The child had stopped screaming, and so far, no sirens had begun to blare. Havelock had poured the wine and gestured to his compatriots to drink well. "We've succeeded, my friends. We have done it." He had drank from his own cup, and without waiting for the two of them to join him in toast, had excused himself to find another bottle.
Neither the Lord nor the Overseer believed a word he'd said, and they doubted the Admiral had any more faith than they in his speech. Pendleton stared fixedly at the wine, while Martin idly swirled the liquor in his glass.
"You've been awfully quiet, Treavor." the Overseer finally said. Treavor didn't respond. "Is something the matter?"
The nobleman let out a quiet snort, but said nothing.
"You haven't touched your wine." Treavor looked up tiredly and the two of them met eyes. "I assume, friend, that you have not touched your drink for the same reason I have not touched mine?"
If there had been any mirth left in Pendleton at all, he might have laughed. As a nobleman, he knew the look of fine wine, particularly this vintage (He had, after all, chosen it himself ages back, back before they'd kidnapped an Empress, back before a man more powerful than they had dreamed knew them as "enemy", back before... before...).
"The color is off." he murmured, breaking his silence. "Perhaps it has not aged properly."
Martin gave a wry smile. "Perhaps."
The two sat in silence, staring at their glasses. "You haven't even touched your flask- surely you filled it with a spirit more... appropriately aged."
"No, I did not... I..." Treavor licked his lips. "It was Wallace who..."
"Yes, he..." the nobleman let out a tinny laugh. "You know he raised me? Almost, I mean. Well, moreso tha my own parents, and of course, you know about my brothers, he... he had so much faith in me, so much dedication... He was like a father. Or..." Treavor fell silent again.
Treavor leaned forward, his head propped up and his eyes buried in his left hand, and nodded. He made a few sniffling sounds, and Martin chose not to comment on them. Instead he gazed into his glass again. Pendleton was right. The color was definitely off for this brand, and even as he swirled it, the flow was just a tad to slow in places, the bubbles wrong and irregular. He chuckled bitterly. "Havelock's finally gone mad, hasn't he?"
"Wouldn't you? You know he's coming, and what's going to stop him? Who are we? Some weakling nobleman and a High Overseer? What's new about that? What's going to stop him this time, hm?"
"Thick walls, the finest men in uniform, a watchtower-"
"All things Corvo has managed before, and with barely a scratch to prove it. This lighthouse is nothing, and there is nothing that will stop that man from reaching us. He's... different."
"Indeed he is." Martin rubbed his eyes. "Perhaps Havelock, whatever his motives may be, is doing us a kindness."
Treavor tapped the table and jiggled his leg nervously. "Corvo has always shown restraint before."
"Yes, but none of his previous targets poisoned him, or set him afloat in a plague-infected district, or kidnapped his daughter."
"Is she his daughter?"
"I think its safe to assume."
"Hmf. I think it's also safe to assume that Havelock will be returning soon, and if these glasses aren't emptied by then, he might... take offense."
"The glass or the old Admiral. Not much of a choice."
"Indeed." Pendleton drummed his fingers on the table. He sighed. "Then again, what's one more bad choice, hm?"
Martin raised his glass. "To bad choices."
Pendleton allowed a small, bitter smile. "To poor friends."
"To the young Empress. May she rule wisely."
"To that bastard Admiral. May Corvo show him no mercy."
"To Custis and Morgan!"
"To that Boyle bitch!"
"To Sokolov's elixers!"
"To Piero's remedies!"
"To you, Lord Pendleton."
"To you, High Overseer Martin."
"A toast indeed."