And in his myriad condescensions and his bright frickin' ideas, he was Kissinger without a president when it came to politics: all analysis, no authority. In his smoking jacket and his natty pin-striped slacks and.shit, were those actually spats?.he was right out of the pages of Vanity Fair. Which meant he was just plain precious, all the way around. Like most members of the glymera, he had both velvet slippers firmly planted in the dry, rarified sand of his class. Montrag blinked and fiddled with the silk cravat at his neck. "Have you any response?" Montrag, son of Rehm, said. In the thick moments after they were spoken to him, Rehvenge kept quiet, letting the quartet hang in the stuffy air of the study, four points of a dark, evil compass he was intimately familiar with. Put together? They called up all kinds of bad shit: Murder.
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