“Hmmm.” She pursed her lips for a moment. “You’re sure it’s dead?”
“Very sure, madam.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“I haven’t killed you. Ergo—” He drained the rest of his wineglass.
“Ah. Good enough.”
She got up from the table, taking her wine with her. Caliban poured the rest of the bottle into his glass and followed her to the chairs.
They had not been able to find a third room for him at the inn, and neither he nor Brenner had been particularly keen on sharing a room, so the temple knight was sleeping on the floor in the common room. Slate avoided the pile of blankets by the simple expedient of climbing over the back of the chair. Less agile and with a fuller glass, Caliban shoved his bedding aside with his foot and took the other chair.
“It doesn’t sound very glamorous, demon hunting,” she said.
“It’s not. I’ve killed a lot of possessed cows.”
“Then why wasLordCaliban so lionized?”
No-longer-Lord Caliban shrugged. “Temple paladins, you know. We dress well, when we’re not off killing things. We’re polite. We do heroic things that sound interesting—nobody realizes that most demon possessions end with butchering farm animals. Most of us aren’t total bastards, since the Dreaming God has certain requirements in his servants. We’re uncomplicated and look good in white. You know how it is.” He considered for a moment. “We’re not sworn to celibacy.”
The sexual tension in the room kicked up several notches, rather abruptly. Caliban twitched.
I shouldn’t have said that. That was stupid. I should have stopped drinking several glasses ago.
Slate wasn’t helping, sprawled bonelessly over the chair like that. He wondered if she even knewhowto sit in a chair.
Maybe she spends so much time hunched over account books that she can’t sit normally the rest of the time.
He was surprised to see that she did actually have a shape underneath her usual layers of clothes. It was more generous than he would have guessed.
Well. One hardly dresses their best to visit a prison.
Stretched over the chair, however…
He took another swallow, vaguely hoping that sobriety would lie at the bottom of the glass.
“Mmm.” She eyed him warily. “Uncomplicated and look good in white. Right. So how did a demonslayer get possessed?”
His libido went back to wherever it had briefly emerged from, which was a relief, even if the question wasn’t.
“Oh.” Caliban set the wineglass down, and stared into the fire, the black logs crazed with fine red cracks. “I’d…as soon not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you. It doesn’t matter any more anyway.”
“It’s okay. We’re all going to die anyway in a few days. At most in a couple of weeks,” she said, with a sort of grim cheer.
He blinked at her. “Is that meant to make me feel better?”
“Sure. You don’t have to worry about getting rid of all your problems before they mess up your life anymore.” She waved a hand in his direction. “I’m back to biting my fingernails, and Brenner’s…well, I don’t know what all of Brenner’s vices are, and I don’t want to. So you don’t have to worry about whatever sins temple knights commit that let the demons in, because it’s not going to matter.”
He weighed this bit of wisdom and came to a conclusion. “You’re drunk.”
“Well, a little. I generally don’t drink very much. Still, since I’m going to die anyway…” She wriggled around until her knees were over the back of the chair and her head was hanging over the seat and she was gazing solemnly at him, upside down. Bits of Caliban’s spine cried out in sympathy.
“Fine, I grant you that my life’s not worth much at the moment. But what if I’m worried about the afterlife?” He could feel a smile tugging at him, despite the subject—an inverted drunk guerrilla accountant was giving a disgraced temple knight spiritual advice. Possibly the gods had more of a sense of humor than he’d thought.
At the moment, she’s probably in better grace with the gods than I am, anyway.
“Areyou worried about the afterlife?”
