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“What in the name of the little household gods is that?” “An abomination,” said Stephen. “I believe the cook called it gravy.” “Gravy is not that color.” “I did not say the cook was correct.” “Can we burn them at the stake?” “We’re not those kind of paladins. Anyway, it tastes okay if you close your eyes and pretend you’re eating literally anything else.” Istvhan groaned and went to endure trial-by-gravy himself.
Stephen opened his pack and pulled out his needles and a thick ball of yarn. Knitting socks was not a particularly glamorous hobby, but it filled the same mental need as the sword—careful work that held his attention and hopefully did not allow his mind to wander too far afield. Plus at the end, you got socks out of it, and no one appreciated good socks like a soldier.
That was the debt owed, and the promise. He would watch the other six. They would watch him in return. And the moment any of them fell to the blackness, they would turn on each other and try to stop the tide.
His unexpected partner in this deception was not a particularly tall woman, but she was solidly built, with ample breasts and a backside to match. Stephen was in a unique position to observe this without being able to appreciate it in the slightest.
The only saving grace of the situation was that, despite the fact that he had a moaning woman in his arms, Stephen had not been less aroused in recent memory.
him. The young woman was moving enthusiastically against him, but she was, well, frankly she was very bad at it.
have never been wistful in my life.” Grace had no idea what being wistful entailed, but she was pretty sure that you had to be younger and thinner and possibly have consumption.
“All women are beautiful,” said Istvhan, dismissing this. “It is the job of their lovers to make them feel that way if they do not already.”
Saint’s teeth, even if he hadn’t been prone to berserker fits, there was nothing about Stephen that would set a maiden’s heart alight. He was solid, reliable, and worried about people getting turned into severed heads or standing around with wet feet. Bards did not compose wistful ballads about men like him.
The civette was one of the few things she’d brought with her in her flight from Anuket City. She didn’t regret it—Phillip would have starved the little beast out of negligence, if he didn’t kill him in a rage—but
“Look, you can only have so many Sacred Order of the Wolfs in one region or it gets embarrassing. So then you have to be the Sacred Order of the Blood Moon, which still sounds impressive and you can keep all the wolf paraphernalia around and don’t have to get new sword hilts and standards and whatnot.”
Spend enough time with priests and you learn to recognize the sort that enjoy mortifying other people’s flesh and telling them it’s for their own good.
“Istvhan, you ever kill someone with an ice swan?” he whispered. “I clubbed someone unconscious with a frozen goose once. That’s similar?”
“Gentlemen,” said Beartongue, “I forbid you to smash the Archon’s decor and try to duel with it.” “Yes, your holiness.” “I’ll have you both excommunicated.” Stephen coughed. “Technically we’re not in your church, your holiness.” “Then I will have you confirmed so that I can excommunicate you even harder.”
Grace, who was plump and dark haired and only thirty-two,
He wished that he could break out his knitting, but for some reason, people didn’t take you seriously as a warrior when you were knitting. He’d never figured out why. Making socks required four or five double-ended bone needles, and while they weren’t very large, you could probably jam one into someone’s eye if you really wanted to. Not that he would.
Causing a scene was somewhere slightly above murder as Things We Do Not Do. Normal people did not cause scenes.
If you were really worried about her being too warm, you wouldn’t be draping yourself over her like a comforter made out of meat.
He probably thought there was actually something wrong with you. Well, there’s a lot wrong with you, but most of it’s not physical.
it was very difficult to argue that you were completely in control when any indignation whatsoever made you look the very opposite.
This has been used against women for centuries!
She grimaced. The memory fugue she’d gone into was probably the cause of her headache. An attack like that was rare, particularly these days, but when one hit, it often wiped her out completely, sometimes for a whole day afterward. It was so bloody unfair, being so exhausted by something she didn’t want in the first place. As if her memory had decided to horsewhip her, and then turned around and charged her body for the privilege.
