Rexi and Talon

By Onyx Tao

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27. 'Zackton Silvercane'

Zackton cursed to himself silently. He hated being taken by surprise, and the Paracount had surprised him. Sildrago, back when Zackton had been simply Baron's Task, had been a spellcaster Baron occasionally consulted, nothing more, and, Zackton thought, mortal at that time. At some time between then and now Sildrago had clearly achieved some kind of immortality.

But what kind?

He could rule out Zackton's own life-extension, simply because if Sildrago were skilled enough to bind and deal with something like the Gogg, then nothing Zackton could do would bother him. But that wasn't likely; Sildrago had been unsure enough of his intrusion - or confident enough in his own power - to confront them directly. Arrogant, but then magic tended to make one arrogant. What kind of caster? Task hadn't really known much about the fine distinctions between sorcery, wizardry, witchcraft, magework, and a half-dozen other variants. Nor had Zackton bothered to think about Sildrago, assuming that a thirty-odd year old human would have perished sometime in the next ninety years.

Probably primarily a magic-handler, then. Most likely, Sildrago had managed to become a vampire, or he'd sealed his own death away as a lich. Either one had a tendency to unbalance the mind ... liches became obsessive over their books, vampires increasingly hedonistic. Reclusive paranoia was symptomatic of either, though. Which? "Did you get Baron's library?" Zackton asked.

Sounds suggested they were surrounded by several others, and Zackton mentally dismissed them after counting them - ten to twelve armored men - in favor of listening to the Paracount. "Some of it," Sildrago said as they walked back to the house. "That little shit Venzi tore the house up, right after the raid. He didn't last long, though."

"What happened?" asked Zackton. "I left, obviously." He'd hired a professional in Daggermark to remove Venzi, Ourdrach, and Bunt, that's what had happened, but Zackton felt no particular need to confess that. If only he'd ignored Bunt to ask for Sildrago's removal.

"Oh, Venzi was on top for a while, thought he was King Shit," Sildrago said. "Bunt, I think, hired someone to step on him. It was a little confused, but Tobar came out on top, and started in on Bunt's gang. Starting with Bunt. The Orange Knives were having their own internal issues - apparently, the only thing all of them agreed on was that they hated Baron, and once he was gone ..."

Or someone had kept riling them, over the next five years.

"... all of them, and their gangs, pretty much ripped themselves to shreds," Sildrago said. "Wasn't sorry to see it. Baron kept things nice, but then ... well, things pretty much fell apart and then the war ..." He shook his head. "Ugly."

That worked for motivation; why Sildrago had abandoned life for the cold stasis of undeath. The war, which had ended with the Thrune dynasty victory, had been vicious. But ... it didn't tell him what he was dealing with. "If you still have Baron's library, I'd like to look through it. He had Ventanyo's papers, some of them, and the first two drafts of Corionalun. Do you go to the opera much?"

"Every chance I get," Sildrago said. "I was looking forward to yours. Nobody's done any of the Belkzen cycle in years, much less reviving the entire thing."

He'd reacted to opera before he reacted to library. Vampire. So the men around him were probably under Sildrago's mental control - of course they were, that's why Sildrago hadn't needed to order them verbally. Should have realized. Didn't matter, though. Perhaps there was still a chance ... "I'm still hunting investors," Zackton said. "For an old friend, I could make a box available."

"That ..." and Sildrago chuckled. "Thank you. But knowing it's you, I really don't want to have to listen to you sing."

"Yes, that's ... that would have been true, back for Task. Zackton is an incredible singer." Zackton said. "The choirmaster wasn't wrong, just ... limited in his assessment. I still can't sing scales. But I can sing."

"That's what I hear, true," said Sidalgo. "So ... maybe. Do you still take brandy?" They'd been walking through the garden towards one of the lighted rooms, and as they drew closer, Zackton could see that it wasn't a window but a pair of large, glass-paned doors leading into a room with a desk, and a wall lined with shelves.

"A finger," Zackton said. "I'm sure you have good brandy. Life is too short for bad brandy."

"Funny you should say that ..." Sidalgo said, and turned, looking at the illusion of the pond Zackton had created. From here, it fit seamlessly into the view, and Zackton took a moment of pride in the work. It hadn't done what he'd wanted, true, but ... it was a well-put together crafting.

