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Twelve hours later, Slate was praying for the sweet release of death.
“You better not snore,” she grumbled into the dark. “I don’t snore.” “Good.” “I gibber in demonic tongues.” “You’re kidding.” “No.” “Shit.”
“If you keep drinking that stuff, you’re going to wind up addicted to it,” he warned them, as he watched the small glass bottle make the rounds again. “Oh, yeah, I’m real worried,” said Brenner. “Remind me again, what were we on? Some kind of suicide mission, was it?”
Caliban was trying to pretend he didn’t know them, which was tricky when he was the one leading their horses.
“I’ve never met an assassin before,” said Learned Edmund to Brenner, after they had been several days on the road. “Speaking on behalf of assassins everywhere, we were perfectly happy with that.”
They dealt with it in their own ways. Brenner griped. Caliban brooded. Learned Edmund prayed. Slate contemplated their approaching deaths with an increasingly unhealthy relief.
“Oh, thank god. You see it too.”
