Extraits

« — Est-ce que…

Ada leva de nouveau les mains.

— Est-ce qu’on ne vient pas de parler du fait qu’il y a des monstres dans les marais, et il s’en va, tout seul, chier dans son pantalon ?

— Je ne chie pas dans mon pantalon ! cria Scott depuis les arbres. Je chie sans mon pantalon ! Et puis, tu penses qu’il va se passer quoi ? Qu’un monstre va m’attraper alors que mes culottes sont autour de mes chevilles et m’entraîner ?  »

« Parce qu’ils étaient là, bordel, dans le Marais de la Mort, qui s’avérait maintenant rempli de monstres »

« Il se mordait la lèvre et sa barbichette hirsute tremblotait comme une petite créature des bois effrayée. Son front se plissa.

— Il semblerait que la route soit au mauvais endroit, mon suzerain.

— La faute à la carte, bien sûr, commenta Loth, tout en se demandant combien de temps il faudrait à Scott pour tous les mener à leur perte.

Quelques minutes, selon toute probabilité.

— Oui, tout à fait, approuva rapidement Scott en se précipitant à nouveau. C’est la faute de la carte. »

Loth sighed and rattled the chains of his manacles, but they remained stubbornly affixed to the cold stone wall of the cell in Delacourt castle. Delacourt castle, like the rest of Delacourt, was a total shithole. Loth had only been here a few days after stumbling off the ship from Callier, but he felt more than qualified to make that judgement call. His head throbbed, either because of how much ale he’d had to drink last night or because the guards hadn’t been gentle with him during his arrest. His memory of the events wasn’t crystal clear, but his favourite blue doublet had a tear in it, and he was fairly certain he’d never get the stains out of the knees of his pants. Which, not for the first time, but Loth preferred to be on his knees by choice, and not because he was being dragged through the muddy streets by a bunch of thugs wearing the livery of the crown. Waking up in chains wasn’t his favourite way to start the day either, that was for sure. Not unless he’d agreed to it beforehand.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I got into this mess,” he announced loudly in the gloom.

The pile of straw on the other side of the cell rustled, and a grubby face appeared. “I wasn’t. I don’t care.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Loth said to his cellmate.

“Then who were you talking to?” his cellmate demanded, jutting his jaw out.

“I was soliloquising,” Loth said. “Well, I was hoping to, but somebody won’t shut their mouth.”

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”

Loth snorted. “How can I soliloquise if I do that? Now, hush.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re wondering how I got into this mess.”

“I am not wondering!” his cellmate snarled. “I am trying to sleep! Shut up!”

“Since you’re awake,” Loth said, “and apropos of nothing, you wouldn’t happen to know what the penalty is in these parts for pickpocketing, would you?”

“I hope it involves cutting your tongue out.”

Loth hummed. “That would be a terrible loss. My tongue would be mourned throughout the land.”

“I doubt that very much,” his snappish cellmate replied. “You haven’t said anything of import yet.”

Loth grinned. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean for talking.”

Eyes widened in the shadows, and then the straw rustled again as his cellmate attempted to bury himself under it. “Shut up!”

Loth leaned his head back against the wall and chuckled. Well, at least he could entertain himself while he was here, right? His cellmate—a drab, grimy creature who appeared to be mostly composed of straw—was just the sort of prickly arsehole that was fun to torment. It was especially fun since they were chained to opposite walls, and Loth had already checked his cellmate couldn’t reach him. If he attempted to attack Loth in a fit of rage, he’d be brought up short. Loth had learned very early in life that with a mouth like his, he’d needed to develop a very strong sense of self-preservation to go along with it.