"That is ... I didn't realize one could do that," he said after a moment. "What magic did you use?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Zackton lied. "The parchment faded away like an illusion itself once I'd triggered it." The superior mirage spell, obviously. The lesser spell couldn't simulate artificial features, and certainly couldn't accommodate the perspective changes of the trick. And that told him something about the depth of Sildrago's arcane understanding: not a wizard. Probably not a wizard, he corrected himself. A specialist might have forgone any deep instruction in the delicate art of seeming and shadow that was illusion - but any wizard ought to be skilled enough to identify such a well-known magic ... probably not a wizard, then.

"Really? How ..."

"Theater is all about illusions, and most theatrical illusions are done sans magic," Zackton said. "Lines that fool the eye, suggest things that aren't so, play tricks with the way we see depth and distance. I recreated a theatrical effect with actual magic, rather than the other way around."

"I am impressed," Sidalgo said, sounding honest. "But then Baron always claimed you were special."

"Did he," said Zackton. "Brandy?"

"Of course," said Sidalgo, pouring out a small measure of golden liquid into a tiny glass goblet. "What do you think?"

Zackton took it, and sniffed it. It smelled like strong alcohol, a hint of the grapes that been distilled, but then Zackton was hardly a connoisseur of brandies. He preferred them light, with fruit juice, and without poison. Nevertheless, the poison made Sidalgo's intentions clear. There would be no negotiating. Interesting. He'd thought Sildrago might attempt to ensorcel him first ... perhaps ... ah, his amulet must have blocked the mind control attempt as well as his awareness of the attempt. Zackton feigned taking a sip, and set the glass down. "Lovely," he said, putting appreciation into his voice. "Thank you."

"Oh," said the Paracount, "you're welcome. I might ask ... if I might ... is this the result of the famous sun orchid elixir?"

"No," said Zackton. "A powerful wizard needed me alive - breathing alive - for a long time. So he did ... something. Slowed my aging to a fraction of its normal rate. I don't pretend I understand it. I think I have something worth your time, though. May I?"

"Certainly," Sildrago said. "Go ahead."

"Well, you already know how popular opera is. You must admit there's demand, and a lot of money just waiting to be collected," Zackton said, "Unfortunately, refurbishing a theater and hiring a first-class cast is expensive."

"You don't seem to be lacking money," Sidalgo said.

"My pockets are not bottomless, and I'm going to need a few thousand more sails to make this work," Zackton said. "But consider how influential an opera star - especially a new one like me - can be. What opportunities you may be pursuing, I do not know, but I suspect that following a successful production, I can open doors you've been wanting."

"Maybe," said Sidalgo, sitting down. "But ... that depends on your being a star."

"I am" said Zackton. "Listen. Judge for yourself." It started with a simple - deceptive - note, quickly falling through a set of minors, the dark vibrato, the echo of the last song ... it was almost cheating, Zackton thought to himself, as he made the subtle adjustments in his voice, threw his power into the keening dirge, not to make music, but to channel music from ... elsewhere.

Zackton wasn't entirely sure where elsewhere was, but that was where this music played, the music of the end of all things, the final notes, the last song ... when he'd been searching for it, it had taken many names, but all the references were to the same dreadful, beautiful, endless song that would triumph at the End. He watched Sidalgo listen, wondered how many of his mindfucked warriors were also listening as Zackton's voice merged with the Last Song.

And for a moment, just a moment, the Last Song burst out, notes that should not be heard, music that was not meant for the world, for any world, but only for the void that swallowed all things. The manor around him, stones and timbers, groaned in protest and then - finally, and too late - Sidalgo realized this wasn't an audition. This was an attack. More than an attack, it was destruction as the house came apart around them; the earth convulsed under the unforgiving purity of the Last Song, gashes opening in the solid rock swallowing everyone, everything, as Zackton finally let his smile - his real smile - reach his face.

The Paracount, of course, hadn't been swallowed by the earth, but all of his guards had. Perhaps he'd be angry and foolish enough to ...

Leap at Zackton.

Fool. Zackton didn't bother saying it, didn't bother saying anything. Words were no longer useful. Sidalgo would kill him, if he could. If he could. He'd apparently not realized that he wasn't facing the bewildered and happy-to-please Task, but a much older and more experienced killer. Oh, Task had been a killer, but Zackton had experience. Sidalgo was undead, though, and in this moment of passion, rather than unleashing some spell of death he gave in to his nature.

