“Not really.”
“There, you see?” She folded her arms. Her hair brushed the floor under her head.
“Areyouworried about dying?” he asked. He didn’t mean to ask it, hadn’t expected to hear himself saying it, and yet there it was—years in a temple got into your head. You provided spiritual comfort, like a reflex. It was even the paladin’s voice he was using, the one that was always so effective, soothing and comforting, a little quieter than usual. A brother’s voice, a priest’s voice, a voice that spoke to the nerves and said:Trust me.
People opened up to that voice. If you did it well enough, you hardly ever needed the sword.
He wasn’t sure if the fact that he could still do it involuntarily,despite months in a prison cell, demonic possession, murder, and half a bottle of wine was comforting or horrifying.
One of the two, anyway. Possibly both.
“Oh, I’m quite petrified.” Slate wrinkled her nose, but there was a timbre in her voice that told him she wasn’t entirely joking.
If she’d been right side up, at this point he would have reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. God, he’d held variations of this same conversation at least a dozen times with the newest squires. That there was no difference between an accountant thief and a novice demonslayer was also either comforting or horrifying.
Next it’s the long, friendly look, and then they say something—generally doesn’t matter what—and the proud ones straighten up, and the healthy ones cry, and the funny ones try to make a joke and choke up halfway through, and you put an arm around them and say something—still doesn’t matter what, it’s the tone that does it—and wait until they’re done and then offer a handkerchief, and then they say something embarrassed, and you tell them that you cried for three nights the first time you actually went out after a demon.
Hmm, with the way she gets sneezing, I should probably offer her the handkerchief a little early—
Ngha, ha, nghaa,the demon said, which might have been an agreement, or a commentary on handkerchiefs.
He’d never seen a possessed person use one, if it came to that. Perhaps they didn’t have handkerchiefs in hell.
“On the other hand,” Slate said, making a sweeping gesture—Caliban rescued his wineglass—”whenever it starts to bother me, I think the same thing.”
Here it comes.He dug in a pocket for his handkerchief.
“Really stupid people die all the time. And iftheycan manage it, I oughta have no problem.”
He blinked.
That wasn’t in the script…
“Err. You’re not going tocry, are you?” Slate asked worriedly, eyeing his handkerchief.
“Ah…no.”And that’s what I get for thinking I know what I’m doing.
Kalikalikaliha, n’ha’mah,added the demon, which was arguably also something he’d gotten for thinking he knew what he was doing. And that was the other side of the paladin’s voice, and the Dreaming God only knew if he could still managethatany longer.
He shoved the square of cloth back in his pocket. “I’m fine. But I think I’m about ready for bed.”Before my delusions run away with me, or I start gibbering in tongues again.
“Mmm, probably a good idea.” She kicked off with her feet and rolled off the chair, landing on her feet. He would have broken his neck if he’d tried that.
She staggered and sat down, hard.
It was not chivalric to snicker. He did it anyway, because if you were going to be thrown out of a religious order on your ear, you took what small comforts you could get.
Slate grumbled at him and slouched off toward her door.
“Madam—” he said, feeling oddly stilted, and then, “Slate—”
She turned and looked at him, one hand on the doorknob.
“Thank you. For—” he searched briefly for the words, “—giving me my death back.”
She inclined her head as graciously as the Dowager accepting tribute, and slipped through the door and away.
He watched her go, then spread the bedroll out across the floorboards in front of the fire.
