did

and the new blood stains. Shael was spreadeagled on a hanging steel pentacle, steel manacles about her ankles and wrists. On ­either side of her head jutted vicious spikes so that she had to look at the bed. Around the victims stood racks of cruel, sharp-edged things. A small brazier burned, despite the heat . . . and the air was tainted with the smell of burnt flesh, as well as the reek of blood and fear. Shael’s back was scored with five fine lines, with trickles of blood running down onto her buttocks. Keilin ran forward. The scream­ing did not come from her.
On the floor writhed a naked Patrician Vedas. He was plainly in terrible pain, his face blueish and contorted, his muscles jerking in uncontrollable spasms. Blood trickled from his nose, and from deep scratches on his shoulder.
Keilin moved forward to spear him.
“Leave him.” The words came from Leyla. “Just get us loose, and out of here.” Keilin’s assegai blade made short work of her straps, and by the time S’kith came up, he’d found a key and was strug­gling to unlock Shael’s manacles. S’kith too was about to make an end of the man on the floor, but Leyla told him to leave the vermin.
Bey arrived, his face white. “Hell’s teeth.” He kicked the writhing man. “We lost the other one, I’m afraid. Cap’s gone to secure the stair. Come away. You