Zackton opened himself up to his gauntlet. Feed , he thought to it, felt it stir, just as Sidalgo reached him, and Zackton, despite his own strength, found himself forced backwards, across the rubble. "What did you do?" the vampire screeched at him. "What have you done?"

Unlike a vampire, Zackton still required air, and he didn't waste his breath on pointless accusations or useless questions, merely striking again and again with the gauntlet. Feed!

Hungry, came the response, slow with the deliberation of something that, as far as Zackton could tell, had been Old when the world itself was New. A sense of curiosity. Zackton usually fed it when he was attacked, although it had a tendency to doze. That-Who-Is-Zackton didn't fight enough.

No, that wasn't Zackton's thought, it was the gauntlet's, and the gauntlet was awake now, and instead of just fending off Sidalgo, the gauntlet was ...

Zackton wasn't sure what it was doing, or if Sidalgo noticed that bits and pieces of him were fading away, color leaching out of his face, his hair turning white, the skin fading away. The vampire's blows were no less punishing, and Zackton took them as best he could, depending on his personal ward to keep the antilife effect off him, but the creature's strength was considerable, and his protections weren't effective against that. It didn't matter.

Usually the gauntlet ate blood and hearts; but Zackton had never used it against a vampire, and the effects were bafflingly strange. They traded blows, Zackton taking - or seeming to take - by the far the worst of it, Sidalgo not even noticing that he was attacking Zackton one-handed, as his other arm had simply vanished. Or that he'd started hopping, as his leg faded away. If ...

Zackton's ward failed, and the vampire's antilife dragged at Zackton; he could feel it, a cold numbing chillness that made him slower, his moves heavier, and with each successful attack, the creature would suck more of his life away ... Zackton cursed mentally. He'd known the ward was ablative, but ... he hadn't expected Sildrago to burn through it that quickly. Which meant that all that was left was his life ... it wouldn't take many blows to drain it entirely.

And that would be bad. He needed to escape, or kill the thing, one or the other ... why had he burned all that magic earlier today? He had some left, but nothing effective against the dead. Not that he had much effective against the dead anyway.

Yes , he told the gauntlet. I surrender. Not in words, because the thing didn't use them, none that Zackton had ever heard. But just ... letting down the barriers that it out of his mind. It had probed them, once, giving him the strangest dreams until Zackton had realized it was just trying to make contact with him. And once it had, they'd stopped. Unless Zackton let the thing in.

Like he had just done.

The world froze. Dust hovered mid-aid. Zackton couldn't move, even if he'd still been in control of his actions. He could feel the slow almost-thoughts in the gauntlet, still aware that it was mostly asleep, dreamwalking, but he'd gotten enough of its attention. Attention that focused in on the snarling face of Sildago, fangs bared, claws wet with green blood - his blood.

Fury , offended and vengeful, boiled up from the ancient thing, and Zackton tried to scream no, no, close my eyes first, close my eyes ...

Either it didn't listen or it couldn't listen or it ignored him or didn't understand, or it didn't care, or maybe just something more alien. Light exploded from the gauntlet, lightning split the air, slammed into the form of Sildrago, hit him again and again and again. Most eyes might see a single flash, but Zackton knew better. He'd seen it before. In the space of less than a second, the gauntlet hammered Sildrago Dessen, Paracount Mortaille with its deadly light, and then the thunder ripped apart the remainder.

The gauntlet released him them, tears streaming from his eyes, the afterimage of a hundred strokes of light still burning in his vision, his ears filled with the dull ringing roar of the thunder. He had no cure for the deafness, other than time, but he scrabbled in his vest for a small wax packet. Opened it by touch, scooped out the comments. Rubbed the creamy lotion into his left eye, then his right. Blinked, as the pain receded, and the agonizing bright afterimages faded.

The now-ruined study's floor was crumpled, and the walls were broken. The ceiling above him had collapsed, and he remembered jumping out of the way as it had, but ... he looked around. There were burn marks across the desk. He picked his way across the floor carefully, and glanced into the next room. If anyone had been foolish enough to be listening to the Last Song, the earth had almost certainly swallowed them.

