“Why does she call him that?” I asked, figuring if I was forced to talk about them at all I’d at least pull out a question that held some genuine interest.
“I’ll get to that, but you should hear this in the order I did.
“Not terribly long before you got here, we had an All Malevolent Masquerade party. The place was crawlin’ from top to bottom with fairies, demons, come-back-to-life celebrities. Morlia, get this, dressed up as a peacock.” After a laugh, “I forgot what I wore—anyhow, I spent my night at the outdoor bar they’d set up with a pretty young thing, Sammi somethin’, all dolled up like a lizard.
“Rinlot spent his night driftin’ from one circle to the next. I remember watchin’ a Minotaur with wooden horns goin’ up and down the stairs all damn night. He had a lot of those men from the dungeon attendin’. Wonder if that lizard came with ’em?”
“What happened?”
“Well, you know the tradition: the boar was brought out to be cut up by the guests in the best and worst costume. You know. But right before it, Rinlot came runnin’ outside…to find me. I say, for just a smidge I thought a real Minotaur had bust in the party and was storming my way. He was furious. Barreled my sweet little company right over. Poor darlin’ was so beside herself she did some hex before gettin’ carried off by a few laughin’ guards that were all painted like Suelans.
“He ripped his snout off and embraced me, Snier. I saw tears wellin’ in his eyes. When he went looking for Morlia, about feast duties or what have you, Rinlot learned a thing or two.”
“Let me guess, she was getting fucked.”
“Close, Snier,” he snickered, but his intensity hadn’t faded. “She was tucked away in a nook with her flimsy buzzards. I can just see peacock feathers and crossdressers gigglin’ in some damn corner. The spiked punch, opium, you name it, I guess it all allowed Rinlot to walk up unnoticed. You know that big statue on the second floor, the crane gulpin’ the fish?”
“Yes, dusted it yesterday,” I lied.
“He stood behind it and learned his boy isn’t his.”
“What?!” Looking about, I checked my volume. “Come on now, bunch of stoned drunks—”
“Morlia was braggin’ about it.” Rechecking his own voice. “She said she had met an Ordrid.”
And there it was. The House of Ordrid, you’ve probably heard of them: fully known for their arcane practices, singularity, and madness. Not originally from Rehleia, they were commonly understood as delvers into the blackest of arts. Meeting an Ordrid meant meeting a necromancer, or a witch, and no other name I could think of mustered the same caliber of gossip. They peppered the landscape, their stronghold not far from this very mansion. Since Maecidion’s death, however, that stronghold had become more a museum for scholars and macabre teenagers. A few coiled in Pelliul, but word had spread that most now nested deep in the Thunder Bustle.