"Damn." Littlefinger grabbed the shrouds and sucked in air through clenched teeth. He did not believe for a second that the brat had suddenly gotten smarter. Far more likely, Lord Tywin had suspected or learned something, grown alert, and managed to hammer the right things into the shithead's head.
"I had a good chance to pull it off this morning at breakfast, but you yourself forbade it," the assassin's voice carried a questioning tone.
"You did everything right," Baelish assured him. "Death in the morning would have been… highly undesirable. And inconvenient."
"What are the plans now? Should I stay or go back to the city?"
"Stay for now," Littlefinger said thoughtfully. "I'll consider the situation. Oh, and one more thing — what about Hollard?"
"I saw your idiot dancing merrily at the wedding. The audience laughed heartily. But he never showed up at the meeting place."
"All right, Oswell. You can rest for now."
The man nodded and slowly made his way to his cabin. Littlefinger watched him go and regretted that not all of his people were as competent. Despite tonight's obvious failure, he had no doubts about Oswell. This man — and his three sons as well — would yet have their say.
Petyr Baelish went down to his cabin, ate some hot sausages with bread, and drank a horn of ale. The food helped pass the time and calm his nerves.
Then he returned to the deck. He believed — he knew — that the jester and drunkard Dontos Hollard simply had to show up, if only for the promised money, if not to steal Sansa.
And Dontos did not disappoint. A couple of hours later, the lookout once again warned of a boat carrying a lone man.
The rower pulled up to the galley, cursed, banged his head against the side, and began to climb up. Littlefinger did not allow him to get fully onto the deck and stopped him the moment his head rose over the side.
So they spoke quietly, leaning toward each other like two close friends.
"Report, ser Dontos."
"Nothing came of it, my lord." The fat man balanced on the rope ladder, holding the side with one hand and pressing the other to his heart as if swearing his honesty. "The damned Imp never left Lady Sansa for a moment. And then they went to their chambers together."
"And what, they didn't even part for a second?" Baelish grimaced involuntarily, catching the strong smell of stale wine.
"They parted, but..," Dontos sighed sadly. "But what good did it do? All around were Golden Cloaks and Kingsguards…"
"Didn't the dwarves' performance distract them?"
"The dwarves did not perform, my lord, and I waited in vain for them all evening," Dontos beamed, seemingly pleased to have found an excuse for his failure.
"It's getting worse and worse," Littlefinger muttered with displeasure. None of his plans for the evening had worked out. It couldn't simply happen by chance. Yes, tonight had brought many unpleasant surprises already. What else lay ahead?
Had the Spider sniffed something out and moved against him?
Baelish's mind worked feverishly, sifting through details, names, faces, words, and numbers, searching for the moment where the mistake had been made.
He still could not see his mistake. It simply did not exist.
Meanwhile, time was not standing still — the east was already beginning to pale. A decision had to be made, and it was time to leave.
"What about me, my lord?" Hollard asked trustingly. "And don't forget, I took a risk, and I can still be useful to you. If you pay me an advance…"
"Of course, ser," Littlefinger smiled with convincing sincerity.
Undoubtedly, Dontos had several undeniable virtues. He loved only money and lacked the annoying habit of asking unnecessary questions. And he was quite good at playing the fool and the drunkard.
But business now required Littlefinger's personal presence at the Eyrie, and taking such a man with him was pointless. Leaving him unattended in King's Landing was extremely dangerous — he knew too much. And trusting him with Sansa's new escape, now that everything had changed so dramatically, would be the height of carelessness. He was already walking on very thin ice. A pause was needed — time to think and prepare everything properly.
Yes. That's what I'll do. Baelish tapped his palm lightly on the smooth wood, accepting the new plan. It is not in his nature to rush and act impulsively.
"Return to your boat, ser. My men will pay you now."
The fat man began to descend, snorting, while Littlefinger signaled to Ser Lothar and his men. Three crossbowmen stepped to the side of the galley and leaned over the edge simultaneously.
"Stop!" came a frightened voice from the water — followed by the soft clicks of released crossbow bolts, and then silence.
Petyr looked down at the work of his hands. The boat rocked gently beneath the ship's shadow. Dontos's body lay sprawled on the bottom, his right leg awkwardly bent. Baelish noticed one bolt had pierced both of the man's cheeks and buried itself deep into the wood, another had pierced his heart, and the third had sunk into his soft, wineskin-like belly.
"Search him and get rid of the body," Littlefinger ordered.
Two men slid down silently. It took them very little time to examine the still-warm corpse, then tie a weight to its neck and throw it into the water.
Ends in the water had always been the best method — one Littlefinger had grown fond of long ago, back when he still served House Arryn.
After that, his boat, along with Oswell's, was hoisted aboard, and the galley the King of Sardine set sail for Gulltown.