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“We’re living with decisions made by people so long dead we can’t even piss on their bones.”
Was this the same kind of pride he had at the end? The very last kind, the pride that where all you had left was that you did not wish a crowd to see you break?
They were under orders to wait, and were simply letting her stew in her own imagination while they did. “Joke’s on you, you bastards,” she muttered. “I’m an accountant. I don’t have an imagination.”
Ashes Magnus opened her door, looked at the motley crew, and sighed. “One night only,” she said. “After that, you’re going to a safehouse down the way. And if anybody breaks anything looking for you, I’m billing the Many-Armed God. With interest.” “We haven’t met,” said Slate, “but I have a strong desire to be your friend.”
Slate walked away, down the hall. She looked over her shoulder once, then resolutely looked away. Caliban stared after her. A heavy fist landed on the table and made them all jump. “Young man,” said Ashes severely, “if you do not go after that woman, you are too stupid to be allowed to live.”
“I’m sorry,” said Caliban finally. “I shouldn’t have—” “Oh, for god’s sake,” said Slate bitterly, “don’t you ever get tired of beating yourself up?”
He had been strong all his life. He had been strong until the demon had come, and strength no longer mattered, and then when he was broken, he had kept on trying to be strong because he didn’t know what else to do. Perhaps he’d come at last to a place where strength no longer availed him. Perhaps it was time to try something else.
He had both hands clamped around her back and she wanted to melt against him like—damn, like a thing that melts, who cares, this is not the time to worry about specific melting things—
Unharmed…or, well. Bloodied but unbowed. Which was Slate all over.
“It’s just a dream,” he said in her ear. “I’ve got you.” And it worked. She sighed and the tension went out of her body. Caliban held her and thought, There is a person in this world who feels safe in my arms. It felt like grace.
Caliban rested his chin on top of Slate’s head. We are likely going to die soon. It is wrong to feel this gloriously happy. He feared for Slate, of course. He feared for them all. And yet…and yet… I clearly do not believe that the gods will be so unkind as to separate us. He knew that was foolishness. The gods would sacrifice Their followers without a second thought to achieve Their ends. But Slate’s back was warm against his chest and her hair smelled like soap.
“I’m sayin’ this badly. Look, our fine paladin went sniffing around temples, looking for some god to take him, didn’t he? And then he stopped. And now he’s so wrapped up in you that he’d have gone charging into the Grey Church barehanded if he thought it’d help.” Slate stared at the ceiling. Brenner drummed his fingers on his bicep. “Some men like to be used. Our paladin more than most, I’d say. He couldn’t get a god to do it, fine. He found somebody else.” “You’re saying he wants me to be his god?” Brenner smirked. “Someone to worship, anyhow. And he gets to bed you in the bargain, which is a
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In the end, the answer to how this particular paladin made love seemed to be that he treated her as if she were holy. This would, under normal circumstances, have been infuriating, not least because it proved Brenner right. Slate did not wish to be worshipped, she wished to be bedded, preferably with skill but failing that, with enthusiasm. Then he used the voice.
What filled Caliban was not power. Power was perhaps the least useful of gifts. It was grace. It struck him like a hammer, like a death blow, like falling in love. It filled places that had rung hollow and empty and wrapped him up and made him whole. The demon took a step back, then two. The next breath Caliban drew tasted like incense and blood. Thank you.
This was the paladin’s voice as she’d never heard it, with the full power of a god behind it, a voice that spoke to the nerves and the skin and the soul as much as the ears. It no longer said, Trust me. It said, Obey.
One guard near the gate did look at them and Caliban snapped, “The building’s on fire! Form a bucket brigade!” The guard saluted and ran off. Slate shook her head in weary disgust. “How…?” “People want someone to tell them what to do in a crisis,” said Caliban tiredly.
The dedicate flung his arms around her and Slate thought, in a night full of terrible surprises, that at least here was one positive one.
Slate patted his arm. It was all the comfort she had left in her, and she spent it on Learned Edmund without a second thought.
“Listen to me. I know you don’t want to hear it—” “Stop using that voice!” snarled Slate. “Stop it! I don’t want to talk to—to a paladin right now, do you hear me? Stop sounding like a goddamn knight and sound like somebody who just killed their friend!”
He put his face in his hands and wondered what the hell to do now. “Stupid. Rather twist your own whiskers than bite the back of her neck.”
“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.” He considered this for a moment. “Also, pride. My sins haven’t been quite beaten out of me yet, I suppose.”
She got up, not sure if she was going to pounce on him or try to drown him in the bathtub. “Do they train you to be martyrs, or does it just come naturally?”
“Love, huh?” she said. “Utterly. Profoundly. Would you like to send me off to kill a dragon or something to prove it, like in a ballad?” “What the hell would that prove?” “I suppose it would prove that I could kill a dragon. I’m not sure why that would be a good thing. They never cover that bit in ballads.” “What would I even do with a dead dragon?’
