"Because you're obviously not the brightest," he snapped. What kind of idiot wouldn't trap his doors when people kept trying to kill him? "And that is not the question I asked." He examined his face and his eyes narrowed. "I know you," he said, curling up his lip. "You're Council. Reinholdt has no quarrel with me, so what are you doing here?" He couldn't know for sure, of course; Reinholdt was a man of many whims. But he bluffed, taking a guess, knowing that if it wasn't the Council, she wouldn't dare say it was, because of course he would check. "Can't be the Council," he muttered under his breath. "They'd've sent someone with some brains."
He walked a circle around her, examining her again. The potion would wear off soon, any minute. "I should slit your throat," he said conversationally. "You've earned it for being fucking inept." He brought his hand up, still holding a card; one swift cut and -
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Damia.
Fucking damn it all.
He just had to get rid of her. It was fine. He had this handled.
"Have it your way," he told the assassin. He brought the card down, not on her throat, but her dark, serviceable clothing. He sliced her shirt off, then her pants, cut all the way down her boots so they wouldn't stay on even if she wanted them to. He gave her an amused look, standing there in rags and her undergarments. He hadn't even nicked her skin. "Had to make sure you're not hiding any more weapons in there. Nothing impressive, apparently." He sneered. "Out," he told her. "It's your lucky fucking night, councilwoman."