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She squared her shoulders and met the man’s eyes. They were dark and brown and held hers. One eyebrow had an ironic tilt, but behind his eyes, Slate could smell despair.
“Would you like to go on a suicide mission?” she asked instead. He smiled. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen all day. “I would be honored,” he said.
“The Dowager knows something about the Clockwork Boys,” said Caliban. Sonofabitch… Slate threw her hands in the air, turning away. “God’s teeth! Why do we even bother with secrecy, if men in goddamn solitary confinement can figure that out!?”
“She knows something,” the former knight said again. “Doesn’t she?” “Not nearly enough,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Not how they’re made, or where they come from. That’s half our job. The other half is to try and stop them.”
Sir Caliban fell into step behind her, a pace back and to her left, a practiced distance. He’s probably been an honor guard more times than I can count. Slate’s lips twitched.
She led the way out the door, with the knight walking a single pace behind her.
My mind hasn’t been my own, and now my flesh isn’t either. At least they’re a matched set.
Perhaps she’s simply not attracted to mass murderers.
“Have you lost your mind? The pick of the Dowager’s prisons—the finest cutthroats and criminals in the kingdom—and you bring us a knight?” “They’re not the finest,” she said, “or they wouldn’t have gotten caught.
It was funny in a way, that a man who could forget how huge the world was could still recognize good boots.
“I’m not a knight-errant. Errants are questing knights. I don’t. Didn’t.” He cleared his throat. Brenner’s eyebrows didn’t know whether to pull down in a scowl or go up in astonishment. The caterpillars did a complicated jig across his forehead instead. “I was a paladin, actually. A holy champion of the Dreaming God. I killed demons. No questing.”
“Good lord,” said Brenner. “You’re kidding. Is this Lord Caliban?” “Yes,” said Slate. “The one who—” “Yes.” “With the guards and the nuns—” “Yes.” Brenner grinned hugely. He had excellent teeth. “I take back everything I said, Slate, darlin’.”
“You planning on killing our Slate some night on the road, Sir Caliban?” The knight smiled sourly. “Not if you’re closer.”
“Can we trust him?” asked Caliban. We. She and I are a we. When did that happen? “Brenner? He’s got a heart of gold…cold, metallic, and made of money. But the tattoo will keep him in line. More or less.” “I don’t like him,” said Caliban. “Who does?” asked Slate.
He had not been the architect of their deaths, but he had been the instrument, and he could not quite pretend that it had happened to another person, that someone else’s muscles had moved and lifted the sword and swung and lifted the sword again—
“How do you go from stealing paperwork to a sentence of death?” She smiled. It was a surprisingly charming smile. “So if you alter the wrong papers, they charge you with aiding and abetting the enemy. Who knew?”
“Do you believe in miracles, paladin?”
Since my beauty was not impeccable, I made sure my math skills were above reproach.” She took another slug of wine. There was an old hurt there, Caliban could tell. It wasn’t hard to decipher. He wondered if she thought she was hiding it.
We’re uncomplicated and look good in white. You know how it is.” He considered for a moment. “We’re not sworn to celibacy.” The sexual tension in the room kicked up several notches, rather abruptly. Caliban twitched. I shouldn’t have said that.
“Uncomplicated and look good in white. Right. So how did a demonslayer get possessed?” His libido went back to wherever it had briefly emerged from,
“Slate—” She turned and looked at him, one hand on the doorknob. “Thank you. For—” he searched briefly for the words, “—giving me my death back.”
His faith had turned to bitterness and bile. And then a little brown sparrow of a woman had come to the cell door and begun to sneeze.
“One does not steal from weaponsmiths. They’re skilled labor. You do your part to keep them in business. Stealing from them is short-sighted.” Caliban scratched his chin. This was an unexpected social conscience for an assassin.
“Put some armor on, at least!” “Oh, quit whining, paladin. I’m hardly the first person you’ll have killed.” “If you’re trying to annoy me, you’re succeeding.”
Because if I’d given him too much, he’d know something was afoot. Too much money is as dangerous as too little; it means you want it too bad.
He could feel the god. Words and incense and holy fire. Strength and certainty and the sword. He wanted that. He wanted that surety and that strength, that feeling of being in exactly the correct place.
And here he was. And here the god was. And the hollow place in his soul did not fill up. The god was all around him and Caliban stood in the center of holiness and was not touched.
“This is a lot easier with a squire,” he said, trying to get a recalcitrant buckle across his back. Slate and Brenner, acting as one, leaned back in their chairs and crossed their legs. “Fine,” he muttered.
