A horse she’d been pleased to see the back end of months ago, truth be told.
But still, she found herself grinning. Dragging herself to her feet and wobbling to his side, running her hand across his flank as he made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
She put her arms around his neck.
Kissed his cheek.
“Hello, Bastard,” she said.
CHAPTER 36
SUNSSET
Fat Daniio was beginning to think the Everseeing hated him.
When Lem had walked into the Old Imperial and declared a laden wagon train was trundling into Last Hope, Daniio figured mebbe those idiot Kephians had returned from their fool quest without getting et. But then Scupps had wandered in, scratching his bollocks and blinking the dust from his eyes, declaring there were too many of the buggers to be them Kephians. In Scupps’s learned opinion, they looked more like soldier boys. Waddling out into Last Hope’s thoroughfare with the lads in tow, Fat Daniio peered the battered wagon train up and down.
“Soldiers,” Scupps had declared. “Soldiers or I’m a two-beggar whoreson.”
Lem scowled. “Kephians, I’m telling yers.”
“Yer both wrong.” A grin had split Daniio’s chubby face. “They’re customers.”
The garrison house wasn’t near big enough to house seventy bodies, and sure enough, that marrowborn wanker Garibaldi (who was still heartbroke about his bloody horse getting pinched—you’d think it were his bride the way he went on about it) mooched up to the Old Imperial about an hour after the train hit Last Hope, booked every spare room in the place, quick as spit. It was at least a week ’til Wolfeater would be back to ship the newcomers to civilization, and Daniio began dreaming about the small fortune he’d make in the meantime.
Until he found out the bastards had no money, of course.
Not a pair of rusty beggars to rub between them.
He’d marched right over to the garrison house, pounded on the door, and demanded to speak to the tosser in charge. A scarred man the size of a small pub had rumbled slowly into view, and declared himself the justicus—justicus, mind you—of the entire Luminatii Legion. He told Daniio that the Old Imperial and all provisions therein were being requisitioned for the “safety and security of the Itreyan Republic.” Centurion Horse-Lover had given Daniio a smug smile, some little blond piece who looked young enough to be this Remus prick’s daughter shrugged apologetically, and Daniio had the door slammed right in his face.
And so, he’d become a fucking charity master. Fingers worked to the bone. His common room and every bedchamber packed with grumbling, farting, ungrateful Luminatii bastards. They ate like inkfiends on a bender. Drank like starving fish. Stank like an outhouse in truelight. And poor Daniio was getting paid for none of it.
Now, it was three turns since the dogs had arrived in Last Hope. Trelene’s Beau was still four nevernights away, winds being kind, and the way Daniio’s luck was running, he’d not have been surprised to learn Wolfeater and the whole crew had got shipwrecked on the mythical Isle of Wine and Whores and decided to stay a spell.
The Imperial’s larder was gutted from feeding all those soldiers three squares for four turns straight, and Daniio had been reduced to serving mostly soups and stews. Chow this eve was a broth made from the bones of the deeptuna he’d served the turn before, and he’d left it boiling on the burner while he went out into the common room to serve another round of drinks. Every soldier staying in the pub was clustered into booths or crammed eight apiece to his tables. No amount of talk about the “safety and security of the Itreyan Republic” could convince Dona Amile and the dancers at the Seven Flavors to give free ones, so the bastards had nothing to do all turn except drink, mooch about, and intimidate Daniio’s regulars.
After serving drinks, Daniio walked into the kitchen and kicked the back door shut with a snarl. Shuffling over to his stovetop, he gave the broth a good whiff. It smelled a little odd; maybe he’d left the bits out too long. But fuck it all, these dogs were eating free, and if any felt like complaining, he’d had just about enough to spit it right back in their faces.
He served dinner, answered shouts for more wine. After being run off his feet for a half-hour, he managed to get a few minutes to duck out the back alley for a smoke.
“Bastards,” he muttered. “God-bothering bastards and beggars, all.”
Daniio leaned against the alley wall, cursing. He got his smokes from Wolfeater, imported right from the ’Grave. Proper fancy they were, sugarpaper and all. Propping a cigarillo on his lips, he cupped his flintbox with his palm and sparked the flame.
“You’re supposed to be at the garrison tower, Daniio,” a voice said.
“Aa’s cock,” he cursed.
The flintbox fell from his hands, clattered on the alley ground. A girl dressed all in black stepped from the shadows, soft as whispers. Storm winds blew in off the bay, blowing a long fringe around dark, hard eyes. Leaning down slowly, she picked up the flintbox. Tossed it into the air and caught it in one dirty fist.
“’Byss and blood, you near took me out of my skin, girl,” the publican swore. “What the blue fuck ya doin’ creepin’ ’round …”
He blinked at her, his left eye traveling up her body a little slower than his right.
“’Ere, do I know you? You look … familiarish.”
The girl leaned forward with a smile and plucked the cigarillo right from his lips. Placing it on her own, she leaned against the wall opposite and sighed, drawing on the smoke as if her life depended on it. She looked more than a little grubby, truth be told, hair crusted and skin filthy. But her curves were a rare treat, and her lips the kind you’d sell your mother to get a taste of.
“You’re supposed to be at the garrison tower, Daniio,” she repeated.
“… What for?”
“You serve evemeals there, if I recall.”
Daniio frowned the girl up and down. She was just a slip of a thing. Half his age. But there was something in the look of her. In the eyes mebbe. Something that made him more than a little nervous without quite knowing why …
“Don’t serve ’em no more,” he said. “Garibaldi threw a fit after he and his boys got a taste of the roaring shits. Same nevernight as his horse got nicked. They cook their own grub over there now. Centurion’s orders.”
The girl sighed gray.
“Serves me right, I suppose. But that leaves us with a problem.”
Daniio looked up and down the alley, acutely aware he was alone with this girl. That she was armed heavier than most anyone outside a gladiatorii arena had a right to be. That she was watching him the way he imagined a viper might watch a mouse.
That she hadn’t blinked yet.
“What problem would that be?” he managed.
“What do you hear, Daniio?” the girl asked.
“… Eh?”
“Listen,” she whispered. “What do you hear?”
Thinking it an odd game but now decidedly ill at ease, Daniio cocked his head, listening as she bid. Last Hope was death-quiet, but that was usually the case of a nevernight. Most folk would’ve retired by now, sitting at the hearth with a drink in hand. He heard camels grumbling in the garrison stables. A dog bark in the distance. The roar of the evewind and the crash of surf.
He shrugged. “Not much.”
“You’ve sixty men in your common room, Daniio. Devout servants of the Everseeing they might be, but shouldn’t they be a little rowdier?”
Daniio frowned. Now she mentioned it, the pub was a damn sight quieter than it should’ve been. He’d not heard one bellowed drinks order or a single shouted complaint since he stepped outside for his smoke …