I walked out, not as a man ready to begin a mighty pillage, but sulking and unwound. The yelps and drunken curses behind me were penetrated by snores of sedated guardsmen.

What now? Kill Werlyle? If I didn’t, he surely lacked the cunning to cover up a double murder. The dungeon, I knew all too well, had many innovative techniques (and overzealous technicians) that would easily get my name out of his toothless and spurting mouth. If I killed him, it would have to be by force, which would leave a wound. To the gods I wished Seasmil were here. Maybe I could get lucky, stab Werlyle in the gut, and make it look like a maniacal murder-suicide.

Why did the fool have to pick tonight to initiate this sloppy act of violence? What I guessed was a voice box getting crushed made a rubbery sound as my face sunk into my hands.

Wind howled through the windows. A good butler would have shut them. I began to rise.

III: Quarrel in the House of Thieves

Well, what we do now, Snier, bury ’em?” Werlyle said, staring up at me.

Great—I was involved with murders in two provincial cities. I had returned to Nilghorde out of necessity. Now that I was quite capable of being put to death in both, was Pelliul the new old destination? I certainly wouldn’t be the only criminal bouncing from one giant to the other. But my pragmatism won: Oxghorde and its addled silly midget of a neighbor, Amden, would have to do, fen-lung syndrome and all. But only if I figured out how to deal with Werlyle.

“The goons won’t sleep forever,” I sighed. “We are in this together now, whatever this is.”

“That we are, Snier, that we are,” Werlyle said, slugging to his feet over Rinmor. Werlyle wore the boy’s struggle in the form of glistening scratches.

A furtive hand reassured my dagger was still tucked under my sash. If he demanded to sit on the mystic throne of the Nilghorde House of Rogaire, a confrontation was inevitable. He would deem the mansion, and all property therein, escheated to him. He likely thought I just hated Morlia, and it was enough that her body cooled with the soup that claimed her.

“Snier,” my name lingered—not furtive enough—“what are you up to?”

“The servant role is over, old friend. Afraid we’re about to have a bit of a disagreement.”

“Don’t know what you did to that soup, but I’m impressed. Bitch deserved worse. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Remember, though, boy-o, I’m not goin’ to drown in some broth for you.”

He stepped over the boy.

We must have looked like some pathetic interlude, ready to do our act for boos and drunken revelry before the main event in a fighting pit. The butler with a limp wrist and a dwarfed drunkard, battling with all his might to avoid swaying. At his next step forward, I drew my blade.