“My legs will never close again,” she muttered. “That would be music to my ears if I wasn’t dying,” said Brenner, a step below her. “Do you think we’ll make it to Anuket City?” “I don’t think I’ll make it to my room.”
“I’m sleeping in here.” “What?” “The other room’s the same size as this one. We couldn’t fit two people on the floor unless we stacked them. The stables are full, Brenner’s threatening to put a dagger in the eye of anyone who tries to get him off the bed—and I believe him—and Learned Edmund is apparently afraid that if he sleeps on your floor, your feminine exhalations will cause his genitals to wither and his bowels to turn to water. That’s a direct quote, by the way.”
“I will never understand,” said Learned Edmund, apparently to Caliban, “why I was not placed in charge of this expedition.” “Because you look about twelve,” said Slate, too tired to be diplomatic.
Caliban locked eyes with Slate. “She has delegated,” he said, his voice a low rumble, in sharp contrast to Learned Edmund’s. “Mistress Slate’s talents lie elsewhere. I assure you, they are considerable.” “Damn straight they are,” said Brenner, snickering
“Didn’t realize a woman would be in charge, I take it,” said Slate. Her head was clear, but she didn’t have to like it. Caliban inclined his head. “He is young and not worldly. I truly do not think it occurred to him or his superiors.”
But he is very young, and the young always believe that they are immortal.”
“From your lips to the gods’ ears, priest,” said Brenner. Unfortunately, as Slate had begun to suspect long ago, the gods did not seem to be listening.
“I don’t know why we even bother having wars,” muttered Slate. “The world’s trying to kill us fast enough as it is.”
He knows I’m going to say no. We don’t have time. Slate sighed, and learned something else about command. If he was in charge, he’d say no, but because he isn’t, he gets to ask.
Obedience was a habit that prison and possession had not broken.
“What?” asked Slate, wiping at her nose. “You two,” said the paladin slowly, “have a very odd relationship.” “Oh, come on, if your friends aren’t willing to strangle you, what kind of friends are they?” asked Brenner.
“An exorcist afraid of drowning,” said Brenner. “There’s irony for you.” Caliban ignored him. “I said, it’s ironic that an exor—“ “I heard you.” “You two stop bickering or I’ll scream bloody murder and call the whole lot of them down to put me out of my misery.” “That seems excessive,” said Learned Edmund. “Does it? Does it really?” Learned Edmund fiddled with the reins in front of him and said nothing, which was the way that Slate liked it.
Slate called on the assassin to help her, not me. Because she had trusted Brenner to do what needed to be done, and not Caliban. And she had been right to do so.
Worse, even as he’d been silently judging the forger and the assassin for being what they were, it was Slate who had been willing to sacrifice herself to save the rest of them. Slate who’d been begging the assassin to keep her from giving them away to the enemy.
All the platitudes he’d mouthed over the years about self-sacrifice, and here he was being shown up by a forger who’d been arrested for treason.
Caliban was polite. He was always polite. And when they touched—as it was nearly impossible not to touch sometimes—it was impersonal. She could imagine him treating an elderly nun exactly the same way. She wondered if the hypothetical elderly nun would be as vaguely annoyed by it as she was.
“You lied to me. You lied to all of us. Why?” “Because three can keep a secret if two of them are dead!” she snapped. He looked disgusted. More than that, he looked disappointed. Slate hadn’t experienced that in years. She hadn’t missed the sensation
Mark my words—anyone out on the roads this early is probably either out of money, or had gone stir crazy and is looking for excitement, and either way, there aren’t likely to be many of them.” Actually, there were about eight of them
“So what do we have here?” asked the bandit leader. He was tall and lanky, both hair and skin an indeterminate shade of grizzled blonde. Slate sighed. This was annoying.
Caliban’s horse took a few steps forward. He opened his mouth to say something in protest, and what came out was guttural and in no human language. “Nine, and hurry it up, my friend here is not staaaable,” Slate said, uttering the last word in a sing-song which caused the bandit’s eyes to widen even farther. “Nine sounds good
He slid out of the saddle and grabbed her stirrup. His voice came out clipped and impatient, and Slate almost didn’t register the words at first, which were “I’m sorry.” Slate blinked. “Uh.” “I should have been up here, not checking behind us. You could have been killed.” “No harm done?” “It will not happen again, madam
When they went to sleep that night, her last sight was Caliban sitting up still, running a whetstone down the length of his sword, although whether he was watching her or watching over her was anybody’s guess
