Caliban wondered what “reasonable aid” would look like, and if it would make walking into the teeth of the Clockwork Boys any less suicidal.
“You leave tomorrow, then.”
They all nodded. Slate walked out the door, her back ramrod straight.
“Sir Caliban—” The Captain held out a hand to stall his leaving, eyes flicking over the hilt of the sword across his back. “Are you sure? I’ve been thinking—you’re a knight, after all, and it might not be too late—”
“It’s much too late, I think,” said Caliban, and let the door fall shut behind him.
They spent the last night in the capitol the way they’d spent the previous few. Brenner went out on some errand of his own, Caliban sliced at shadows in the courtyard, and Slate forged every document she could think of that might possibly make their lives easier down the road.
Dinner had come around, and Caliban had returned and taken another bath. The man bathed more than a cat. Slate supposed she couldn’t blame him—in his shoes, she’d probably be trying to make up for lost time too. Still, it seemed like every time she saw him, he was soggy.
He was sitting in front of the fire, eating and steaming slightly, when someone knocked on the door. Slate pushed her chair back to get it, but he got up instead, sword in hand, which wouldhave been more menacing if he hadn’t also had a towel over his shoulders.
“Paranoid much?” she asked.
“The servants already brought dinner, and Brenner never bothers to knock.” He opened the door.
“Excuse me, sir,” said one of the servant boys, “but—errr—” His eyes crossed on the blade.
The knight put it away. “Yes?”
“Package for the lady.”
“Thank you.” He took it. The boy fled, not waiting for a tip.
Slate hefted the package, baffled. There was a faint gurgle.Ink? I didn’t order any more ink…She found her letter opener and slit it open, then laughed aloud.
A bottle of very old whiskey sat nestled inside, along with a tiny soapstone carving of a dog. There was no note and no return address, but she hadn’t expected one.
“What is it?”
“A thank-you from the Stone Bitches. A fine group of women, one and all.” She sat the bottle on the table. “Although if I try to drink very much of this, I’ll be under the table.”
“I’ll help,” he said, sitting down opposite.
She peered at him over the top of the bottle. “Are paladins allowed to drink stolen whiskey?”
“This one is.”
“Excellent.”
She poured two glasses, raised hers. “To…err…”
“To dying well,” Caliban said, clinking his glass with hers.
“Hear, hear.”
Four seconds later, Slate remembered why she didn’t drinkwhiskey. The drink burned her tongue and her throat and her belly and the fumes went roaring through her nasal passages and made her choke, which made her sneeze, which went dreadfully wrong.
Caliban reached out and plucked the glass from her fingers. Slate said, “Gnnnrghh… Thank you.” She sneezed again.
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He poured himself another shot. “You weren’t kidding about the allergies, eh?”
