She could smell unwashed flesh and old straw and rankness, but over that, pungently, hung the scent of rosemary.
Great. I’m paying attention. Now what? Do I offer him the job, or am I supposed to stay as far away from him as possible?
As usual, her erratic gift offered no advice.
She squared her shoulders and met the man’s eyes. They were dark and brown and held hers. One eyebrow had an ironic tilt, but behind his eyes, Slate could smell despair.
There were a great many things she had prepared to say—vague explanations, stripped of any facts that could be dangerous, mentions of the Dowager’s name, promises of amnesty in the unlikely event any of them survived. She considered them all and rejected them one by one.
“Would you like to go on a suicide mission?” she asked instead.
He smiled. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen all day.
“I would be honored,” he said.
CHAPTER 2
THE WARDEN WAS NOT THRILLEDby the notion of letting a mass murderer go, particularly not a famous one. Slate wasn’t sure if he was making money by taking visitors to gawk at the prisoner, or if he actually expected Sir Caliban to fall on her like a starving wolf the minute he was out of the cell.
He hadn’t looked much like a wolf when the warden had herded her back to the guard room. The way he’d looked down the hallway after them, face schooled to immobility, had reminded her more of a dog lost and wondering where its home had gone.
Let’s not get sappy. Your puppy made chew toys out of ten people.
“I don’t like this, missy,” said the warden. He leaned forward in his chair, his fingers splayed over her documents.
Slate wondered if going from “ma’am” to “missy” was a bad sign.Probably.“Look, I have signed orders from the Dowager allowing me take any of the prisoners that I feel will be useful. I have the authority to do this.”
Please, god, IhopeI have the authority to do this.
The Dowager Queen’s exact words had been, “Take anyone from the prisons you feel will be useful. They may have a pardon, in the event any of them survive.” And then she’d gestured witha hand covered in rings, and Slate had been hustled out of the audience chamber, feeling like a mule had kicked her in the gut.
Clear enough. Slate had a feeling that “anyone” probably hadn’t included Sir Caliban. Perhaps the Dowager had forgotten he was down here.
Still, the rosemary had been unmistakable.
Unless it was trying to warn me of danger, and he really is going to kill me as soon as he gets out of the cell.
Oh well, now or later, it’s all the same, I suppose…
“Find him some clothes,” said Slate, after the warden had puzzled over her papers long enough. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some nice murderers instead?” he asked plaintively.
“Quite sure, thanks.”
“We’ve got some likely lads being transferred in for robbery next shift—”
“Just the knight.”
“That one—ma’am—you gotta understand, he’s bad crazy.Demoncrazy. It’s not just like he hit somebody a little too hard on accident—he carved up those women like chickens. And he says things at night that aren’t canny.”
Back to ma’am again. I must be winning.
“Then you’ll be glad not to have to listen to him any more.” Slate reached over and plucked her papers off the table.
I suppose we’ll have to get him a sword.
Well, that’s a quick death, too, if he’s any good.
