Without being asked, Caliban reached down and pulled her boots off.
“Gaaahh!…thanks.”Command. I am in command. Dammit, that child was right. I’ve been letting Caliban do it all. I should have interrogated the Captain of the Guard about Learned Edmund myself, and instead I was maundering around wall owing in my upcoming horrible death.
Dammit. And now I’m going to ask for even more.
No. Delegating. I’m delegating.
“Will you speak to Learned Edmund? Tell him…whatever.” She waved a hand vaguely. “Smooth it over.”
“I will do my best.” He stood at the foot of the bed in parade rest, apparently waiting to be dismissed.
“Use the voice on him,” muttered Slate.
The Knight-Champion looked startled for just a moment, and then he gave her a genuine smile. “You noticed?”
“Hard not to. If I could sound that trustworthy, I’d be rich.”
Well, maybe. Probably it only works if you’re six feet tall and look like a war-god.
“Most likely not,” he said, sounding a trifle apologetic. “I am afraid it only works if you believe what you’re saying.”
“You mean you can’tlie?”
“Normally? Of course I can, though I’m afraid it was never my strong suit. But if you are trying to make people trust you, you must trust your own word first. That’s why it works.”
“What awful con men you’d make.”
“Thatisthe general idea.”
“What if you’re one of those loons who believe every word they’re saying?”
His smile faded. “People like that are dangerous,” he said. “We try to kill them quickly.” He shut the door behind him, and left Slate alone in the room.
Maybe Caliban had been right about adapting. Maybe it was the awful herbal gunk. Whatever it was, after the third day, it started to get better. Muscles either learned how to grip or stopped trying. Joints loosened up. Slate could get out of the saddle at the end of the day, although she never could get back up into it without a mounting block.
Caliban took to sleeping in the stable whenever possible, presumably so that his demonic mutterings would bother no one but the horses. Slate got up early one morning—or rather, her allergies to the mold in the room drove her out of bed before she suffocated—and she found the knight in the stable yard, chopping down shadows.
Slate melted into the shadows of a staircase and sat down. She pulled her knees up to her chin and watched him.
Forehand…backhand…turn…forehand…sweep…
It was a repetitive set of motions, oddly hypnotic. The arms moved, the sword swung, the shadows fell back.
The paladin was a pleasure to watch, she’d admit that. He was not wearing the shell of armor, and it would have taken a better woman than Slate not to admire the play of muscles under his skin. The thin cotton shirt didn’t leave much to the imagination.
The black ink across his arm was an ugly blotch beneath the fabric. It wriggled with each chop of the sword. Slate stifled a sigh.
Oh, well. We’re all damaged goods here, I suppose.
At the end of the sequence, Caliban dropped gracefully to his knees, a practiced move, and clasped both hands on the hilt of the upright sword. He bent his head, forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, and closed his eyes.
And there he stayed.
Long minutes slid by, and Slate’s ankles ached with sympathy. Inside his boots, his feet had to be white and bloodless.Unless the temple teaches knight-champions how to do that sort of thing…
Slate had not ever seen much point to prayer, but the intensity of that silent vigil was painful to watch. It seemed cruel that any god could hear such prayers and not respond at once.
She slid to her feet and slipped away before he saw her and she could ask what, if anything, he was praying for.
