And the Minor Tribunal met, once more, in the Grand Commons. They sat down, one and all, in their places, with a few changes from the previous session. House Korgan had moved their seats, Gordusus himself at Lady Deirdre's left hand. He didn't meet Lord Rithmound's gaze. The gallery was not as full as before, some of the more minor players in the city growing bored with the debates, with the constant back and forth bickering. The last debate had no structure, merely arguments upon arguments, with nothing to show.
Money was money, at the end of the day. Who was Doge did not matter.
But Ramsey was still there, as was Gouffant, the rat sitting down with an entire blueberry pie that he held in his paws, chewing on it quietly. Ramsey's eyebrow quirked up at the sight of him.
“Always gotta have a snack, hm?” he said.
“Yuh,” Gouffant said, “I'm basically living my best life, might as well use my guild money on something I enjoy.”
He chuckled to himself, looking down at the gallery below.
“Maybe I should run for office myself, one of these days,” he said, “A rat for your Doge, eh? Might as well be literal about it.”
“You have to be a naturalized citizen to run,” Ramsey said, “That's why Sunala isn't going for the role herself.”
Gouffant glanced over at him.
“'S called a joke, mate,” he said, “You got those here, right?”
Ramsey shook his head. Far below, Martin Gondoro cleared his throat.
“Right!” he said, “Very well, let's get to business then...”
He went through his usual spiel, and when he was finished he glanced up.
“Let's begin with the order of business-”
Only for Deirdre to raise a hand.
“I call for a vote,” she said, “For the position of Dogeship.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Martin, to his credit, nodded. His hands were shaking as he shuffled his papers, preparing his answer. Deep rings purpled beneath his eyes, and he sighed deeply as he looked to meet her eyes.
“You have the right,” he said, “I call upon our Minor Tribunal, then, to vote. Get on with it. Silver balls, gold balls. The usual.”
He gestured. The Houses made their votes:
BUSCIVER: 4
RITHMOUND: 4
DEIRDRE: 3
There was a series of whispers from the galleries. Rithmound looked over at Deirdre. Her face was as ivory, and revealed nothing. But the fact that one of the Busciver caucus had, apparently, turned tail was news enough. Sunala was whispering harsh words to one of her attendants. Busciver was staring at the ground, his eyes wide and shocked. The Busciver faction's members were looking to one another. Meandring, Callistopa, and Mur. One of them had turned to Deirdre's side.
For now, at least.
Sunala had not realized how slippery her hold over those three had suddenly gotten. The Lords Mur and Callistopa were silent. As was Lady Meandring, who was looking askance at Sunala.
It was a message, Sunala realized. Deirdre had blunted what should have been a major upset, an ending to this entire charade.
She took a deep breath. Fixed Busciver with a level gaze. The gnome was inhaling deeply, returning her look. She gave him a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
“Well,” Busciver said, raising his voice, “I guess we'll have our debates, then.”
Some in the audience groaned. Patience was never a virtue for Scuttlers. Already a few of them were walking out of the Grand Commons.
None of the Minor Tribunal, however. They sat down, and debated.
“Very well,” Lord Rithmound said, “Get on with it, Martin.”
Gondoro looked through his papers again, adjusting his monocle.
“Lord Rithmound,” he said, “A query was recently submitted last night on the nature of your relationship with House Eilonwy.”
“A trade relationship,” Lord Rithmound said, “House Eilonwy has seen which way the wind turns.”
“Perhaps,” Gondoro said, “But the query does question your claims on the trade agreement. It has asked for you to reveal the nature of this trade agreement at hand.”
“Of course,” Rithmound said, calmly, “In exchange for support in this election, House Rithmound is giving to House Eilonwy three ships, the Durmenswell, the Crucible, and the Anno Dominus, for use in the Estrod Trade Route.”
A murmur that quickly quieted. The Estrod Trade Route was an airship path that led to Beritale Landmass. To the Silver Eye Galaxy.
“You're reaching out to the Silver Eye, then?” Lord Busciver said, “Is that correct, Lady Eilonwy? You would court them?”
“The Silver Eye is a nexus,” Lady Eilonwy said, “Simple as that, Lord Busciver.”
