“Do you know which rooms are ours?” asked Slate.
He pointed his thumbs at two opposite doors. Slate pushed herself away from the wall and picked one.
It was tiny. The tradehouse knew they had the monopoly on people waiting overnight for the ferry, and apparently had decided to capitalize on the fact. It held a bed big enough for one person, assuming they slept in fetal position. It also had a basin, a window the size of an arrow slit, and a strip of floor. The bed was ancient, sagging, and would have required a team of skilled carpenters to achieve “decrepit.”
It lookedwonderful.
Slate stepped inside, shut the door behind her—whatever Learned Edmund had to say, she didn’t want to hear it—and crawled onto the bed. Then she arranged her legs by picking her thighs up with her hands and dropping them into position. Then she leaned back against the headboard and whimpered for a few minutes.
A few minutes later, the door opened. Caliban dropped herbags on the floor, said “I hope you realize I’m a knight, not a valet,” and left. She made an obscene gesture at his back.
Give the man a high horse and he thinks he can ride around on it. I should’ve left him in the cell.
The door opened again. It was Learned Edmund, who was trying not to look at her.
“The innkeeper wants money.”
Slate located her moneypurse and flung it at the scholar’s head. “Give him whatever he wants.”
“Your…friend…wants beer.”
“Give him whateverhewants, too.”
“Quite.” The scholar curled his lip and took himself off. The door shut.
A quarter of an hour later, someone knocked.Ah. They’re polite. That lets out anyone in our little band.“Come in,” Slate called.
A serving girl came in, dipped a little curtsy without disturbing anything on her tray, and handed her a wooden bowl of stew and a spoon.
Slate gabbled out something about undying love and large tips, and barely restrained herself from planting her face directly into the stew.
The serving girl smiled, curtsied again, and slipped out.
Slate applied herself to the stew. A minute later the door banged open again, and she set the spoon aside and sighed.
It was Caliban again. He was carrying a single glass of wine. Slate’s eyes locked on it like a vulture spotting a carcass.
“With Brenner’s compliments,” he said dryly, handing it into the room. “He put something into it.”
“Was it poison?” she asked hopefully.
“I don’t think so.”
“Damn.”
She took a sip, detected the faint machine-oil-and-flowers taste of poppy milk, and took a much larger sip. “Tell Brenner he can have my firstborn.”
“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” The door shut again.
Slate applied herself to wine and the stew. By the time she’d finished, the poppy milk and the alcohol were starting to take effect. Her legs still hurt, but she just didn’t give a damn. They were miles away, clear down at the other end of her body. Who needed ‘em, anyway?
Bless Brenner’s black little heart.
Maybe she wouldn’t bother to undress. Maybe she wouldn’t bother with her shoes. Maybe she’d go to sleep, right here…
The door crashed open again. “Just leave it open, for god’s sake,” she groused, glaring at the ceiling. “I don’t know why I evenhavea door.”
It was Caliban, yet again. He dropped a bedroll on the floor.