No one alive in what had been a game room, nor a sitting room, nor a music room, nor the hallway. Motion caught his eye from the library, though. A figure was there, under a collapsed bookshelf. A guard, one of the guards hadn't been caught in the spasming earth, only to be trapped by the collapsing shelf. His mouth was moving, but all Zackton heard was ringing.

Zackton made his way over to him, pointed to his own ears, and shook his head. Held up a hand. Considered the bookshelf. Nodded, smiled at him. It will be all right. Used a knife to slice off guard's tunic, tied it around his bleeding arm. See? The man seemed to relax a little at that. Good.

Brought the fingers of his left hand together, rested them gently on the man's stomach. He looked a little perplexed, and Zackton gave him another reassuring smile. Feed , and as the gauntlet formed around his hand and forearm, he twitched his fingers, let the sharpness of the gauntlet slice open the now-exposed skin. Pulled the skin off and back to expose the muscle beneath, briefly, before the bright pooling blood obscured it again. The guard had opened his mouth. Zackton assumed he was yelling, perhaps screaming, but he still couldn't hear anything beyond. It didn't matter at this point, anyway -- it was far too late.

He positioned his hand, by touch as much as anything else, between the musculature of the abdomen and the diaphragm, feeling them as if his arm were not encased in a sharp metal sheath, feeling the smoothness of the muscle, the hot wetness of the blood against his fingertips, the man's struggles against the heavy weight of his right hand, holding him down. Holding the man ready as Zackton's left hand gently -- or not so gently -- slid the muscle aside. Brought the fingers together in the small opening. Pushed in, sliding and tearing through the viscera in a single thrust, feeling the warm life of the guard pulse and rip against his arm, fought the intoxicating sensation of drinking in the blood -- the gauntlet's drinking in the blood, pulling it into the steel and leather.

Only to Zackton, it felt like he was pulling it in, a rush of pure sensation, heat, warmth, pleasure ... that that increased the further in he pushed, the deeper he went into the dying man's body, until with a quiver he felt the rapid, panicked, desperate pulse of the heart. Zackton put his hand around it, or the gauntlet's hand -- he couldn't distinguish them. His own hand might be inside a metal glove, but it felt just like Zackton's own grip cradling the terrified heart. He adjusted his hold, put his fingers around the rushing arteries and thick veins feeding into the lump of muscle.

Crushed it. Felt it quiver and tremble in his hand, as if the gauntlet were simply an extension of himself. His hand in the man's chest, the hot warm red blood soaking into him - no, into the gauntlet, but it felt like - watched the eyes glaze over in shock as he crushed the beating muscle to pulp. The sensation rolled over him, as if his entire self was nothing but warm, hot, gripped by spasming flesh, and Zackton's own body responded in a sudden climax as he pulled his clenched fist back out, watched the blood and bits of flesh vanish into it, as the iron scaling were some sort of sponge, leaving a few shards of bone, dry and clean where they'd touched the gauntlet and then fall back to the bloody mess on the ground.

A wordless query to the thing on his hand which echoed unpleasantly in his own mind, as if the gauntlet hadn't quite entirely left him - which, Zackton thought, it might not have. But it was enough. The gauntlet let itself boil down to a complicated tattoo. That was always a strange sensation; something between a tingling burn that somehow left a feeling of numbness. A different one, Zackton realized, and hoped nobody would ask why his tattoo had suddenly changed, and he wondered how different it was when he caught sight of his right arm. There were a few simple lines there, up to his elbow. Nothing recognizable, nothing distinctive, just ... a tattoo that had perhaps been started and never finished. That can't be good, Zackton thought, but he'd have to deal with it later.

There was still clean-up to do. Another packet of powder, sprinkled over the now eviscerated corpse, liquified the flesh. He looked around the library, and sighed. Zackton hated setting books on fire, but a fire would be the best way to cover up this fiasco. This might be a quiet backwater of Coryntyn, but it was still an expensive backwater, well-patrolled, and the city watch would be here quickly enough. Hellknights, too, most likely.

