I knew from too much time in the dungeon who’d squeal. If he got caught—and with an array of bloody boot prints and his reckless blabber-mouthing, he would—it would only be a matter of time before I was in some pre-disembowelment pillory. Equally troubling, he was possibly brewing a similar plan, trying to make my grizzly death look like a grand murder-suicide, swaying in his retelling to the Ward.
“How fuckin’ heavy can a few books be?” Werlyle grunted as he toted an improvised satchel across his shoulder.
“You’ll be surprised how much some of these will sell for. Besides, they’re not that heavy.” Hugging my much smaller load, it was relieving to pretend I wasn’t bothered. In time, my temperament began to follow suit.
I freed one hand long enough to open the door that led us out to the bailey. From over my stack of books, I saw the pale tops of the obelisks. The wind wasn’t just strong, it was cold. I walked to the cart, Werlyle in trace. After placing one table cover at its base, Werlyle handed me the books and I made a solid bed of literature. I covered the second linen over them and hopped out.
Next were the sculptures, silverware, candleholders, decorative weaponry, vases, curtains, sconces, and a plethora of odds and ends, all packed into their waiting crates that I’d kept cached in the mansion’s heap of undisposed garbage. Thieves in the night; Werlyle bellowed in mirth, impressed by my puzzle-piece packing. I stood atop the boxes, cold wind blowing my hair wild.
“Attaboy, Snier,” Werlyle laughed. “Oh, did you check Morlia? Watch it. Careful, Snier, don’t go droppin’ boxes and lookin’ all amateur on me.”
But I didn’t hear him. My heart pounded, my comfort annihilated, and I knew it wouldn’t return. “She has to have keys on ’er.” Werlyle said. “We find what we’re both really lookin’ fer—hey, how we goin’ to fit it all? Make another trip?”
After a moment: “No, one trip is all we can afford, and no, I haven’t checked.”
Rinmor lay dead on his back, eyes wide as his mouth. Werlyle tossed Morlia about like a sailor emptying his duffle. The gown ripped, her red hair an unkempt mess dripping cold soup, her face placid, like a doll’s. When he lifted her upside down, her head hit the floor stones. The sharp, crisp smack made my belly turn.
“Arhh,” Werlyle roared, “they got to be here!”
“You’re right,” flapping in exasperation, “there’s no other place they could be. Wait—some hiding place outside her door?” That corridor was so thin only one of us could check the tile or trim at a time, and I knew who should lead the file.
“Fuck!” Werlyle dropped Morlia like she had bit him. “I didn’t come for books.”
“Me either, friend. Let us at least concentrate on said books and decorations for the time being. Maybe our minds will re-stir. I have often found that—”
“What’s next?”