"These hounds of mine are like nothing that walks the earth—lean and muscular, large as ponies, with black mouths and black teeth. When they bark, they breathe fire. But my visitors had spirit. They killed three of the pack and drove the other two off. There is no use for a beaten dog but to butcher it for the servants, yet the pale lady, sick with pity, let those two escape.
"No matter.
"My guests wandered back to the ground floor, then climbed to the upper rooms, snooping through the bedchambers. They found many locked doors, which of course only made them more determined to enter. And who should come sashaying down the corridor but Landri—faithful Landri—shaking his great ring of keys the way he always did. Still making the same jokes to “guests” who mistook him for a servant: someone asking for a softer mattress, a glass of water, a little favor for their comfort. These newcomers were no different. They had misplaced one of their friends and imagined he must be behind one of those locked doors.
"When they saw Landri and his keys, they displayed their perfect stupidity. The priest among them puffed out his chest, lifted whatever holy trinket hung around his neck, and commanded this poor, tortured soul to return to “the place from which he came.”
"I might have told him: Excuse me, your holiness, but I haven’t given Landri a day off in nearly a hundred years. He isn’t going anywhere. And aren’t those the very keys you want?
"Completely unnecessary. Landri never did listen to sermons. And never did a fat priest lose so much weight so quickly. After one touch from Landri’s hand, the priest went pale and hid again behind the warriors. Then the pale lady drew her sword, and that was the end of poor Landri.
"Well—I told him to keep the door locked to my wine cellar."
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