He glanced to the side, where two large yellow eyes looked back at him from a floating clump of waterweeds.
Let’s see what you’re made off, Lord Bill . . . “It’s just a baby. Eighteen feet tops. He won’t bother us. They grow much bigger.”
No reaction. Come on, tiny boat, big gator, that ought to worry anybody.
“In a few years, he might get to be around twenty-five feet. Some old fellows grow to thirty. We call them ervaurg . Means ‘big eater.’ ”
Lord Bill appeared unconcerned. Hmm.
Cerise pushed him a bit more. “The thing about ervaurgs is that they aren’t like normal animals. When you feed a dog, he’ll sit and wait for you to give him his food. When you feed a Mire cat, he’ll grab the treat and rip it out of your hands. Feeding a Mire gator is like feeding a pair of giant, razor-sharp scissors. One moment you’re holding a chunk of cow carcass on a hook above the water and then huge jaws come out and”—she snapped her fingers—“the meat is gone. No tug, no extra weight, nothing. Just jaws and an empty hook.”
“Doesn’t make much sense to feed them, then,” William said.
“We do it for leather. A thirty-foot ervaurg packs a lot of leather, but his hide is too hard to make into anything. You might armor a boat with it, but other than that, it’s not good for much. But when they’re young, their leather is supple, so leather merchants breed them on gator farms like cows and kill them off with poisoned meat when they get too big. Mire gator leather is one of our few exports.”
“It must’ve killed you not to talk for a whole day,” he said.
Handsome, scary, and an ass. As expected from a spoiled rich blueblood from the Weird. She imagined thumping him on the head with her pole and gave him a bright smile.
His eyes narrowed. “I get it. You kept your mouth shut to hide the teeth.”
And smart. Homeless people didn’t have good teeth. Kaldar had stressed that one to her before she left.
Cerise would’ve preferred a dumb Lord Bill over the smart one—the smart one was more trouble—but in the end, it didn’t matter. She gave her word and she’d keep it. They’d get to Sicktree, and then she’d drop him faster than he could blink. She would just have to watch him carefully and keep her sword close.
The swamp rolled by, savage and beautiful at the same time. It’d been a few months since Cerise had come this way, but she remembered it well enough. She was Kaldar’s favorite partner in crime for his excursions to the Broken. He’d wanted to come to look for Uncle Hugh so badly even she couldn’t convince him to stay behind. It took Richard. He’d frowned and Kaldar gave in.
Cerise glanced at the sky. Please keep the lot of them safe in the Rathole. Please. Someone had to meet her in Sicktree to take her back to the house, and she’d agreed to let Urow do it, because he was the best rolpie driver the family had and because he nagged and piled on the family guilt until she couldn’t stand it anymore. Urow was difficult. He was big and strong, and he thought that made him a good fighter. He also had a chip on his shoulder about being included in the family business. She should’ve said no, but she knew it would crush him and so she didn’t. Now that decision was costing her a bundle in frayed nerves.
But then Urow would come with a boat and a good, fast rolpie, and she was late enough as it was. She would need his boat and his crazy driving to get her to the Rathole on time.
Cerise brushed the jacket, feeling the stiff packet of papers again. Still there. Hold on, Mom, Dad. I’m coming.
THE woman lay on the floor, curled into a fetal ball. Spider sighed. Her skin had acquired an unhealthy greenish tint. The matter wasn’t helped by a patina of bruises covering her legs and arms. He always believed in the doctrine of maximum pain with minimal damage during torture—he wanted to break her spirit, not her body—and their sessions left only the lightest of injuries. Unfortunately Genevieve insisted on attacking the guards and trying to kill herself in her spare time. Subduing her without causing injuries proved difficult.
Her attempts grew more and more reckless. This last one was brilliantly executed and almost took her from him. He couldn’t afford to lose Genevieve. Not yet.
Spider waited by the grimy wall. The place smelled of mildew. Gods, how he despised the swamp.
Genevieve stirred with a soft moan. Her eyelids trembled and she whispered, “Non.”
Gaulish. Finally. She had reverted to her native language. It meant he had cracked her armor. Too little, too late. The Hand informed him that the Mirror was aware of his activities in the Mire and had sent an agent. They were unable to ascertain the agent’s identity, but Spider expected the Adrianglians would send their best. The Mirror did produce worthy opponents once in a while, and he couldn’t afford to jeopardize the integrity of the project. Some tough decisions would have to be made.
“Yes,” he told her in Gaulish.
Genevieve pulled herself upright. A blue and black ring clutched at her throat.
“The bruise on your neck looks atrocious,” he continued in the same language. “I have to admit, using magic to strangle yourself with your collar was an elegant move. Tell me, did you learn metal alteration before your parents were exiled to the Edge or after?”
She stared at him with intense, focused hatred.
“It saddens me that you hate me,” he said. “I’m being sincere. You’re a scion of one of the oldest blueblood families, as am I. We should be having a civilized conversation, spiced with good red wine and an occasional witty remark. Instead we find ourselves here.” He spread his arms. “In the drain for all of the world’s muck, with you reduced to a battered animal and me your batterer.”