Back to the study. He grimaced over the charred remains; apparently he'd done enough damage to Sildrago that he'd actually killed him rather send him fleeing back to a gravedirt hidey-hole. Maybe. No, probably not; he hadn't been able to see for the critical few moments. But still ... another diversion was called for. He pulled a thin leather envelope from another pocket, took out the folded sheet of paper, unfolded the envelope. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see spiky lettering that vanished when looked at directly - still, he knew the words, he knew what it held, and it seemed like a waste of such a powerful magic and yet ... he muttered the words quickly as they boiled out of the page, hanging in the air until the first guard walked through into the room. The image would last no more than a moment, a huge red-skinned devil with black tasseled wings, holding a heavy parchment, straightening up from Sildrago's remains. A flash of red-purple fire, a cloud of thick, choking phosphoric smoke with a hint of brimstone, that would dissipate quickly. Here in devil-haunted Cheliax, that ought to send any investigation off-tangent. He hoped.

Zackton set the fire in the game room, hoping perhaps it wouldn't spread to the library before it was stopped.

He came back to his own house, about thirty minutes later, back into his room only to discover from the upset Sassy that Rexi hadn't come back. If Rexi had been reckless enough to follow him - if he'd heard the Last Song, then it was unlikely he'd be coming back at all. It wouldn't be politic to say so, however, and so he just asked if Harald was their chief priest, and asked - very politely - if Harald would come see him.

Harald, it seemed, had been lurking outside the door. "Where's Rexi?" was his first question.

"I did not see him in my confrontation with the vampire," Zackton said. "So I do not know."

"Vampire?"

"Yes," said Zackton. "I understand you are a priest of ... One Who prefers His name unspoken."

"Maybe," said Harald, meaning, Yes, but you can't prove it.

"It struck me," Zackton said. "Can you cleanse the taint? The sooner it is done ..."

"You might be able to throw it off," Harald said cautiously.

"I might, and I might not," Zackton said. "Can you or can you not cleanse it?" He grimaced. "I do not want to go outside the House, Harald. I do not want anyone to associate the vampire with Blossom Garden Estate, and going to an outside temple - any outside temple - could raise questions that ..."

"No, you're right," Harald said after a moment. "I can. After midnight."

Zackton nodded. "Should I meet you in the temple?"

Harald looked at Zackton. "You ..."

"Rexi didn't tell you I knew?"

"No," Harald said. "He didn't. But he believed in keeping things close."

"Well in accord with the Lord of Secrets Kept Dark," Zackton murmured. "And ... can you deal with poison? Stop its course while you remove it? And undo its damage, as well?"

"I can, but ... not all in the same night," Harald admitted. "Those are powerful things you're asking about. Are you poisoned? Do you think Rexi is poisoned?"

"I ..." and Zackton thought for a moment. He certainly didn't want to lie to a priest, but ... "There was a great deal of magic released -"

"We heard," Harald said, "even from here."

"- and I hope he wasn't caught in it. That's why I sent the hobgoblins back," Zackton said. "And him. But ..."

"They're back, but they didn't see Rexi."

"Then I do not know. You say you heard it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then send a ... rescue party. Organize it. Wake Landra up, and get her and the half-orcs moving."

"Oh, she's still up," Harald said. "Quite occupied," he snickered, "and moving."

Zackton shook his head. "Dump cold water on her if you must and get her team over there. What do you know?"

"Only what Frum reported. The Paracount caught you as you were stealing the statue."

"Yes. I suspect some kind of alarm spell ..." Zackton fell silent. "I think I mentioned the Paracount was a vampire?"

"Was? They're hard to kill. All the way, I mean."

"Maybe not," said Zackton. "In fact ... probably not. But I don't know where his coffin might be. It might have been destroyed in the house."

Harald's eyes narrowed. "Maybe. And maybe not." He looked at Zackton for a moment. "But that thing threatens the Family, even if you brought it on us."

"True," acknowledged Zackton. "I'm more than partly responsible. I don't know how it could have been avoided, though."

"Come down to the temple now," Harald ordered. "Let's see what Himself is willing to part with."

"A moment," Zackton went over to his chest, and pulled out a silvered dagger and a few other odds and ends, and slipped the shrunken statue into the chest. "I am ready."

Harald lit incense just like the Second Chair had done so much earlier that day, only his incense was woody and thick rather than floral. He simply stared into the dull red coals for a period while Zackton waited patiently, and then looked up. "No," he said. "He made it to his coffin."

Zackton grimaced. "So be it. I'll have to deal with him tomorrow, but ..."

"No, we should be able to get him in his coffin."

"You know where it is?"

