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Once papers were signed, people seemed to give up. It was a strange sort of magic.
“You’re a very odd woman,” he said. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“What’s to keep me from leaving with the lady here and simply riding off?” “Aww,” said Slate.
“Hey, now, you knew it was a suicide mission, don’t go to pieces on me, the tattoo won’t eat you as long as you’re trying—” “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s the sky. There’s too much of it.” Now that’s a sensible thing to say. Perhaps you really are mad.
The god had not answered. The hollow place in his soul stayed empty. Weeks had stretched to months, and he had stopped believing that there would ever be an answer. 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.
“I am not a nun,” said Slate. “Incidentally, that’s the first time I’ve ever had to tell anyone that.”
“I’m an assassin!” said Brenner brightly.
“I’ll kill the beast,” the assassin rasped. “I’d cut his throat right now, but I don’t think I can get off if he falls down.” “It’s a her,” said Caliban. “You think that’ll stop me, god-boy?”
He turned back, hands on hips. Brenner and Slate stared down at him glumly. “When did you two learn to ride?” he asked. “Nineteen years ago.” “This morning.”
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.”
“Yeah. Either that’s a dead body in the middle of town, or somebody picked an awful strange place for a nap.”
“I wouldn’t normally ask this, but are these men kidnapping you?” Slate had a sudden desire to yell “Yes!” and throw herself into the bandit-leader’s arms—he really did have lovely eyes—but she suspected that nothing would be left alive on the roadway by the time that had finished playing out. Plus the tattoo would eat me. “I’m beyond help at this point,” she said instead. “But you’re sweet to ask.”
I swear, the man looks for ways to beat himself up. It’s like some kind of weird hobby.
“Should we go after them?” asked Learned Edmund. “I’d love to. Pick a direction.” “You can’t tell which way they’ve gone?” “Can you?” “No.” “Well, then.”
