18
“The poison should be taking effect by now,” Priscilla murmured from her chair.
“Whazzat?” said the small, half-dressed man, his eyes widening. He was one of two guards who had been assigned to Priscilla after her conversation with Ubirk on the balcony, when she and Jorah had been put in different rooms. The other guard, a big man in full armor, was silent, but she had his attention. Both of them were troubled by what she’d said.
She held up a finger with a flourish so that they could see. “It’s not difficult. Let me explain it so that even you dim-witted fools can understand: The poison is figurative. There is no actual poison coursing anywhere. Although, there is something that eats away at the life, stealing vitality even as we speak.”
“The more you talk, the less sense you make. But I know when I’m bein’ mocked!”
The room Priscilla was in currently left something to be desired in terms of opulence compared with the island master’s chamber. The small man, having drawn a boring guard duty, now grabbed a dagger in each hand and glared at Priscilla. His anger with her words was written on his ugly face, as was the fact that he wanted to take that anger out on her.
However…
“If you’re hoping to threaten me, you’re much too late.”
“Yeah? Let’s see how long you can keep up that talk, ya little—”
“Nah, I think she’ll be talkin’ like that until the day she dies,” someone said, interrupting the howling little man. He jumped back, ready to fight, but he was caught by a spear blow, a single strike that stabbed him through the face and took his life. He fell on the spot.
At the exact same moment, the big man sank to the red carpet with an earsplitting clatter of armor. That was thanks to the man with the saber and the strange haircut—Gajeet, who had killed another sword slave. Accompanying him into the room was…
“You do know how to keep a woman waiting,” Priscilla remarked.
“Aw, I hurried, y’know, I really did. But first, Miles needed to give me a good thrashing, then the high countess told me to bide my time…”
“Enough excuses. You at least have my praise for arriving before the poison finished its work.” That was the most appreciation Priscilla would offer the slump-shouldered Balleroy. Then she turned and looked at Gajeet.
He was one of the drops of poison Priscilla had sown. Now he flicked his companions’ blood off his saber, giving a click of his tongue when he saw her looking at him.
Presumably, it all showed that he had chosen to fight against his circumstances in order to take control of his own destiny. If Gajeet was on the move, it most likely meant that the sword slaves in the room with Jorah had made up their minds as well.
“Although, there’s a possibility they’re all dead—along with my beloved husband.”
“Aw, don’t say that, you’re scarin’ me. The high countess told me to protect Count Pendleton too, see.”
“Then we had better get about it,” Priscilla said with consummate detachment. She stood up, straightening her dress as she rose. She had already tired of the transient amusements of this upheaval, and she had a fair idea of what its leader, Ubirk, was up to. All of which meant she couldn’t expect the situation to save her from boredom any longer.
Thus, Priscilla Pendleton had but one thing to do—
“For its final act, I must grace this boorish performance with the flower that is myself.”
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