Werlyle turned and looked at Morlia. He walked not toward me, but to her. Sweat from my palm ran down my dagger as I watched him cradle one of her hands. A fight began to look less likely and a necrophobic bout of petting more probable. He slipped one of her rings off her finger.
“You know what this is, Snier? The matriarch ring of this House. A Rogaire Lady has worn it as long as this home has stood on the earth.”
I flinched when he tossed me the ring. But I caught it too.
“Now,” he said, pulling up his soggy trousers. “Times drainin’. Let’s bleed this place of anythin’ these miserable ghosts would care to haunt. Aye?”
“How long have you known?” I gaped. Watching his chuckles and ticks, his odd signature of laughter, I realized there were two snakes in this nest, and their tails were interwoven.
“I was working somethin’ similar, drinkin’ water out of a Bleeding Anna bottle most days. Long before you got here I came fer my own reasons. Rinlot up and died on me though, and that got me thinkin’ a bit scandalous. I got to say, you really showed me a thing or two on patience. You’re a planner, aye? I’ll tell you what I am, Snier: a survivor. Figured you’d pull off whatever upstart you had cookin’ before too long.”
“But?”
He undulated like it stung, or tickled. “I saw you slitherin’ about the place. ’Sides…you talk in your sleep.”
—
Joining forces took little explaining, and perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised. Werlyle even added to the exploitation with a simple detail, so in front of my nose I almost smacked myself for not thinking of it on my own.
“I bet she has keys on her, Snier.” My mind began to recalibrate. “We may not have enough time to get everythin’. What’d you put in the food? How long’s it last?”
“That is absolutely no concern,” I said. “Everyone in the house sucked it down and will be waking up this time tomorrow.”
“Can’t be too sure, though, aye? You think we need to take…further measures?” His eyes widened.
“Not necessary.”
“But we can’t be too sure, right? We don’t want some thick-necked guard, happenin’ to have a hearty constitution, chasin’ us down or runnin’ off to the Ward.”
Rinmor turned out to be but a precursor. Werlyle ran as a man does when rotted by the bottle and owning stubby legs, around a corner and up the stairs. Finding the first of several sleeping goons, he relieved one of his sword and then dashed about slaughtering the lot.
Astonishment fails to grasp the feeling of watching the drunkard skewer a score of guards and slaves; not a ruthless swordsman, but more a pudgy child on a bright outing. The irksome noises of hacks and grunts, met with an occasional moan, echoed about the place as I did my best at staying focused. As he darted in and out of my sight, messier each time, I made my way to Morlia.