He dubbed himself the Rat King when he foresaw the rodents crawling on his corpse, weaving in and out of his garments like a sensation, like a disease. Now he waits for them down in the ornate sewer home he fashioned. It is a fickle thing, the premo...
"They say she came at the peak of the Rat King's reign."
"From where?"
"The East. He returned after one of his expeditions and she was there with him. Never said how. Those who went with him do not speak of it."
"Has he always had such an odd affection for her?"
"I cannot tell. They say she did not speak for the first thirty years. A mute."
"Ah, I thought it strange she should be named so."
"She still will not talk. Not to anyone but him. I tried myself: she will not say a word."
"Why is that, I wonder?"
"Fear is what I saw in her face."
"Well, you are rather terrifying, Pavel."
The named laughs, but his eyes travel uneasily to where Boidae sits, and his gaze lingers on the knife that twirls in between the other's white fingers.
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"Signor Luca has given me an interesting proposition, Inquisitor."
It is early morning, in the Great Hall, and the soft sound of birds trickles down to their open ears. The Rat King's face is gaunt, hollowed in a haunted, sleepless way. "A pact—aligning our two great powers for a better cause. What do you make of it?"
They all know why he has spoken of this. Harren knows. It is punishment: ridicule in front of the very people he struck that deal with, revenge for his subtle betrayal. It is made known to everyone that Harren knows not of the acceptance of that proposal until this morning. They now know he is out of favor with the king, whose smile somewhat mirrors that of the skull—or so Harren believes—grinning at him both from over the brim of his goblet and between his feet. Slyv sighs from his seat, torn between satisfaction and irritation. His leg aches and the memory of a nightmare still breathes upon his neck.
"Well, I believe this is a good match," Harren begins and the king shoots an inquiring look at him, something dark and dangerous lurking in the pits of his eyes. The Inquisitor's hands begin to tremble and he sets the fork down on his plate. "A-and of course, this is a perfect chance to assert your dominance over the Dog Clan—"
He clears his throat, sticky beads of sweat rolling down his neck. Birds screech in the distance, a sharp shrill grinding on his patience, gnawing at his fortitude.
"And r-regain control of the upper parts of Austria—"
"What?" the Rat King snaps. Briskly, timely. A hawk that has identified its prey. "What did you say?"
Silence falls like a stone: sharp and with a sudden rush that draws attention to its very existence. Servants freeze in mid-reach, Slyv leans back—though it is more from the pain in his leg than from the events that are sure to come—and Harren turns a misty white. Meanwhile, the visitors watch, their eyes locked on the displeaser and the displeased.
