With an ebony tray the size of a porch in her hands, she humped the load across the room. "Come in." The doggen who followed the command struggled under the weight of the silver service she carried. "I fail to view this with your kind of levity." "Who's laughing." A knock on the study's door brought Montrag's head to the side, and he had a profile like an Irish setter: all nose. The landing isn't getting any softer." Montrag frowned. And in his myriad condescensions and his bright frickin' ideas, he was Kissinger without a president when it came to politics: all analysis, no authority. In his smoking jacket and his natty pin-striped slacks and.shit, were those actually spats?.he was right out of the pages of Vanity Fair. Which meant he was just plain precious, all the way around. Like most members of the glymera, he had both velvet slippers firmly planted in the dry, rarified sand of his class. "Nope." Montrag blinked and fiddled with the silk cravat at his neck. "Have you any response?" Montrag, son of Rehm, said. In the thick moments after they were spoken to him, Rehvenge kept quiet, letting the quartet hang in the stuffy air of the study, four points of a dark, evil compass he was intimately familiar with. Put together? They called up all kinds of bad shit: Murder. Chapter One The king must die." Four single-syllable words.
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