On more than one occasion, I had to pull the boy off a balcony for dinner. The result of breaking the seal betwixt his eyes and the moon was a baying and clawing from the little brat that I hadn’t witnessed since the orphanage days. You would have thought he was being carried off to join a grain ship, when all that waited for him were tarts and pastries. Then there was this thing about his two names; what explained such strangeness? And yet looming over it all was the grandest quandary: how did this alleged affair contribute to Rinlot’s death?

  Rinlot had died when I was in the Municipal Dungeon. Sweeping the floor of a hall nearby, I learned he had succumbed to a gruesome ailment that viciously flung blood out of every hole. The guards who attended his funeral hooted and ranted for days about how awful he looked. Despite the undertaker’s best efforts, the corpse put shivers down spines as the lid was sealed.

  In fact, it was news of his death in conjunction with knowledge of his wealth that led to my current scheme. What I was shocked to learn, shortly before my harrowing prison escape, was that his widow was refusing to remarry—and, oh, how the brotherhood of guards left their wives to try and convince her otherwise. Popular gossip held that even the Rogaires of higher shelves had traveled from Oxghorde, calling upon Morlia at her doors in their polish and buttons. But she showed them all away. Before long, their outrage decayed to dismay, and finally to sagging departures.

  I predicted the droves of suitors lining up to take Rinlot’s place. The sight of them, larvae crawling on meat barely dead. What I didn’t expect was his widow to show such fortitude. After all, isn’t lack of humanity a prerequisite for maintaining wealth?

  When I knocked on the mansion doors, my routine was ready. I was but a humble and out-of-work butler, famished from bandits capturing my employer’s caravan. Taken to their hideout deep in the woods, I was bound to a tree and whipped for sport. Wouldn’t you know my luck, I escaped. All the details were there: how I courageously led the Ward back to the encampment; the old fire pit, septic trench, and even my Lord’s girl’s dolls strewn about. Alas, it was abandoned. Applauded by the Ward, I was now just seeking humble employment and trying to forget the horrors of my past.

  Such a tale would draw sympathy from the recently bereaved Morlia Rogaire, and in case she desired proof, lashes on my back were sure to draw tears. No Lady would question why they looked so old.

  A sallow and sunken-cheeked slave answered the doors. After hearing my request to speak to the master of the house, he gave me what I later understood to be a weary look of warning.

  After a wait befitting the smuggest of royalty, Morlia appeared. Dripping in jewels and adorned in a ball gown that was unsuccessfully concealing a bust like flour bags, she looked more like a doll than a mourner.

  As I commenced with my bit, Morlia stood in complete silence, at some point crossing her arms.

  “You have the bluest eyes,” she said, interrupting the part where I defied the bandits to do their worst. Before I could continue, a hand was caressing my cheek.

  On the way up to her chamber doors, my heart jumped about, not with lustful anticipation but with teeth-like questions burying themselves into me. This was definitely better than having the door shut in my face. Was I to be the next suitor? Did I somehow heal the fickle heart that was leading me up a flight of stairs and into the bed of a man who was still stinking? Was I to be used and then discarded afterward, and did she recognize me from my last profession if that was the case?

  What cruel games the fates play. Rinlot had no desire for me, whereas his moll widow wrapped her rawboned legs around me on the first day of our meeting. Wretch. Moll. It is most fortunate I had experience with couples. I shut my eyes and pretended she was Illheador, on stage with muscles glistening as his trademark swagger carried him from scene to scene.

  Before I knew it, it was over. As impressed in myself as I was for being able to perform, I don’t believe Morlia felt the same. I was indeed given a butler position; apparently the other one had earned a place on the dripping stakes. In the beginning she referred to me as “the new butler that was tortured by pirates, or was it used to live in the woods with escaped slaves,” and to my good luck never led me to her bed again.

  This all reintroduced a reason to believe that Morlia had been unfaithful to Rinlot with every actor in passing or slave in the house.

  But so what? Was it possible she’d fucked an Ordrid, snickered behind Rinlot’s back, had the bastard, and was finally found out? Seemed humorously plausible as I put the pieces together. And maybe most jolting of all, though it didn’t present as Werlyle said it: I’d spent All Malevolent Masquerade, my favorite holiday, locked away in the dungeon. And Rinlot had died soon after.

  Curious, but even dungeons can feel drabber. With Rinlot gone and his foul replacement proving to be even dumber, my wheels began to turn. Soon after, curled up in the bottom of a prison wagon bound for the Institute of Human Sciences, I popped out of a pile of bones and regained my beloved freedom.

