“What is he,
Fezzik?” Sithe hissed, sounding for a moment like she was attempting to imitate
the imp; said imp, for its part, looked thoroughly excited. Entranced. It
giggled, which sounded more like an old man’s hacking cough, with smooth little
clicks back ‘round its tiny throat.
“You’re not a stupid mistress,”
Fezzik purred, “so I’ll assume that you are after a—shall we call it—specific
answer?” Sithe gave a curt nod. “Fine, then. He deals in work much like your
own. Of course he does. Wicked little Abney does. Why, how else could he have
such a powerful position in your human politics? Each of his rivals? Each ...
and every ... one? Are they among
the living? Those nobles who could threaten his position with the lofty,
illustrious Sisters? Oh, no-no-no-no-no.”
A spit-shining, sickle grin cut through the imp’s twisted face again. “They are
quite ...” A pause. “... dead. Now, be serious, clever girl. Could that possibly be a coincidence?”
“Your work?” Sithe asked; she sounded almost betrayed.
“Not mine personally.”
Fezzik looked entirely betrayed. It put a hand to its chest. “But we have
allies, we creatures of ether. The same as you. We share stories, the same as
you. Tell me true, Mistress: don’t you think it odd that Master Abney, old and
white-haired and hunkered the way he is, would have a sweet, young little
daughter?”
“Odd? Perhaps. But not unheard of.”
“Oh, no. Of course not. But think, Mistress. Only one child to share in his fancy estate?
No wife? No servants?” Fezzik waved an admonishing finger. “There is no playful
little excuse for such solitude in a man like that. He’s had wives, and he’s
had children, and he’s had people in his employ. Yes, indeed, he has had them.”
* * *
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