Chapter Seventeen
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Charred“He should be here by now.” The voice wheezed like a deflating balloon, a last expenditure of precious air.
“He will, Your Highness.” The Marquis grovelled before his queen, so low that his bulbous belly brushed the floor.
“He hassss accesssss?”
“Unhindered.”
“Good, good,” said Chantelle. Her charred fingers tapped the arms of Gorgon's throne like twigs, wood on wood.
“How many guardssss?”
“Fifty within the room, a hundred without. In fact, all save the one who watches your ship.” Duke Gorgon shifted uneasily in his overly small seat.
“You are certain?” Chantelle hissed, to no one in particular.
“Yes.” An almost inaudible acknowledgement, cold even, like a dawn frost on a dead meadow.
“Who?” I mouthed to Merryweather. He silenced me with a finger to
