wreak.
Chapter 42: For All Things Are Mortal
Bonsoir had taken care of the guards outside the throne room but he hadn’t done anything about the door itself. The Captain was a competent lock pick himself, as was Cinnabar, but it was easier just to have Barley break it down, which was what they did, the badger rushing against the door and then rushing right back out again, retching up the eggs he’d eaten for breakfast and the whiskey he’d drunk for lunch. With the door open, Mephetic’s emanations came billowing out, and rather than join Barley’s example Cinnabar and the Captain retreated back down the corridor. The badger followed as soon as he was able, and they let the stink filter out awhile before returning.
Gertrude had died hard. A full blast of Mephetic’s reek and still she had struggled, crawling facedown toward the door, her blood streaking against the marble floor. But she had managed to right herself before expiring, leaning against a wall, slump-shouldered, her face mute with the agony of her final moments. The stench that came off her corpse was uncanny, unbearable though Cinnabar bore it, kneeling down beside her, holding his hat to his chest.
“Rough way to die,” Barley said, but this was as far as his sympathies went. He had never liked the Underground Man, particularly, and anyway, none of them were very likely to survive till morning.
“Let’s go,” the Captain said.
But Cinnabar didn’t answer.
“Cinnabar.”
“One moment.”
“We don’t have the time.”
Everyone knows, of course, that salamanders are a breed apart. Their blood is cold, their humours bitter; they know neither sympathy nor passion. They take no lovers, only mates, and they don’t have friends, only allies, and even then only so long as they’re convenient. Everyone knows that. Everyone.
“There’s time if I say there’s time,” Cinnabar said.
The Captain stared at him for a long moment but in the end it seemed he agreed, or at least he did not move onward. Cinnabar looked back down at Gertrude and said nothing further. Somewhere below there was the sound of an explosion and the floor rocked uneasily. Something screamed, and then stopped screaming. Gertrude’s eyes were wide and red veined and despairing. Cinnabar closed them and stood. “All right,” he said.
Chapter 43: Raison d’Être
Bonsoir was having a grand time.
The Captain had been right, that first night when he had come recruiting. Bonsoir had been wasting his time in dusty border towns, amid rundown bars—and more than his time, he had been wasting his genius.
Everything had a purpose, that was the way Bonsoir saw it. Bees make honey, songbirds trill, pretty females strut down the sidewalk on sunny afternoons and pretend they do not know you are looking at them. The rest of the crew, Barley and Cinnabar and so on, they were kick-down-the-door types, guns-blazing types, die-in-the-spotlight-with-blood-on-their-grin types. Not Bonsoir. Bonsoir scuttled down darkened corridors and brought sleep with him—not even death, death was too strong a word for what he brought, for the silence that descended when he came. That was Bonsoir’s purpose, that was why Bonsoir existed. And what is more joyous than to act according to our innermost nature?
Which brings us back to: Bonsoir was having a grand time.
Though it must be said, Bonsoir’s mind was not occupied solely with pleasure. It had occurred to Bonsoir—if he was to be absolutely honest, which he wouldn’t have been—it had occurred to Bonsoir some days earlier that he could still remember the location of the treasure vault, hidden deep within the subterranean layers of the inner keep. And it had also occurred to Bonsoir that this vault, which under normal circumstances would have been so thickly guarded that even Bonsoir couldn’t have had much hope of breaking into it, would, under these current conditions, likely be denuded of its normal compliment of soldiers. Worth looking
Chapter 42: For All Things Are Mortal
Bonsoir had taken care of the guards outside the throne room but he hadn’t done anything about the door itself. The Captain was a competent lock pick himself, as was Cinnabar, but it was easier just to have Barley break it down, which was what they did, the badger rushing against the door and then rushing right back out again, retching up the eggs he’d eaten for breakfast and the whiskey he’d drunk for lunch. With the door open, Mephetic’s emanations came billowing out, and rather than join Barley’s example Cinnabar and the Captain retreated back down the corridor. The badger followed as soon as he was able, and they let the stink filter out awhile before returning.
Gertrude had died hard. A full blast of Mephetic’s reek and still she had struggled, crawling facedown toward the door, her blood streaking against the marble floor. But she had managed to right herself before expiring, leaning against a wall, slump-shouldered, her face mute with the agony of her final moments. The stench that came off her corpse was uncanny, unbearable though Cinnabar bore it, kneeling down beside her, holding his hat to his chest.
“Rough way to die,” Barley said, but this was as far as his sympathies went. He had never liked the Underground Man, particularly, and anyway, none of them were very likely to survive till morning.
“Let’s go,” the Captain said.
But Cinnabar didn’t answer.
“Cinnabar.”
“One moment.”
“We don’t have the time.”
Everyone knows, of course, that salamanders are a breed apart. Their blood is cold, their humours bitter; they know neither sympathy nor passion. They take no lovers, only mates, and they don’t have friends, only allies, and even then only so long as they’re convenient. Everyone knows that. Everyone.
“There’s time if I say there’s time,” Cinnabar said.
The Captain stared at him for a long moment but in the end it seemed he agreed, or at least he did not move onward. Cinnabar looked back down at Gertrude and said nothing further. Somewhere below there was the sound of an explosion and the floor rocked uneasily. Something screamed, and then stopped screaming. Gertrude’s eyes were wide and red veined and despairing. Cinnabar closed them and stood. “All right,” he said.
Chapter 43: Raison d’Être
Bonsoir was having a grand time.
The Captain had been right, that first night when he had come recruiting. Bonsoir had been wasting his time in dusty border towns, amid rundown bars—and more than his time, he had been wasting his genius.
Everything had a purpose, that was the way Bonsoir saw it. Bees make honey, songbirds trill, pretty females strut down the sidewalk on sunny afternoons and pretend they do not know you are looking at them. The rest of the crew, Barley and Cinnabar and so on, they were kick-down-the-door types, guns-blazing types, die-in-the-spotlight-with-blood-on-their-grin types. Not Bonsoir. Bonsoir scuttled down darkened corridors and brought sleep with him—not even death, death was too strong a word for what he brought, for the silence that descended when he came. That was Bonsoir’s purpose, that was why Bonsoir existed. And what is more joyous than to act according to our innermost nature?
Which brings us back to: Bonsoir was having a grand time.
Though it must be said, Bonsoir’s mind was not occupied solely with pleasure. It had occurred to Bonsoir—if he was to be absolutely honest, which he wouldn’t have been—it had occurred to Bonsoir some days earlier that he could still remember the location of the treasure vault, hidden deep within the subterranean layers of the inner keep. And it had also occurred to Bonsoir that this vault, which under normal circumstances would have been so thickly guarded that even Bonsoir couldn’t have had much hope of breaking into it, would, under these current conditions, likely be denuded of its normal compliment of soldiers. Worth looking
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