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)
We all watch her. Her husband, right by her head. Me, at her side.
Merc standing over the bloody bed with the couple’s daughter in his massive arms.
“Get me a belt,” I order Ronl as the trembling rises even further.
Ronl reaches down for his waist, and paddles through his clothes. But then twists around. “I don’t have—”
There’s a snap!
“Use one of mine.”
Merc holds out a black strap that’s part of one of his holsters. As I take it, and put the length between Lena’s teeth, she immediately clamps down on the strip of hide. The guard is just in time: She goes rigid, the shaking coalescing into a straining as all her muscles lock up.
I glance down at the mug once again. Fates, if I’ve given her the wrong dose …
It feels like hours, yet the seizure lasts probably no longer than a minute, and the first sign the stimulation is backing off is the easing of her feet. The next is her legs and arms, the straining stiffness relenting. And then she inhales more slowly.
The storm passes as fast as it came, but in its wake, the revival lasts. Her eyes flutter open and she looks to her husband first—and then to the mercenary dressed in black who is holding her precious daughter.
And that’s when I glance back at Merc.
He’s staring down at the bairn, his black hair falling forward, the twin braids with their beads swinging freely. The baby is quiet, but not because anything is wrong. He’s taken his pinkie and offered it as a pacifier—and it’s been accepted. He’s also rocking back and forth on his boots, his weight shifting just enough to find a rhythm.
The incongruence of him with the tiny infant is like the night being interrupted by a bolt of sunshine, and my gaze locks on the hilt of that broadsword, rising up over his shoulder as if the weapon, too, is looking down on the bairn.
Merc’s expression is utterly remote.
And I wonder how many children of his own he’s lost.
Forty-Five
Only One of Me.
“No, no, you stay with your Lena and the baby. We will be all right.”
I’m standing by the shop’s exit, and I’m in a set of red felt women’s clothes. The bell skirt and jacket are surprisingly soft and lightweight, but the warmth I expected. There’s even an inner pocket for the gold.
With all the blood on my own clothes—Julion’s, rather—I couldn’t go back to the lodging house without attracting unwanted attention, and we’ve bundled everything in a sack. The hospitality doesn’t want to end there, however. Ronl is worrying over us, trying to press food in our hands.
“No more,” Merc tells him as he puts a hand on that shoulder in a very different way. “Worry after your wife and daughter.”
It’s the same gesture we started with, but the four of us have become intimates of a sort. I will say that Ronl’s obvious gratitude is nothing I’m used to, and my guarded heart reminds me that tomorrow, neither he nor his wife will know me again. That’s always the way with my efforts, whether I use my illicit gifts or not.
So I drink this favorable regard up, and hold it close.
“Wait, wait, you needed something.” Ronl motions about his shop. “You came here for a reason, you asked for things. You must take whatever you require. Please.”
I cradle my injured forearm to my chest, and take a last glance around. I used all of the purpa and turtine on Lena, and the roships does nothing if not in concert with the other two. The rest of what’s on offer I’m not sufficiently sure of, and I can’t take risks of poisoning myself.
“What may I get you?” Ronl goes to the folded paper bags by the register of cash. “There is much here—I could ask Lena—”
“No, no, you let her rest.” Then something occurs to me. “Although … I don’t suppose you have any soap—”
“Yes! Yes, for to clean the skin?”
Ronl wheels away and all but runs back for his kitchen. He returns in a moment with a full bar that smells like the poultice I was going to make.
“Lena uses this on wounds.” At the main counter, he puts the soap in a wax bag and folds the top over. “Please, take it. She washes times three a day—I wish she could advise you. She’s a healer of some note—are you all right? How badly are you hurt?”
“I’ll be fine,” I lie. “Thank you.”
Ronl presses the fragrant gift into my hands, and holds his own palms to my own. “If you hadn’t come in—”
“It was meant to be.” I pull the hood of the felt jacket up over my head, and not just because of the storm. “Now worry no longer and go be with your family.”
“And lock the door behind us.” Merc steps over to the bolt and points at it as if the shopkeeper might forget it’s there. “I won’t leave until you do.”