The Thief Who Went To War (Amra Thetys, #5)

by Michael McClung

“Ah. You’re one of those drunks, sure enough.” “Why the hells do you think I drink alone?” “You need a hand down?” “You need a kick in the nutsack?”

She slammed something hard against the back of my head by way of expressing her regret. Then they dragged me off the pavement by my upper arms and stuffed me in the carriage, face down on the floor. “Fuck if I’m paying the fare for this ride,” I told them.

“She thinks she’s funny,” said the woman. “Tell her your joke, Vin.” Vin’s joke was the butt of his crossbow’s stock to the back of my head. Honestly, I didn’t get it. What I did get was unconscious.

“I never consented to the rain getting me drenched,” she said in a perfect mockery of my own voice. “And yet.”

“You want a drink before the blood? I’m buying. But just for you, mind. Not your mob. I’m not made of money.” After a moment’s consideration he sat down next to me, a bemused expression on his face. I knew he would. People like him, they had to show they were in control. That they were the masters of any and every situation they found themselves in.

While I was bickering with Chuckles, Kluge had gotten close enough to be within reach of the Blade. And now he was reaching for it, like an imbecile. So I punched him in the face. “Don’t fucking touch it, you halfwit!” He staggered back, crimson suddenly gushing down his upper lip. I hadn’t actually meant to bloody his nose. But it’s not like I was sorry. “It’s one of the Eightfold’s Blades and you want to just pick it up? What the hells is wrong with you?” Glaring at me, he pulled out a kerchief and tried to stanch the bleeding. “It… called to me,” he muttered. “Well ignore it, for fuck’s sake.”