I don’t think he’s half so dumb as he pretends to be, either.
There was no question why Brenner was along, at least—Caliban would bet diamonds to road apples that there was a tattoo on the man’s shoulder with its teeth sunk into his flesh.
“Why didn’t they hang you, anyway?” the assassin asked, dropping into the chair opposite him. The caterpillars spasmed.
“I was possessed.”
“Sureyou were.”
What Caliban might have said to this—and he had no idea himself—was cut off by the door opening. Slate emerged, balancing a bundle of papers topped with an inkwell. She jerked her head toward one of the adjoining doors. “Bath’s ready. Brenner, make yourself useful and go find the man some decent clothes and a sword.”
Brenner executed a mocking salute and slithered out the door.
“Can we trust him?” asked Caliban.
We. She and I are awe. When did that happen?
“Brenner? He’s got a heart of gold…cold, metallic, and made of money. But the tattoo will keep him in line. More or less.”
“I don’t like him,” said Caliban.
“Who does?” asked Slate.
CHAPTER 4
EVENING CAME. By the time the sounds of splashing from her room had finally stopped, Slate had changed, eaten, and finished writing a letter to the Stone Bitches. The servant boy had gone in and out five times, carrying hot water. She wondered how long it took to wash off a season’s worth of grime, or to shave off that much beard.
Brenner had returned after an hour or so, dropping off a pile of clothes. She heard him say something from the next room, and Caliban’s sharp response, but couldn’t make out anything but the tone. Brenner laughed. The door opened and closed again.
“Baiting him, Brenner?” she asked, bending over her writing.
“I offered to shave him, since he doesn’t have a mirror. He said he’d do it himself. Acted like a hot towel was a murder weapon.”
“Can’t imagine why he wouldn’t want you to have a razor near his neck.”
“Iknow.”
The assassin trailed his fingers over her neck as he passed. She hunched away, annoyed. They’d been lovers once, a few years ago, and although they hadn’t resumed the relationship, she got the feeling he hadn’t given up hoping.
He didn’t press the issue. Instead there was a metallicclunk, and she looked up, startled.
Brenner slid a sword across the table in front of her. “For our fine knight.”
Her eyebrows went up. “That’s a big sword.” The blade was wider than her wrist and longer than her arm. It looked like something you’d use to brace a ceiling with, rather than a weapon.
“Now, now, you know it’s not the size of the sword—”
“Shutup, Brenner.”
He grinned, slinging the equally large scabbard across the back of the chair. “Anyway, it’s the kind the temple knights carry. I went and looked.” Another blade, a long knife, hit the table with a clunk. “And here’s the one I think they actually use. I can’t imagine you could swingthatbloody thing indoors without taking out half the building.”
“Oh. Good thinking.” Brenner knew weaponry, she’d give him that. Slate tried to pick up the sword and grunted. She was fairly strong—people kept their documents in some odd places, and she had to climb walls and rain-pipes more often than not—but her wrists started shaking uncontrollably at the weight. “Good lord. They actually swing this thing?”
“Oh, yes. Our dear paladin could probably chop a bull in half with that sword.”
“I suppose that’ll come in handy if we need any bulls chopped.”
Brenner sat down on the edge of the table. Slate moved her letter and her inkwell out of the way. “He’ll be excellent muscle, I imagine, if he doesn’t run mad and chop us up instead.”
