Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
It’s a gate, between a pair of stone pylons, and the wrought iron is curved into a beautiful design of hearts and flowers.
I run my fingertips over the drawing, marveling that someone with such brute strength could have such a delicate hand with a pencil.
I shouldn’t go through his other drawings, but I do, starting all the way back at the first page. It’s landscapes, one after the other starting with a mountain range. Then it’s a verdant valley. And another set of mountains, but this time from the perspective of a trail. A lake. A road. A village center. A meadow … and then, finally, the gates.
Frowning at the design of the barrier, I want to know what’s on the other side, as if it’s real and I’m standing before the thing. But from what I can see between the curls and strokes of lead, there only appears to be just more meadow.
I go back to the beginning again, and as I make a second pass through … I realize it’s a journey. Not ours, but perhaps one he took once.
Or maybe it’s the way back to his home.
I return the journal to where it was, and think about how he’s going to move on. And then I consider the maid’s future. Even if he saves her from the cook, what awaits her next in this harsh place? How much help can I be to her—when I have to keep my own self alive? There are so many dark alleys, dark corners, dark nights here at the Outpost.
And that’s assuming the demons don’t come—
In the hall, I hear arguing, and I go to the door. Slipping the bolt free, I crack the panel and peer out. Down at the stairs, two men are shoving at each other, their bodies banging off the corridor walls. A third one sneaks around the rumble, and slips into the room of one of the women with a sly smile, as if he intends to take what they’re fighting over.
I focus on the face of the working woman who welcomes the interloper into her bedroom. She’s not afraid of the fighting—or the men. And I think of the pair who were singing as they sat together earlier. And the others I have seen.
The one who Merc—
I shake that vision right out of my head.
For all the drinking and the violence, for all the rough and the tumble, the women here have not been bruised or handled roughly that I’ve seen. More than that, they’ve never shown any fear, or flinching, which means what little I’ve witnessed is in fact the way of things: They’re protected in this establishment.
That’s why they’re unafraid—and untouched except for when they choose to do what they do for the coins they keep.
And with a sudden clarity, I know who watches over them.
Fifty-Four
An Offer Made.
I leave the room with my head uncovered, and as I walk down the hall, the men who are dallying around the doors by the stairwell sober up and look away or become busy with their mead-soaked clothes. The women who linger in the doorways with them watch me. The blond one that Merc was with—
Well, she’s nowhere to be seen. And I have a stupid paranoia that they’re together again, but of course that’s ridiculous.
Because he’s killing someone for me.
I’m cursing myself and Anathos in general as I descend the steps. The din in the pub reminds me of the Gauntlet, but I feel no nostalgia. I’m too busy practicing what I’m going to say. When I reach the bottom, I turn toward the flap door into the kitchen. Then I look out into the crowd. I don’t see the short-haired maid with the bruised face and the beautiful voice.
I worry all this is too late. In the event it isn’t, I have to press on.
A feeling of disassociation overtakes me as I walk into the sea of patrons, the smell of sweat, mead, and mud dimming along with the sound of the voices. The brief looks of surprise I get are as if from a great distance, and when chairs are shifted out of my path, I judge harshly the gamblers and degenerates for their pathetic need for drink and sexual distraction. They’re nothing but a herd of cattle wandering their pasture of short-term pleasure.
And I hate them.
I proceed all the way to the back, to the trestle table, and the hard, sober men who line its far side, facing out at the patrons, the working women, the barkeeps, and the maids.
Top Hat is there, presiding over everything at the head of the group.
I can’t read his face, of course, on account of that brim. All I see is the unforgiving cut of his jaw, and his dark sideburns.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” he says in a low, smooth voice. “But where is your husband. Busy?”