Am I under your protection?”
“Sure,” says Tarquin, hoists his sword above his head, and brings it down heavily across the man’s neck. There’s a wet sort of thump and then… silence.