“It attracts unwanted attention,” Lady Sunala said, “Trust me on this, you do not want to open a trade route into the Silver Eye. Not with ships like those.”
“The three ships,” Lord Rithmound said, “Are some of the finest in our fleet.”
“Which is precisely why you shouldn't,” Lady Sunala said, “They veer into being... a hair, shall we say, too advanced for you.”
“Too advanced?” Lord Rithmound said.
“It would attract an investigator,” Lady Sunala said, “One who would look at the technological advances that Scuttleway has been enjoying, these past few years.”
Rithmound was quiet.
“You would begin exports to the Silver Eye,” Lady Sunala continued, “Which would be, predominantly, crab, would it not? Food. But your ships cannot leave Everlasting Truth's atmosphere. You would be tied to one singular planet, and one that already has a robust feeding system. They eat roaches there, Lady Eilonwy. They eat what their masters give them.”
“Ah, Lily-Ann,” Lady Eilonwy said, “You do not know the deals I have struck.”
“Pray tell,” Lady Sunala said, her smile serene, her eyes burning, “What sort of deal?”
“That's confidential,” Lady Eilonwy said, “Many of my dealings are.”
“Of course,” Lady Sunala said, “I would like to put in, for the record, that what you do is still risky.”
“All great ventures require risk, Lily-Ann,” Lady Eilonwy said simply.
“Of course,” Lady Sunala said.
“You would be good, to take my example, I think,” Lady Eilonwy said.
Sunala's nostrils flared. Isaac turned to look at Doria. The old hobgoblin was smiling serenely. He knew her game. Get the other side unbalanced, until they start arguing. The first side to explode first, to devolve into accusations, would look the weakest.
Besides, it wasted time, and that was their greatest weapon.
“I think that's enough there,” Lord Busciver said, “But what Lady Sunala says is true. You court danger, Lady Eilonwy.”
“We all court danger,” Lady Eilonwy said, “Don't we, Busciver? I would have thought that you would be excited by such... revelations. After all, you often expressed reaching out to the Silver Eye, before the arrival of Lady Sunala to our doorsteps.”
Busciver wilted.
Everyone in the chamber remembered this. They knew.
“But instead of looking out there, to the nexus, you instead turn to Tlantoia. To the elves. Our old oppressors.”
“Today's enemy is tomorrow's friend,” Busciver said, “You told me that.”
“I did,” Lady Doria agreed, “But that should only be when the opportunity that arises trumps the potential dangers. Tell me, Lord Busciver: Is working with Tlantoia, and the elves, and their Verdant Reclamation, truly worth it?”
“Yes,” Busciver said.
“...Truly?”
Busciver went quiet.
The room did not respond. No one did. Something was settling in. A sort of... shame, perhaps. All of it stemmed from their former Doge.
“Three ships, Doria,” Busciver whispered, so low he couldn't be heard, “Everything we've done, for three ships?”
But then he looked up, and his eyes were hard.
“Truly,” he said, “The deals I have made, the agreements I have forged, they will be a light to guide us. Scuttleway will become a great city. It must become a great city. And it will only do so under my leadership.”
There were a few whispers at that assertion.
“Let us hope so,” Lady Doria said, “Because if that is not the case, if you fail again-”
“He will not fail,” Lady Sunala said, “He is not doing this alone.”
“I was speaking to him, Lily-Ann,” Doria dismissed, “He doesn’t need his mother to speak up for him.”
And Sunala glared at her.
“I must remind you, Doria,” she said, “I am the Lady Sunala.”
“I see no lady before me.”
There were a few gasps. A stifled laugh. Lady Sunala, for a moment, seemed to see red, her one good hand tightening into a fist. Busciver, too, looked at his old friend in shock. The Lady Eilonwy merely shrugged.
She turned to Martin Gondoro.
“I have given your answer,” she said, “Shall we move on?”
Martin shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Y-You have the right,” he murmured.
“I wish for you to rescind that statement, Lady Eilonwy.”
Busciver was speaking. He stood tall in his seat, and despite his short stature he was like a blazing lion on his throne.
“That was out of line,” he said, “This is the Minor Tribunal, not one of your... farms.”
