He would push right through, if he had to. If there are appointments made, he did not make them; if there were an impertinent page left who would stand before him, then he would roll with impatience over them. He would burst into the Wormwoman Agnie's office, and it is evident that he is agitated, excited, the color high on his too-bred cheeks, his black eye sparking with fat stars. There is a full amount of triumph over him, every muscle of him quivering. Agnie must know what he had done, of course. After the fact. He wasn't certain that, due to the posters, she would still be on his side. But they had shaken on it, hadn't they?
He had endured the trial of the Worms to make it so.
"Miss Agnie," he says, remembering their deal, even in his current state. "Miss Agnie, I've g-g-got them - got all of the swain! -" A child's exaggeration, but there are so few times, lately, where the addled man may triumph. Forgive him of it. "In D-d-darkenhold, at a stupid, stupid party. Hrimfax will hold th-th-them, Miss, b-but they''re having such a g-g-grand t-t-time, no one will emerge f-f-for weeks. Now's th-the time. You c-c-can put your sword in her belly, for good and all."