  When I owned my own mansion, whether in the Morgeltine or elsewhere, I would have to gouge out the eyes of some slaves, and remove the tongues of others. You can’t ambush a Pelat, you can’t trick a trickster, and you can’t steal from Tymothus Snier. Yet, at least in one way, I had been bested.

  The fabled Rogaire vault! I’d gladly spend another year in the dungeon just to study this place’s layout, learn its deepest secrets, and master its locks. So much would go unplundered, my heart lamented, but my better judgment was telling me that it was time to go.

  Werlyle’s proclamation that the Moliahenna River would be fed the bodies of Morlia and the boy was rooted in a hateful truth. I had seen the look in Werlyle’s eyes, that same black intensity I’d seen worn on men’s faces in the dungeon when bent to kill. The last thing I needed was the Ward investigating a missing rich kid. A burglary would be bad enough, a murder worse, but a wealthy person’s murder the foulest.

  The night’s mission came back to me in a burst.

  First, go to Nilghorde Commerce; rent the cart and mules. Done so many times at the service of the mansion, no goon or slave would give a second glance at the cart waiting in the inner bailey.

  Second, handle the occupants. I had just the thing.

  Third, to the library. With finite room, the books would lie on the cart’s bed.

  Fourth, the mid-weight items and sculptures, followed by the contents of the wine cellar.

  Lastly, the fragile paintings, and if I was lucky…everything I could pillage from Morlia’s room. I was going back in there; enough time had been wasted, and she would be drooling on some overpriced throw blanket.

  My logical hope was that the way to all the stinking piles of gold started somewhere in her chambers. My one unfortunate trip into that maze had suggested one hundred doors could have been waiting behind all the hanging dresses and lip-kissed mirrors.

  Werlyle and his contents were to remain untouched. Call me soft, but he’d been a friend in a certain light. Besides, living there seemed cruel enough of a fate.

  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 some-one 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 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.

  Returning to the hall, Morlia was sucking her spoon. Werlyle stared at the table. He could make a meal into a night-spanning event. He of the Shaking Hand would take up his own spoon shortly. The boy, however, moaned and piddled, swirling the soup with his finger, scowling at me as I passed.

  Then I heard it; the thud, clang, and swivel of a dropped bowl.

  Maggot of Hell, curse that blasted boy! His bowl thrummed on the floor as he leered over it.

  But Morlia was face down in hers.

  “Mother?” the boy noticed too. His yellow eyes stared at me as I saved his mother from drowning in her own dinner.

  “What the burnin’ hell!” Werlyle yelled, startling me and the boy with perfect equality. “Leave her, Snier!”

  Uprooting himself, red and bellowing, Werlyle careened through vacant chairs. As Uncle Werlyle approached, blind panic transfixed the boy. His eyes swung from Morlia to me, tender servant standing as I should. Would this be the dinner from Hell, young sir?

  “Leave this one to me, Snier!”

  I don’t think I moved. As Werlyle pointed his finger at the boy, I wondered if his diatribe on the balcony had been some sort of an attempt at an alliance.

  “Butler,” the boy adjusted, desperately attempting at manners like a shield, “Butler, please stay Uncle.”

  I saw the ball of webs unraveling now. My best bet was to play it cool and hope that all the goon-guards had enjoyed their soup.

  All my fine planning and this was how it turned out. Werlyle had the boy on his knees. Wind from far windows entered the dining hall. I turned away and acted the butler. Milling about the place, “Does anyone need anything? A butcher’s knife here, or perhaps a hatchet?” The wind grew in strength, banging shutters at the last beautiful, regal, condescending, vile feast of the Rogaires.

  “It’s time, Snier! You and me! Told you there was more.” Werlyle growled at my back, the boy pinned down by his boot. “I don’t know how, but that bitch killed him.” A furious squeak came up from below. “Once crossed—stop squirmin’—we resort back to older justice.”

  My nerves frayed like gossamer between departing horses. A descent of thuds and clanks was sure to come gooning into the hall. But none did. The plan began to reform. Werlyle had spiked the soup and had attacked the boy. I would cut out his tongue and assist in dragging him to the dungeon if I had to.

  A terrible hiss came up from the floor.

  “You dare, my father—” Werlyle reaffirmed his boot to the boy’s throat, looking down at him with eyes that almost glowed.

  For the briefest of moments, the squirming corpse in the guise of a living boy needed my help. A boy was being attacked by a man. For just a moment, I heard the jingle of orderly keys, but they were just a whisper in a dream. I found myself replacing Morlia into her final meal. A gurgle came out as tawdry make-up tainted the broth. I told myself it saved her from a more gruesome end. Perhaps I was right.

  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.

  *

  “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.

  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.