"Oh, yes," Harald grinned. "It's in a secret chamber under a statue."

"Probably trapped," said Zackton.

"Yup," said Harald. "Plus, you'll have me." The small halfling held up a small black stone. "Sassy's waiting for us in the kitchen. She's ... the best, after Rexi, at mechanical things."

"Noted," said Zackton. "I've picked up a few things ..."

Zackton solved the problem of Harald's lack of stealth by the straightforward expedient of carrying him, and the trip back to the pond took only a few moments. "That," Zackton said pointing to the line of trees, "is a spell that conceals this pond from the house. It will last until morning ... convenient to get some use out of it, after all."

"What happened to his guards?"

"Dead, I think," Zackton said. "Which statue?"

"I don't know," Harald admitted. "He doesn't give me things I can get for myself."

"Sassy?" asked Zackton. "Do you ..."

"I'm looking," she said, frowning at the huge, heavy statues. "Can you lift these things off the plinths?"

"A mechanical barrier," Zackton said, understanding why Sildrago had taken them. "Although ..." he pulled the wand back out. "Easier to shrink them to irrelevance."

"Heh," said Harald as Zackton proceeded to shrink the statues. "Good trick, that. There's a spell to locate the undead, but I don't have it at the moment."

"Yes, but it only has two uses remaining. And it's a wizard's tool, a tad tricky to use. But if you want it, it's yours." Zackton said absently, staring at the plinths. "Sassy, if you take those, I'll look at these," Zackton said. "I doubt I'm as good as you."

"Might as well, just don't trigger anything," she said absently, inspecting one of the side plinths. They inspected the stone supports in silence for a few minutes, until Sassy said, "I think this is it."

"May I?" asked Zackton, and he came over. "Yes. I see."

"It's trapped," said Sassy, "magically, but I just don't see ..." her voice fell off as she considered it.

Zackton hummed, trying to harmonize with the magic until he could feel it, know it ... "Ah. No. It's the false trap. It's a magic that simply looks like a trap, but ..."

"Oh, I hate that spell," muttered Sassy. "Bastard. Can you take it off?"

"No," said Zackton.

"I might," said Harald, holding up his black stone. "There."

"Gone," reported Zackton. "But there might be a real one under it ..."

"That's what I'd expect ... yes. Needles, I think," she said. "Shouldn't be hard to ..." she fiddled with a long steel tool. "There. It's open. We'll need to pry this stone up, though."

"Allow me," said Zackton, taking out a complicated tool, bending it back and forth. "Crowbar," and he popped the stone up, and then with a grunt, pushed it over. A coffin was there, standing vertically in a deep hollow. "Promising," he said, and stared at the grips on the pale polished wood casket. "Grips, right," he said. "As if. Sassy?"

"Contact poison," Sassy reported, disgusted. "As if."

Zackton didn't need the grips to lift the thing out, and a few moments later, it was sitting on the ground. Zackton (and Harald) declared it free of magical traps, and Sassy was examining the lock. "It's devilish," she sighed. "I don't know ..."

"Again," said Zackton, brandishing the metal thing he'd used a crowbar. Pulling one way, and inverting it turned it into a small but perfectly functional axe. "Allow me."

"What is that thing?"

"The mage I bought it from called it an anytool," said Zackton, positioning the axe, and smashing through the lid. "Handy thing," he said, ripping the lid off. "Ah. Sassy, Harald, allow me to introduce you both to the Paracount." Sildrago was inside, staring at them with hatred, but even his eyes were without motion. Powerless.

Sassy slammed a stake down through his heart. "There," she said. "I brought some alchemist's fire, but we'd best take the head off first. Does that anytool of yours do a saw?"

"Let's see," said Zackton lightly. He manipulated the tool again, and then, with a grin, "Why yes. Yes it does. Would you care to do the honors?"

Harald said, "Me," and Zackton relinquished the saw-configured anytool to Harald with a bow.

Five minutes after that, the remains of Sildrago were two separate sets of ashes.

Twenty minutes after that, they were back in the kitchen, drinking hot soup with some hastily-made cheese sandwiches, waiting for midnight so that Harald could renew his spells, when a bedraggled Rexi came limping back in. He looked at Zackton, and then Harald, and Sassy, and then the sandwich Zackton was eating.

In a ragged voice, Rexi asked "Any more of those?"