TITLE: Traitor's Plight
“It isn’t right that you’re making your home in this cesspool,” Rhys grumbled as he followed the older man up the creaking staircase to the second level. Werdimor grunted sourly in response and increased his pace, his stride long and regular for a man of his age.
He led him down a dark, narrow hallway and through an open door into a small apartment, lit only by a glassless slit of a window and a few tallow candles. The rank smell of the fish shop below drifted up through the gaps in the floorboards, and indeed as Rhys looked down he could see a patron below him examining a rather sorry-looking salmon.
Rhys looked up from his examination of the fish and smiled broadly at his old nurse as she made her way across the sparsely furnished room towards him.
“It has been too long, Marrie. I hope you’ve been well?”
“As well as can be expected.” She smiled gratefully at him as he handed her the sack he had been carrying. “Cup of tea?”
“That would be wonderful,” he responded, though he would have preferred something stronger. If nothing else, it would take the edge off the dull throb in the back of his head from the prior night’s excesses. Idly he fingered the lump of the flask in his coat pocket before dropping his hand to his sword hilt, gripping it tightly for a moment as his anger flared. These idle days were to his detriment.