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“Whoa!” said Grimehug, turning in a circle in the middle of the room. “Swank! Other gnoles gonna be crazy jealous.”
But he had actually laughed. “The Many-Armed God knows his own,” he said. “And his scholars have done worse things in pursuit of knowledge, though we do not speak of it a great deal.” “Does this mean my genitals are going to fall off?” asked Brenner. “Women of the world, rejoice!” said Caliban, coming back into the room.
I would know you anywhere. I would recognize you at the bottom of a mineshaft on a moonless light, if I were deaf and blind.
I can do nothing more. Dreaming God have mercy. Bring Slate back to me. Please.
Shame flitted briefly over Brenner’s face, but found itself in unfamiliar surroundings and didn’t settle.
The assassin gave him a sidelong look. “My job is making more corpses. The only way I could make less is if I retired early.”
He wanted to dance around and laugh hysterically and howl at the moon. He wanted to kiss Slate passionately and yell to random passersby, “She probably doesn’t hate me!”
“We’re living with decisions made by people so long dead we can’t even piss on their bones.”
Sorry, guys. Sorry, Caliban. We’re not all tragic heroes. Some of us are just tragic.
“Joke’s on you, you bastards,” she muttered. “I’m an accountant. I don’t have an imagination.”
Caliban put her down. She was somewhat relieved by that. Being carried by a man in armor, even one who had kissed you like you were his last hope of heaven, was not a terribly comfortable experience.
Caliban looked at her battered hands and thought, I did not kill enough of them.
His eyes were shadowed, but even the shadows were warm and kind.
It struck Slate first. “Brenner, no!” Below the platform, the clocktaurs smashed into each other and the walls, filling the room with crashing echoes. “Think…you can fit…six…in here?”
“I am hopelessly in love with you and the only thing that is keeping me from following you around like a stray dog for the rest of my life is the fact that it would make you hate me even more.”