“Agreed,” another voice said. The Minor Tribunal, as one, turned to see someone beside the Lady Deirdre rising. Lord Alabaster was wearing his best armor, ceremonial and shining like silver, though its brightness merely made him seem more like a thing out of Winter. But his eyes blazed.
“Lord Deirdre,” Gondoro said, “Have you something to say?”
“The Lady Sunala has long been a major fixture of our city,” Lord Alabaster said, “You have crossed a line, Lady Eilonwy.”
“I have crossed many lines, young man,” Lady Eilonwy said, “Please, be a dear, and be more specific.”
Alabaster gritted his teeth.
“You have sullied the Lady Sunala's name,” he said, “By not acknowledging her status as a noble, you have undermined all that we of the Minor Tribunal stand for.”
Here was a firecracker. Alabaster Deirdre, firstborn of Vataya's brood. A pale man. A proud man, too. He would take over as head of the house, if he could.
“Lord Alabaster,” Lady Eilonwy said, “Are you fighting the good lady's battles?”
“Now, Doria,” Busciver began.
“I'm not fighting for anyone,” Lord Alabaster said, “I'm merely agreeing with our Doge-”
“Former Doge,” Lord Rithmound interrupted. Alabaster stuttered over his words.
“With Lord Busciver,” Alabaster amended, “I formally demand that you apologize.”
“Aw, stuff it, Alabaster,” another voice said. Lord Caledos, of House Voltaise, rose from his seat. A young firebrand, much like Alabaster, “You always go on about this. You’re quite literally a white knight.”
“I beg your pardon,” Lord Alabaster said, “But there are rules that we have set here. Respect must be given, must it not? Like you know anything of respect, Lord Caledos.”
“Respect's rich, coming from you,” Lord Caledos said.
“The serpent calls the toad venomous,” a third voice said. Lord Alabaster's younger brother, Pearl, rose from his seat, “I still remember how you treated my sister, at the last gala.”
“If your sister weren't such a-”
“Enough, my son.”
Lord Voltaise rested a hand on his son's shoulder. The nobles in the room looked mutinous, glaring at each other from across the aisle. The debate had turned from something economic to something more... personal.
Tension buzzed in the air.
Lady Doria looked at Isaac.
“Almost there,” she said to him, “Why don't you inspire the new generation, Isaac, and make this kindling into a fire?”
Isaac nodded. Smirked, despite himself, ignored his father’s warning glance.
He rose from his seat, and all heads turned to him.
“I agree with what's been said,” he announced, “Quit being such a warkrem about this, Alabaster.”
Alabaster glared.
“We all know you want to fuck Sunala, anyway.”
“Why, you!”
And the entire Grand Commons erupted. Alabaster leaped forward, attempting to scrabble over his chair to throttle Isaac, only for Pearl to grab him and physically restrain him. Nobles stood up, shouting at each other, accusing one another of old grievances. A member of Voltaise swung a fist at a lord of House Mul. Cacophony and chaos reigned.
Captain Ramsey took out a whistle, and began blowing harshly into it, a shrill peal swanning over the moshpit below, the fists and the curses and the biting and the crying. Orion, of the Amber Foundation, Martin Gondor’s bodyguard, stood, hand on the handle of his blade.
“Time to go, Mr. Gondoro,” he said.
“A-Agreed,” Martin replied, “We adjourn early, then.”
He was pulled out, Orion having to physically push people out of the way. Ramsey's whistle continued to scream over the din. The Militia started pouring into the room as Martin left, pulling nobles away from each other.
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The debate, or the excuse of it, was over.
***
“That was stupid,” Lord Rithmound said.
Isaac was nursing a black eye. Alabaster hadn't been able to leap over to him, but one of House Deirdre had gotten over to him, and walloped him hard. But the young noble's bruised knuckles told the story of his reprisal. He and his father were in the medical wing of the Bronze-Hued Keep now, Isaac holding an ice pack to his face, his father looming over him. The nurses kept their distance.
“What, in all of Hell, inspired you to do that?” Lord Rithmound asked. His voice was low. Venomous. There was an anger there that Isaac heard rarely.
“It ended the debate,” Isaac said.
“It bloody well did,” Lord Rithmound said, “But it also sullied our name, I think.”
Isaac was quiet.
