“It’s a quicker death than getting eaten by a tattoo,” she pointed out, sprinkling a thin layer of drying sand over the letter.
“True enough.”
He fell silent after that. It was one of the restful things about assassins; they knew how to be quiet. He lounged in his chair instead, like a big black cat in front of the fire, doing nothing much, thinking his own thoughts behind his pale blue eyes.
They were killer’s eyes. Her mother had warned her about men with eyes like that. Granted the line of work her mother had been in, it had been very specific advice: “Get the money up front. They’re fine in a brothel, but don’t go out to his house, whatever you do.”
It was good advice, and her mother would definitely not have approved of her brief liaison with Brenner. Still, despite his many faults, she’d found him reliable. They’d worked together a few times. Unless someone offered him a great deal of money to kill her, he was trustworthy, which made him the closest thing she had to a friend, and how sad wasthat?
But he did know how to be quiet.
She waited until the ink was dry, then folded up the letter and waved it at him. He plucked it neatly from her fingers, but didn’t try to read it. Like most people, Brenner was the next best thing to illiterate.Sad for him, job security for me.
“Do the Stone Bitches still operate out of that warehouse on Old Slaughterhouse Row?”
“Far as I know, yeah.”
“Will you run that by them? They’re about to get raided.”
“Your wish is my command.” He saluted with the folded paper, fingers rising to the tattoo on his shoulder. “Doesn’t this count as betraying the crown?”
“I’m still planning on doing everything in my power to stop the Clockwork Boys. Beyond that, I don’t think it cares.”
“Interesting.” Brenner tucked the letter into his belt and strolled out.
Slate slouched down in a chair in front of the fire. It was mid-spring, and the days were warming up, but the evenings were still chilly. She poked up the fire, then curled up in the chair. Her eyelids were heavy.
Long day. I suppose it’s probably better for your last days to be long ones, but I think I could stand a short one now and again. For variety.
The door to her room opened. Caliban came out.
She glanced up sleepily, then sat bolt upright. “Good lord!”
The bath hadn’t been able to do anything about the dark circles under his eyes, but otherwise, it was hard to imagine that it was the same man.
Freed of the grime, his hair had lightened to a dark honey, and freed of the ragged growth of beard, he had a strong jawline. He’d kept the beard in front, neatly trimmed, but thinned enough that she could make out a broad lower lip. With his hair pulled back, the ironic eyebrows were much more obvious.
Brenner, with his usual eye for detail, had judged the man’s size exactly. In decently fitted, well-cut clothes, instead of prison rags, Caliban looked about ten years younger. He looked like—well, like a champion of the gods, in fact, if a pale and sardonic one.And not a bad looking one. Raowr.
Down, girl. He’s a walking corpse anyway. Quit staring.
He was just an unexpectedly good-looking corpse, that was all.
“I didn’t cut my nose off shaving, did I?” he asked.
“No, it’s still there. You, uh, look a lot better.” She tore her eyes away before she said anything embarrassing.
What, like, “Take me now?”
Mmm. I realize Brenner set a bad precedent, but I’d just as soon get away from men with a body count.
Not that it matters anyway. I’ll probably be dead on the road soon, and doubly dead if we ever get to Anuket City. That’s one more complication I really, really don’t need.
Fortunately, Caliban couldn’t hear what she was thinking. “Thank you, madam.” He sketched a half-bow in her direction. “I feel much better. It’s amazing how four months of dirt drags at you.”
This was true. Caliban could hardly believe how much better he felt, now that he’d scrubbed himself clean. It had taken the sweating servant half a dozen trips, lugging clean water in and dirty water out, to remove the stink of the prison. He’d had to cut great tangles ruthlessly out of his hair, and he was surprised at how much was left.
“I’m afraid, madam, I must beg you to leave the servant boy a rather large tip. I have no money, myself.”
