Leon Kallis:
"What do you think?
"Oh, I think you've got it all figured out. They might as well tie a little red bow on the the Tooth and gift it to you right now. Save us all the trouble of this nonsense," Zuul replies, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.
In the past, Zuul had always shown Leon favor. For whatever reason, Leon just had a way about him that brought out the best in people—even gnarled old gargoyles. However, Zuul was in one of his moods; even if he thought Leon's head was in the right place, he was going to be quick to lop it off.
The stone vulture rocks back in his creaking chair and places one taloned finger on his temple, exhaling loudly.
"Lord Dreadstone, also known as the dread wolf of Temecula, or the bloody wolf of Temecula, has two sigils. One is of a white wolf baying atop a mountain, a red full moon behind it on a field of black. The other is of a wolf's head."
Zuul flips over the envelope on the table Martin handed him earlier. It is sealed in red wax with the house's signet, an ornate, stylized wolf's head—a visage of terrible menace:
"He's the
bloody lord for a good reason. Ever since he took seat atop the empire's highest court of law, the honorable judge has spilled more noble blood on the guillotine than I knew we even had. It flowed in rivers, mixing in a cesspool with even more of a common vintage. 'The Cleansing,' some called it. And because of it, Dreadstone isn't without enemies*, as one can imagine. We'll not tarry there any longer . . ."
As if to add stern punctuation, Zuul pauses to beam through the dim, flickering candlelight at each of the three standing in his workshop individually. His thoughts blare louder than words: "We shall not discuss the subject of Dreadstone's enemies further."
"Suffice it to say, your every movement after putting on Dreadstone's livery had better be in character, and you don't want to be seen naywhere near the Upper Ward before hand traipsing around like lost kittens."
Leon Kallis:
"Zuul, walking away from this job might be a step in the right direction but I'm not sure our good friend Durgin will be particularly happy. I share your concerns though..."
"What can Durgin do that Dreadstone won't?"
He then turns his gaze to Martin. "Of course, Durgin will stop before moving on to others . . ."
Meeshak:
Meeshak stopped and looked at the gargoyle, "Care to invest in our survival?"
"I'm already invested wingtips to toenails," Zuul snaps back, not taking whatever bait Meeshak was dangling before his beaked nose. "When you three get caught by the throats and put you to the question, I wonder just how long you'll last before you give up poor old Zuul. Just how many fingers and toes you'll be willing to loose. How many broken bones and hot pokers it'll take before, 'It's not me you want, Mr. Torturer! It's that damned old stone buzzard at the Raven's Claw who set me up!' You'll shout my name from high atop the
breaking wheel, I'll hazard.
"No, it doesn't matter now," Zuul continues with a dismissive wave of his hand, resigned to his fate. "No one who knows about this little outing will live to tell about it unless that stone rests in Durgin's hand, and even then, you can forget about remaining here in the paradise of Rimuldar. It's too late to back out, so you all better scribe your last testaments. A short list, I'm sure."
"Speaking of lists, I have a charter of invitations, or at least a partial one. I expect you'll want to familiarize yourself with it, Leon, as you're the only one who can pass as anything other than the shit beneath a nobleman's boot heel. It's just names. You'll want to learn what you can about each. Oh, there are a couple hundred on there, but I circled about a dozen or so of interest, particularly those who are staying at the manor." As he speaks, he produces a couple leafs of paper from the drawer in his desk and slides them across the table. "I don't suppose I have to tell you not to get caught with that.
"You'll note the first name on the list." Zuul doesn't speak it. He just taps one black claw on the paper.
The unspoken name drops like a hammer. His Imperial Highness The Prince Gregor Leonidas Draven was attending the auction in person. Durgin wasn't just sending you to a fancy high-class cocktail where the affluent bid on faded paintings, moth-eaten tapestries and moldy ottomans; this was a royal affair.
There won't just be guards. There will be an army. The royal escort alone will likely be a hundred strong. The prime centurion of Rimuldar might act as the doorman.
There's not a thief in the world who could sneak onto the premises, let alone jimmy a window.
Again, Zuul rocks back in his chair, this time smirking. He lets the situation settle down upon the three like a heavy, wet blanket in an icy rainstorm. "So, I don't think you'll need to case the manor, Mr. Goblin. I think your imagination will suffice. A sea of black armor and a forest of spears. No one in or out without one of these," he says, glancing down at the invitation sitting on the table like a poisonous snake coiled and ready to strike at the first man to pick it up.
Zuul breaks the brief, morose silence. "Meeshak, show these two to the cellar. Your gear and livery is there. Try it on. Martin, an eyepatch marks yours. Careful with that sword. We've established that it's magic, just like damn near everything else you'll all be wearing."
Neither Martin nor Leon knew there was a cellar, but they follow the goblin, who, with a gesture magically reveals a trapdoor on the floor of another small, cramped room full of junk.
* See Chapter IV, msg #121 for a hint of the brewing trouble five years in the future, though it is Lord Slayer who wears the mantle of high judge at that time. Wonder why? Further note, this is "The Cleansing" proper, not to be confused with the following "War of the Cleansing," which hasn't yet happened in this timeline.