“Well?”
“You spoke to Lady Eilonwy.”
His father's eyes narrowed.
“I did,” he said simply.
“You know what we have to do, if we're going to pull this through,” Isaac said.
“The longer the debates go, the better chance that the investigation into that damn dead plane bears fruit,” Lord Rithmound rolled his eyes. He crossed to the other side of the room. The best medicine, a bottle of wine, had been left for them by a servant. He picked it up, pouring himself a glass.
“That's correct,” Isaac said, “I did what I had to do, to stop the election.”
“You truly believe that things will end soon?” Lord Rithmound asked, “Already, one of the Houses swayed over to Deirdre.”
“For now,” Isaac said, “But it's only a matter of time before Deirdre decides to concede. You know that.”
His good eye squinted to get a better look at the bottle. Lord Rithmound caught his gaze, letting out a huff and pouring a glass for his son. He strode over, and Isaac brought out a hand...
...Only for Lord Rithmound to pull back.
“What's your endgame?” he asked, “Why rile them up now?”
“I've... I've had an idea,” Isaac said, “But it will require the debates to become more... lively.”
“Violent.”
“Yes,” Isaac said, “Everything broke out because we're currently in a mode of free debate. Anyone can say anything, whenever, so long as the rest of the Minor Tribunal is fine with it. It's a method of debate that's based on goodwill and civility.”
“A civilized floor, then,” Lord Rithmound said.
“We need to stop it being civilized,” Isaac said, “We need to get someone to make a motion to Gondoro to turn it from a free-floor to a more centralized version of debate. Speech-givings, and all of that.”
“We'll lose if we do that,” Lord Rithmound said, “If anything, Busciver is charismatic.”
He swirled the wine in his glass.
“Something I most certainly lack.”
Isaac wasn't sure what to say, at that frank admission. It was the first time he had seen his father convey weakness.
“It...” Isaac said, “Whatever he says, it won't matter. The majority of the Busciver caucus supports him because of that dead plane. If that falls out from under him, no speech will save him.”
“So how do you propose we do things?” Lord Rithmound asked.
“...We get out your collection of books,” Isaac said.
***
Usanur swung open the door to Alabaster's room. The tall, pale man was taking off his armor, his eyes boiling with unsatisfied anger. He had thrown pieces of his mail across the room, the shoulder pads, his helmet, he was in the middle of unstrapping his chestplate when the new Master of Arms strode in.
“What,” he said.
“That was a disaster,” Usanur said.
“I'll kill that goblin,” Alabaster said, “Mark my words.”
“When this election is over, we'll hand him to you on a silver platter,” Usanur said, “Mark my words on that. You can have any non-elf in the city.”
Alabaster glared at her.
“Busciver should have won today,” Usanur said, “But your mother's in the way. And Rithmound knows this.”
“He... goaded me,” Alabaster said.
“He did.”
Alabaster was quiet for a long time. He peeled off the rest of his armor like a molting crab, before nodding to Usanur.
“Get your men ready,” he said, “And get me Pearl. And Uvalendri. ”
The Master of Arms nodded.
“I'm... sorry, for what it's worth,” she said, “That it's come to this.”
Alabaster was quiet.
Usanur awkwardly left the room, giving one last sympathetic look to her old friend. As she left, she gave hand signals to one of the guards. The guard was an elf.
Alabaster had a few minutes to himself. He took the time to stand up. Stretch. Look out the window. It was nearing dusk now, and the sky, which for the last few weeks had been cloudy, was clear and orange. His heart hammered, and he took a few deep breaths.
He did not want...
This.
How much changed, over a few days.
He wanted to break down. To cry. The insults at the debate came back to him. From Caledos Voltaise.
“Respect's rich, coming from you.”
Did Caledos realize? That he was right? Through the snark and the wit, through the barbed words, did he reach out, and ensnare the truth?
He did not respect his mother. Nor his sister, Uvalendri, who defended her.
He was...
He was killing his own mother.
Emotions overwhelmed him. Alabaster suddenly fell to his knees, broke down into a fit of hysterical sobs. Memories were coming back to him. Of Vataya reading to him in his room, late at night, rain and thunder roaring outside. Of her shrill singing voice, loud and awful and full of life, as she, for a moment, tore away the mask that she wore to the public to be something real to her children. Of the proud look on her proud face as he was presented his father's sword. It was in a case at the foot of his bed, now. He could not face it.
