Then I would be off.

—

Apochxal: the flower fermented in my vial. I couldn’t remember where they grew, but somewhere far away.

I fiddled with the vial, imagining the side effects as a trapped air bubble responded to my fiddling. This was enough to sedate everyone in the mansion five times over, and the night’s order for fetal-tiger soup was most opportune. Slaves and goons would surely finish off what the three would leave untouched.

For insurance, the backup dish was sabotaged with lamp oil. If summoned, the only casualty would be the cook’s lives, but sometimes such ruthlessness is required, and every mouth would love soup tonight.

Many would tell you that moments before the actual plunder were like nails being driven past the skull and into the brain. Not me; other than wallowing in the aftermath, the tender moments before execution were my favorite. It was to be savored, looking at riches located, admired, appraised.

Walking past a mermaid statue of jade was like seeing someone whom you had a great appointment with later the same day. Envisioning the process helped steel the nerves: what would go where, how much it would sell for after. I paced myself, calmed myself, and fixed my cummerbund and bow tie to bloom in full radiance.

—

“Good butler,” Morlia said, soft and swift as if speaking to a housecat. “The chandelier needs dusting. I thought I told you.”

She was referring to the chandelier in the south hall, not the one here. “Ah, yes, Mum. I tasked a slave to do it. Shall I have him beaten?”

“Well, the responsibility was yours, not some worn-out Serab too busy doing chores that would break the back of a man like you. You can beat yourself if you’d like—later perhaps.”

“Yes, Mum,” I said, slipping out of the dining hall and heading for the kitchen. That bitch was to see dust and webs on the cursed chandelier for a decade, or better yet two decades.

Emptying four vials into the vat was simple. After warning the culinary staff they’d better start with the backup preparations, they all scurried to the meat closet.

Soon after, the cooks filled three silver bowls full, placing them on a tray that was soon to find a new home. A line of Morlia’s ruffians filed in for their share.

“Dinner is served. Baby Hunting Cat soup, with a touch of saffron. Would you be wanting some wine tonight, Mum?”

“No, my head hurts—and don’t call it that—and wine with soup is like milk with beef stew.”

“Yes, Mum. For you, sir?”

Werlyle looked up. Our eyes locked and it made me flinch.

Walks in the kitchen often met me with glances one would expect from the clump of enslaved men; Suelans, skin glistening shiny black from the steam of the cauldrons. They would occasionally fail to mask their discontent for one of the few free men working. This time, however, they all looked as if found in a bordello by their prudish grandmother, caught gulping the soup by the handful. My best impression of repugnance for their thievery got me down into the wine cellar. The smile afterward hurt my face.