Thirty morons cheered, and Wreath started to look forward to the moment he used the knife.

“Rousing speech,” Wreath said.

Craven looked up, startled, as Wreath stepped out of the shadows. “Cleric,” he said, his hand patting his chest, “you shouldn’t do that. For a second there, I thought you were Lord Vile.”

“Lord Vile probably wouldn’t have cared how rousing the speech was,” Wreath pointed out.

“True, I suppose,” Craven said. “So, are you excited?”

“About?”

“Why, the Passage, of course. Weren’t you the one who said the sooner the better?”

“I suppose I was. And she’s ready, is she? Melancholia?”

“She fully expects to be.”

Wreath nodded, searching his peripheral vision for the White Cleaver. When he didn’t see him, he stepped a bit closer. “I expect that dream she had was a comforting one,” he said.

“Indeed it was,” Craven nodded. “It allayed a lot of her fears. One tends to forget her young age. In many ways she is still a child, and like any child, she needs an encouraging word every now and then. She has been comforted.”

Wreath was close now, close enough to take the knife from his coat and plunge it into Craven’s soft belly. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure everyone else was walking the other way. “Do you think our brothers and sisters are ready?” he asked.

“I think so,” Craven said. “Don’t you?”

Wreath smiled at him. “I think they’re dumb enough to do whatever they’re told. How about you, Cleric Craven? Are you ready?”

“I am, Cleric Wreath. This is what we have been living our lives for, is it not?”

“True enough, I suppose.”

“Forgive me, but you don’t look like a man whose dreams are about to come true.”

Wreath looked him right in the eyes, right in those soft, wet eyes that looked like drops of blue ink swimming in milk, and he let himself smile. “How about now, Craven? Now do I look like a man whose dreams are about to come true?”

He took the knife from his pocket and Craven saw it, stepped back, mouth open to scream, then there was a blur of white and Wreath ducked, barely avoiding the scythe that swooped towards his head. He raised his cane, blocking the scythe handle as the Cleaver spun, tried to stab with the knife but a boot came from nowhere, sent him pinwheeling back.