He composed himself.
She had told him.
Family was everything.
And he was leading his family to the future, was he not?
The old must yield to the new. That's what she had told him, one calm summer's night, while the two were discussing the future.
There came a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he said.
Pearl and Uvalendri walked in. Pearl with a welt on his jaw from today's debate. Uvalendri looked nervous, her hands folded over her stomach. But Uvalendri always looked nervous. Of her three children, she had inherited their mother's anxiety.
“Alabaster,” Pearl said, “What is it?”
He looked at him first.
“Pearl,” he said, “Prepare all spare armors for some visitors tonight. Dismiss the guards attending to mother's wing.”
Pearl paled. His hands shook. As did Uvalendri's.
“B-Brother,” she said, “Y-You aren't, y-you-”
“Uvalendri,” Alabaster said, “You're to stay in here, with me.”
“B-But-”
“Sit. Down.”
Alabaster had always filled in his father's boots, since the old man passed. Uvalendri complied, walking over to his desk and sitting down. She was on the verge of tears.
“Pearl,” Alabaster said, “Go. They'll be here shortly.”
“It's time, then,” Pearl said. His voice was quiet, almost a squeak.
“Yes,” Alabaster said, “I...”
What could he say? He and his younger brother had sworn to do this, if it came to it. To look the other way. But speaking of this, acknowledging it, gave it a far graver dimension. It was real, if they did that.
But it was real, wasn't it?
And yet...
“Once the guests arrive,” Alabaster said, “Sequester yourself in your room.”
“For… mother?”
Damn him. He had to go out and speak it out. Alabaster gave a curt nod.
“Yes, Pearl,” he said, his voice raw, “For her.”
Pearl choked back a sob.
He nodded.
And said not another word as he left the room. Alabaster strode over to the door, closing and locking it. He gave Uvalendri a dark look. Better to wear the mask of the warrior than the brother.
“You'll stay here,” he said, “Read a book, Uvalendri. Close your ears and your eyes. You can use my bed to sleep, if you wish.”
“Y-You're a monster.”
He flinched at the harshness in her voice. Uvalendri was glaring at him with bloodshot eyes.
He found he had no retort. For she was right.
But monsters were required, to burn forth a new future.
***
Pearl took a moment to compose himself, his head spinning, his cheeks tearstained. But he wiped them away with the sleeve of his shirt, and walked outside, to the barracks. A few of the guards were idling there, preparing for the night shift, and they rose and saluted as he strode in.
“Mone,” he said, “Get me Mone.”
Mone was shift head for tonight. A stocky ogre who stepped out from his room at Pearl's call.
“You should sleep tonight, Mone,” Pearl said.
“But Milord,” Mone said, “Lady Deirdre-”
“Is guarded already,” Pearl said, “By another. You're dismissed for tonight, Mone. Get some rest. You've earned it. Same goes for the rest of the boys on your shift.”
Mone hesitated. But he could not object to a Lord of Deirdre. He shuffled back into his room, shutting the door behind him. Perhaps he knew why he was being put away. Perhaps it was just Pearl's guilt.
Guilt that he shoved down. He turned to the other guards in the room.
“Get the spare uniforms out of the back,” he said, “Then go to your rooms.”
They did so, shuffling out the spare armor, the chestplates emblazoned with the symbol of House Deirdre, a white crab with four claws. Pearl looked at one of them for a moment. He swallowed down bile.
Just one night, he told himself.
The guards went to their rooms. Shut the door. Pearl took a deep breath.
Usanur walked in. Regarded Pearl with a cool stare. Behind her was a squad of elves. White Feathers, he knew. More trained than Sunala's personal guard.
Expendable, too, if it came to that.
“Here's the armor,” he said, “Put it on. Get it over with.”
The Master of Arms nodded. Pearl took his leave, walking back into the manor. He wound up the countless stairs to his room. Sat down on his bed. There was a painting that hung over the fireplace. It depicted his mother sitting on a chair, her three children around her. Alabaster looked grim. Pearl was smiling. Mother had a hand on Uvalendri's shoulder.
