The tattoo itched. He wanted to scratch it, but he was afraid it might scratch him back.
My mind hasn’t been my own, and now my flesh isn’t either. At least they’re a matched set.
Slate was peering out the mouth of the alley, chewing on her lower lip. Her eyebrows were pulled down. She was not a beautiful woman, he was forced to admit, but she had an expressive face. That was what had struck him, even in the cell, the way each thought passed visibly across her face, like the shadow of clouds moving over a hillside.
Once she’d stopped sneezing, anyway.
Or perhaps she was a perfectly ordinary woman, and he was merely maundering because she was the first one he’d seen in a season. What a thing to wreak on a man—the sky too large, all movements too fast, and all women too interesting.
He risked another glance at the whirl of activity outside the alley. His stomach churned a bit, but it wasn’t quite as dizzying.
“If I called us a carriage,” said Slate thoughtfully, “can you make it to the street? It’s—oh, half a block, I’d say.”
“I think I can make it,” he said, although his stomach knotted at the thought.
The sky, the sky, I’ll fall into the sky…
She gave him a concerned look. “I could blindfold you if you like.”
Caliban had little enough pride left, but the thought at first horrified, then amused him. What a pair they’d make—a short little criminal leading a blind, shambling wreck of paladin.The Dreaming God wasn’t known for his sense of humor, but sometimes you had to wonder.
“As entertaining as that would be for the locals, no. I can make it. Just…don’t walk too fast.”
She nodded, and stepped out of the alley.
They went at a walk. Caliban fastened his eyes on her back. She was wearing a completely unmemorable skirt and tunic, in dull grey-brown. If he lost sight of her, he was going to have a hell of a time finding her again. The seam at her left shoulder was starting to come loose. He could see each individual thread working free.
Well, she was visiting a prison, not going out dancing.
I wonder what she did to earn a death sentence?
The thought was startling. He glanced aside, caught a glimpse of the market swirling around him, and bore it for as long as he could before returning his gaze to Slate’s back. She turned to glance at him, and he gave her a nod. She nodded in return and plunged forward.
The Dowager’s city didn’t give death sentences for most crimes. The Dowager preferred money and hard labor, in that order, and dead men are notoriously bad at either.
He doubted she was a murderer. Her stained, elegant hands looked like a scribe or an alchemist. A thief, possibly, which conjured up all sorts of images of daring midnight burglaries, and escapes across the rooftops.
Caliban almost snorted at the thought. Did anyone reallydothat? Pickpocketing perhaps, banditry certainly, but that sort of genteel thievery seemed more like a romantic fiction than an actual profession.
Would they really sentence you to death for it?
A spy? A traitor? Would they send a traitor out on a job like this?
Would they put her in charge?
The cursed tattoo throbbed on his shoulder and he grimaced. It was, he had to admit, an excellent piece of insurance.
They passed a fishmonger’s stall, and a man carrying several wrapped, dripping packages ran into Caliban’s shoulder. He staggered back, more from the unexpected contact than the force.
“Hey, watch where you’re going! Are you drunk?”
“No, I—sorry—” He plunged after Slate, suddenly terrified of losing her in this jumble. She was an unlikely safety, and yet without her—would the tattoo begin chewing at his arm? Would he fall into the sky?
The man cursed after him, brandishing a fish. Slate glanced back, saw Caliban following, and nodded.
He was watching her so intently that when she pulled up short, he nearly ran into her, and then she backed up into him anyway, cursing.
He looked over her head. A space was clearing in the crowd in front of them, as people drew away. He watched a woman trip and fall down, and still keep scuttling backwards with a look of fear and disgust on her face.
