“Right. Well, I think we could arrange for a suitable…hmm… road tax,” she said.
He looked back at Caliban, who was glowering and running his hand over the hilt of his sword. “Fifteen.”
“Five.”
“Twelve.”
“Seven.”
“Ten—”
Caliban’s horse took a few steps forward. He opened his mouth to say something in protest, and what came out was guttural and in no human language.
“Nine, and hurry it up, my friend here is not staaaable,” Slate said, uttering the last word in a sing-song which caused the bandit’s eyes to widen even farther.
“Nine sounds good.”
Slate put her hand in her money pouch, counted out nine coins inside the bag—no sense letting the man see how much was really in there—and handed them over.
The bandit hefted the money, glanced at each member of the group in turn, then leaned forward. With his lips barely moving, he murmured “I wouldn’t normally ask this, but are these men kidnapping you?”
Slate had a sudden desire to yell “Yes!” and throw herself into the bandit-leader’s arms—he really did have lovely eyes—but she suspected that nothing would be left alive on the roadway by the time that had finished playing out.
Plus the tattoo would eat me.
“I’m beyond help at this point,” she said instead. “But you’re sweet to ask.”
He nodded to her, looked as if he might say something else, then shook his head.
The bandits melted away into the trees.
“You’re going to just let them get away?” Caliban demanded.
“Yep.”
“They’re bandits!”
“That they are.”
“They threatened you!”
“For god’s sake, Caliban, is there any particular reason you want to interrupt our trip with somebody getting stabbed? Just let it go.”
He slid out of the saddle and grabbed her stirrup. His voice came out clipped and impatient, and Slate almost didn’t register the words at first, which were “I’m sorry.”
Slate blinked. “Uh.”
“I should have been up here, not checking behind us. You could have been killed.”
“No harm done?”
“It will not happen again, madam.”
What do I say to that? “See that it doesn’t?” “No, really, don’t worry about it?” What will shake him out of his martyred knight mode?
She settled for a nod. He rode practically at her stirrup for the rest of the day, one hand always on his sword. She wasn’t sure if she was comforted or worried or just annoyed.
He’s miffed because I lied about which route we were taking, and now he’s mad at himself because he was off sulking and I could have been killed by bandits. I swear, the man looks for ways to beat himself up. It’s like some kind of weird hobby.