He could not meet her face, not even on the painting. He instead locked the door, taking a deep, ragged breath, and poured himself a glass of wine. He drained it. Poured another.
Just one night, and it would be over.
***
Guerico rushed into the Lady Deirdre's room. He arrived at Chadwick's satin pillow. The calico had hardly moved since his arrival to the estate, the only evidence of his awakening being the empty bowl by the side of his pillow, which was filled daily with spiced milk.
The Abstract Man shuttled from the floor to the pillow, curving along its exterior until he was right next to Chadwick's head.
“Hey,” he whispered, “Hey!”
The cat opened a single eye.
“Quiet, now,” Chadwick said, “You'll wake our client.”
“Might want to, anyways,” Guerico said, “Elves just arrived at the estate. They're dressing up as soldiers. The two brothers locked themselves in their rooms.”
“My, my,” Chadwick said, and his pupils turned to slits, “What a mistake they've made.”
“Heh,” Guerico said, “You're going all out?”
“Might as well,” Chadwick said, and he stretched, yawning, “You really think I should wake Lady Deirdre?”
“Probably a good idea,” Guerico said, “Considering you're going to be causing a ruckus.”
“Mmm,” the cat purred. He took his time getting up, smiling his feline smile as he turned and leaped onto the bed. He padded over to where Lady Deirdre was sleeping.
“My lady,” he said.
She stirred, but did not wake.
So he batted her nose with a paw. Vataya grimaced, opening her eyes. She was a brave sort – she didn't jump at the sight of him, like some in the guild did.
“Cat,” she said, “Do you require more milk?”
“Mmm, after tonight, I think so,” Chadwick said, “But I'm afraid I've got something else that must be done.”
“And what is that?”
“Some interlopers have decided to kill you,” he said.
“I see,” she said, “You'll take care of them?
“Yes,” he said.
“You will protect my children?”
Something glittered in Chadwick's eyes.
“As best as I am able to,” he said.
“Then do what must be done,” Vataya said.
She turned, pulling herself out of bed, slipping a knife out from within her pillow. She flipped it a few times.
“I'll get to work now,” Chadwick said, “Stay in here.”
She nodded. Wavered a bit, placed a hand on a bedpost to steady herself. Chadwick purred as he approached the door. He turned to her.
“Ah,” he said, “Will you please...?”
She walked over, and opened the door.
“Thank you.”
And he stepped out into the hall. He heard Vataya close the door behind her, the lock clicking. He stretched again. It was dark out. The only light came from the torch sconces on the wall. They shone like sunset in the halls.
They lengthened his shadow.
Which was winged. Large.
Two guards appeared, wearing mismatched Deirdre uniforms. He could tell they were elves. By their smells. By their souls. They looked down at the cat, weapons drawn. One of them was sneering.
Chadwick began to grow.
Shadows overtook his form.
And-
***
Usanur was hanging back, holding the stairwell that led up to the master bedroom. A few of the soldiers went up after her. There were six of them in all. Considering Vataya's age, truly, she should have only needed one or two. But Sunala had been insistent.
Six.
To make sure.
One of them drew up beside her. He wore a pair of goggles, and as he looked up at the ceiling, she realized that they were enchanted with x-ray vision. He grimaced.
“The cat's up there,” he noted, “The one from the Amber Foundation.”
“Be careful,” Usanur said, “Looks can be deceiving.”
“I know,” he replied, “The cat's... growing, it's-”
He went pale. Opened his mouth wide.
And started to scream.
Something rushed down the stairs, large and shaggy and shadowed.
And-
***
Alabaster and Uvalendri waited in his room. She had not moved from her place at the desk. He was pacing back and forth, occasionally tossing firewood into the fireplace to keep warm, for it was a cold night. At one point, he looked at her. Noted that she was only wearing her nightgown. Her thin arms were bare.
“Would you...” he said, “Would you like a coat?”
She looked away, glaring hard at the wall. He supposed that was a fair response.
He...
He was not sure if she would ever speak to him again, after this.
But she would understand in time.
One floor above, they could hear the sounds of the assassination begin, dulled by the stone. Grunts and screams. He knew that the cat (who-was-not-a-cat) was guarding his mother, but he still believed...
