“He is a disgrace!” shouted the Lady. “Take him away.”
The failed dancer was led outside by harsh hands, his jeweled codpiece glinting in the torchlight.
“Mistress,” spoke one of the Soothed, bowing his shaved pate to the floor at her feet, “there is word. The nuatua is low; the shipment from Celeste has not arrived.”
“How much remains?”
“But two days’.”
She considered. “Slaughter half of the Raging and feed them to the other half. That will give us nearly half a week.”
“We will have to make other plans,” she said, reclining in her gilded chair.
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