Tea, she told herself grimly. Tea will fix this. Or at least it will fix something.
Great. Wonderful. First you grind on him like a wanton, then you swoon all over him, now you’re giving him a show. This is going marvelously. What’s next, tripping and falling on his cock on accident?
“Socks,” he said. “I knit socks. I am a sock knitter. Person. Who knits. Mostly socks.”
Rescue was bad. People who wanted you to be vulnerable and grateful tended to get very angry when you stopped being vulnerable and didn’t act grateful enough.
Gods above and below and somewhere in the middle, why did he have to smell like gingerbread?
It was strangely peaceful. To share a space with another person who was absorbed in their own work, but still present, still there…gods,
Terrible idea. Yes. Quite terrible. He examined the idea carefully from all angles, to make sure that he was aware just how terrible it was.
My duty is to serve. I will be sword and shield for the weak against the strong. I will be a symbol for those who require hope. I will bear the burdens for those who cannot bear them.
There were people who thought that what soldiers did was somehow cleaner than what assassins did, but in his experience, the dead wound up just as dead either way.
Having no relatives herself, it rarely occurred to Grace that other people had them. Yes. A family. Normal people have families. I must remember. What does one say? “How is your mother now?” “Dead.” That went well.
The heat between them didn’t feel like pity. It felt big and dangerous and important. It felt like it mattered, and that was terrifying, but not nearly so terrifying as the possibility of stopping.
Feelings that strong were dangerous. He had survived for three years by not feeling anything but duty, despair, and mild exasperation. He understood those. He could control those. This did not feel like something he could control.
“Sworn to her service,” rumbled Stephen. “By an oath.” “You are?” said DuValier, which was good because otherwise Grace would have said it, and that would have rather spoiled the effect. “I thought you were sworn to the Temple of the Rat.” “I swear a lot.”
Another door and a wave of scent rolled out, thick as syrup. Grace picked out notes of amber, vetiver, and yes, sandalwood, but in a minor key compared to the others. The scent was warm and masculine and that would have been fine except that her mind was still stuck on the syrup and went to masculine syrup which would be the world’s worse euphemism for…well, there was really only one thing it could be a euphemism for.
She was nearly level with the Crown Prince now and she was absolutely not going to scream or faint or shout “Masculine syrup!” and dissolve into hysterical laughter. She wasn’t. She refused.
“Am I really the only person concerned about the severed head situation in this city?” said Stephen. “Really?” “I’m sure the people who had their heads cut off were very concerned,” said Marguerite. “At least briefly,” added Grace.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that once you’re in a place where you chop people’s heads off for the fun of it, you probably don’t come back from there,”
It would be a terrible idea, he told himself. Sex in the woods is lousy. You get pine needles in places. And right now it’s all mud and mosquitoes. Terrible, horrible idea. His body did not agree. His body had definite opinions about the matter. Stop. You are the responsible one. You are not going to make love to a woman on a mud-infested hillside. That is not responsible. She will get bug bites. So will you.
Still. If we limited loving to just the sane, undamaged people, the next generation would have about three people in it and presumably humanity would die out shortly afterward.”
“Look, if you can’t laugh about the homicidal fits that make you a menace to society, what’s even the point?”
“Istvhan, loan me your sword. I need to kill this man.” “No one give him a sword,” ordered the Bishop. “I am feeling distinctly conflicted here,” said Istvhan. One of the paladins, a woman with a curiously blank expression, unhooked a long dagger from her belt and handed it to Stephen. “Thank you.” “Technically that wasn’t a sword,” said the Bishop. “I applaud your threading of the needle there. Dammit.” The paladin smiled so fleetingly that Grace barely caught it.
Marguerite would tell me not to say— “I’m hopelessly in love with you,” Grace blurted. —that. Definitely don’t say that. Well done, me.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for not rescuing me.” She took a deep breath. “I needed to do that myself.”