Had to believe...
The White Feathers were guildfolk, too. That meant that they were able to fight in battles like these. Battles that defied imagination. He heard tales, from his days off-plane, studying in university, of what some guilds were capable of. Beings like Aldr Fatebreaker, or Ultan. The Manticore and his Devouring.
He heard a sudden scream from one of the elves, high-pitched and horribly pained. Both his and Uvalendri's heads snapped to the door.
Because the scream came from just outside-
The door flew open-
Something oozed through the door. Shadowed. Vaguely feline, predatory, with wings that took up half the room. Out of the shadows came something resembling a claw, and in that claw was Usanur, the talons dug deep into her chest, her back, her neck. She was nearly decapitated, her head hanging by a string, that-
That snapped completely as the shadow flung it to the ground.
Oh dear, it said, How unfortunate.
Uvalendri was hyperventilating. Alabaster's heart was skipping every other beat. The thing's voice was layered, on top calm and suave, though something deeper, something of the earth yet not, something beyond, rumbled underneath, always threatening to bubble to the surface.
The form was like oil. Two eyes, still cat-like, still emerald and glistening, oozed to the forefront, took note of Alabaster.
How sad, it said, To be killed by your friend, your love, your idol.
And-
***
Uvalendri screamed, her voice raw and ragged, both out of fear and out of absolute grief at the cat speared Alabaster through the chest. He let out a coughing gasp, falling to his knees, blood dribbling from his chin like spittle. Light left his eyes.
The fire had been extinguished, casting all into darkness. She could only see the thing’s eyes, twin emeralds that smiled at her with a dark glee.
Uvalendri cowered against the corner of the room as the cat discarded Alabaster's body.
There, he said, That does that.
He glanced over to her. Her heart stopped.
You are the client, are you not?
She didn't respond, tears streaming down her face, scarring her cheeks. She wanted to retch, to sob, to scream, to-
Be not afraid, it said, I am not here to kill you.
Its voice was so calm. So assured. Uvalendri worked up the courage to speak.
“Y-You,” she said, “Y-you killed h-h-h-him.”
I did, it said simply, For if I did not, he would have tried again, wouldn't he?
“H-H-He w-was my b-brother.”
That he was, it said, and its voice took on an edge like an adult talking to a child, He was also a son. He would have been a father, too, were his future brighter.
Uvalendri could not bear to see his body in the center of the room. She broke down completely, her crying loud and piercing. The cat waited for her to control herself.
It was necessary, it said, Now, your mother is safe. Your city is safe. You are safe.
“I didn't,” she said, “I-I-I-”
Didn't expect me to go this far?
A noise came from the cat. Chuffing. Soft. It was laughter.
Let's just say, I chose to interpret the contract my own way, it said, I did what you were too afraid to do, what was unthinkable for your mother. I pave the way to your safety.
It began moving away from her, out of the room.
Here is how it went, it said, This elf, this friend of your brother's, decided to take it a step further. Decided to end the family line. Oh, I was far too late. She plunged a blade into his chest, and killed him. I only stopped after as she was standing over you, about to kill you, too.
Uvalendri was quiet.
Oh, my guildmaster will be upset.
“She’ll…” Uvalendri said, “Y-You’ll…”
What? There will be consequences? Perhaps. But she can't afford to kick me out. She's bound me so.
Those emerald eyes burned into her soul.
She should not have sent me, I think.
And she realized.
The cat had not killed her brother to protect her.
The cat had killed her brother because it enjoyed it. Because it could.
“Th-That's not how it will go,” Uvalendri said, “M-My mother, I-I'll tell h-her.”
You are brave, it said, But still naive. Of course your mother will know. But she will accept my story. She will know, yet not know. As will you. As will this city. They will accept the lie, for it is the easier path.
There was such sureness in its voice. Uvalendri went quiet.
Mourn your brother, it said, Hate me for what I have done, I do not care. You will thank me, when your emotion clears.
And the thing receded. Down the hallway. Up the stairs, back to her mother's room.
She was alone.
Two corpses in the room.
She broke down into another fit of sobs.
Her brother was dead.
Her brother was dead, and it was her fault.