Swinebroth's eyes widened, his lips parting in protest, but no words came.
What is wrong with him? He trembled as he forced his head to turn towards Horsey, for an explanation, a reprieve. Anything.
None came.
Whiskers' gaze snapped to the others in the room, daring anyone to speak. He saw their unease, their downcast eyes, their refusal to meet his stare. The indifference was palpable.
"You are all blind," he snarled, his voice rising. "Every last one of you, blind as worms."
His hand clenched tighter upon Swinebroth's shoulder. The boy winced. "This," Whiskers spat, jerking his head toward the golden teeth, " is a night that hungers for blood."
His final words rang out like a curse, drawing shivers from those who heard them. With a violent shove, Whiskers released Swinebroth, sending him stumbling back. The bearded hermit turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his dark cloak billowing behind him.
The hall remained silent long after the doors slammed shut. Swinebroth, trembling, looked down at the golden teeth on the floor, their gleam now feeling cold and heavy as lead. Whatever effect the hermit had on the group, this had worsened—a tempest in their midst.
"Does his vote even count?" Big Harlot, Little Harlot's younger brother, finally asked, his query being the first to break the silence.
"No," Goatswhistle grunted, already bored of the situation. Whiskers had always had a penchant for these dramatic displays, and he was long past being fazed by them. Goatswhistle did try to make purpose of it. He once proposed to the man that he should start his own act, complete with live corpses. No one had laughed, not even Whiskers.
Horsey said nothing, just merely shook his head as he turned away, back to minding the performing monkeys. Pitch the parrot merely casted the boy a side glance. Swinebroth knew Horsey would not reprimand Whiskers despite their shared age and long history together, almost as if Whiskers' madness had long ago settled into normalcy, an inevitability they had all learned to live with.
With that, the Setikosi turned their attention back to the banquet. Horsey, always the pragmatic one, spoke with finality after a while. "We shall keep him on standby. But not with the animals. Never with the animals."
No one argued with that.
The boy stared down at the golden teeth in his hands. Was what Whiskers said true? Did the Her-Ku'am who sold his teeth really die that evening?
Little Harlot was annoyed about another matter altogether. "Why does he still work here if he cannot even show up on time?" His voice dripped with disdain, but it was a question that lingered in the room unanswered.
"You are not any better," Goatswhistle shot back, somehow already sober by the time he had finished the bottle. There was truth to his words. For all his fame and charm, the swordsman shared the same flaw as Whiskers, albeit with more privileges to cushion the blow. He could be late, reckless even, and still earn back respect. Whiskers, on the other hand, would never earn the same leeway.
The swordsman, not taking his attitude far longer, stepped closer. "Then why ask for a vote? You know no one wants to work with that dirty criminal. Did you get a whiff of him?" Little Harlot's voice dropped to a harsh whisper, "You do not decide for us."
Goatswhistle remained unfazed. He smiled, shark-like, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Why, why, why. Why is everyone so scared of him? It is all just rumors. He did not really kill and eat a man, you know."
"He did not?" said Swinebroth, who had approached without fanfare. The boy's curiosity flared at the thought of eating man-flesh. This very rumor had clung to Whiskers like a shadow, something to keep wary of. Judging by the way the others treated him, he had begun to fall in line, treating Whiskers with the same distant vigilance.
Little Harlot snapped his gaze to Swinebroth, his voice sharp and controlled, laced with an irritation he could barely conceal. "No, he did not."
Goatswhistle smirked, leaning back in sheer pleasure. "Or perhaps…he did." he trailed off, eyes narrowing as if pondering the possibility.
"Do not listen to him," Little Harlot said, his voice biting. "Ignore him." He paused, his distaste palpable. "Do not even think about him."
"Oh, but alas! I am but a wretched minstrel," Goatswhistle lamented theatrically, dropping to one knee before the swordsman. He pressed a hand to his brow, raising the other to the ceiling as if pleading with the heavens. "Condemned to wander the stars with no purpose but to vex the virtuous! Mark my words, Harlot, I do so with great relish."
Little Harlot, though irked down to the fibrous root of his soul, was far from astonished. The delightful Goatswhistle was always like this, whether his bloodstream frothed with spirits or ran sober. That grin of his, fastened like a brooch on the face of a painted corpse, seldom faltered. One might have taken a liking to him instantly were it not for his commentary. His unsettling commentary. The untimely remarks, the maddening cheer in the face of chaos—these often made the task of enduring his company an endeavor best left to those with robust nerves or no sense at all. Swinebroth observed from a distance, still struggling to comprehend the man's strange zest for life. It was not just about the banter, or the chaos Goatswhistle so easily orchestrated—it was something deeper, a morbid amusement in watching the temple unravel, as if he reveled in the disorder that followed in his wake, something Goatswhistle often devised plans for, and had involved the boy in before a couple times.
But despite everything, Swinebroth reasoned, he had always been nice. That, at least, was something to hold on to.
Swinebroth, still rattled by the conversation, shifted uneasily, his mouth twitching as if caught between a smile and discomfort. He shot a quick glance at Goatswhistle but quickly looked away, his voice barely above a murmur. "Stop… stop that," he said, his tone almost apologetic. His lips managed a small, tentative grin. "You are always making things up."
Goatswhistle's grin widened, pleased by the reaction. "Ah, my efforts are recognized."
The mood lightened somewhat after that, though the unease lingered just below the surface. The trio fell into a somewhat comfortable silence, the air between them still thick with unspoken thoughts. The Setikosi were now hauling the cages off to the banquet hall through the transport tower, a mechanism that hooked cages onto its ledges to allow for a vertical transfer. It was almost as if the memory of Whiskers' outburst had dissipated. As if he had not been there at all. The banquet, looming ahead, would proceed regardless of what pessimistic rubble he would spout.
"There is really nothing to be afraid of," Little Harlot finally said, turning his attention to Swinebroth. His words were calm, but the flicker of uncertainty behind his eyes suggested otherwise. He glanced at the golden teeth in Swinebroth's hands, uncertain how the boy was so comfortable with grasping it with his bare hands after hearing Whiskers' tirade. "These are just people."
Goatswhistle nodded, his grin still present, though now laced with an almost mocking warmth. "Just people," he echoed. His smile faltered slightly. Just a bunch of cowards, was what those people were in his eyes. The boy that stood before him was going to follow in their path as well, like their old master Horsey.
Real wasted potential: stocking superstitions instead of taking action. Sometimes, he grew tired of these same people, these same stunts, same reasons. He long suspected they were the reason why he sobers up easily.
"You overthink everything, Whinesnot."
Then Goatswhistle stood, towering over the pair. A busy goliath of a man who had a huge network of friends from other ministries, his thoughts were oddly filled with possibilities and schemes which Swinebroth knew him best for–sober in body but mind drunk with the suffering of others. Sobriety did nothing to his appetite for games—if anything, it honed his cruelty into an art.
He kept everyone guessing, and perhaps that was what the temple needed. A little guessing. A little dread. Elsewise they would all start throwing themselves from balconies to escape the slow rot of apathy, as melancholy was a common affliction among the Ku'amic ranks.
But not for Goatswhistle.
"Horsey, I think the time is nigh for your boy to join us for the festivities."
"Hm." Horsey's grunt was all the confirmation Goatswhistle needed.
Goatswhistle then turned his attention to Swinebroth, fixing him with an unnerving gaze. "Let us have him on standby, with Whiskers."
The boy dropped the teeth from shock.
Goatswhistle grinned. "That is right, just like that. You will be making a new friend in no time."