by E G Radcliff
Ninian grinned and returned the kiss on the top of Áed’s head, but then his face fell and he heaved a sigh; he’d been keeping an eye on the courtyard, and his gaze had caught on somebody. “Love, would you excuse me a moment?”
Áed followed Ninian’s eye, saw what Ninian saw, and stood. “Try not to bite her head off.”
“What do you mean? I’m in a good mood.”
Áed sighed. “You won’t be when Brígh gets here.” He handed Ninian’s jacket back and pushed his crooked hands into his pockets. “I’m going to head home, Nin. See you there soon?”
“Soon,” Ninian agreed.
Ninian pushed himself to his feet as Brígh elbowed her way through the crowd, scowling at everybody in her way. He could hear her cursing from the other side of the courtyard, and by the time she arrived before Ninian, her scarred face was red with irritation and exertion.
He raised an eyebrow at her. “No bodyguards today?”
She spat on the cobblestones. “They were needed elsewhere.”
“Guarding someone more important,” Ninian said, and Brígh’s ears flushed hot red. Ninian crossed his arms. “You got something for me?”
“Not if you’re an ass.”
Ninian exaggerated a sigh. “Look. Brígh. It’s hard enough for me to accept money that your ugly fingers have sweated on, so if you’d not prolong the exposure, I’d be grateful.”
On occasion, it had occurred to Ninian that he might mind his tongue a little more carefully. Brígh had Cathair’s ear, and Ninian knew she’d been begging the gang leader for a say in Ninian’s fights. Given a chance and half an excuse, Brígh wouldn’t hesitate to humiliate him; she didn’t have a chance yet, but Ninian kept giving her excuses. “I don’t know why Cathair keeps you around,” Brígh muttered, her single eye flashing, but she didn’t dare strike him without her usual guards to back her up. “Mind your place.”
“Pay me.”
For a moment, she looked like she’d refuse. Her puckered face wrinkled even further with the strength of her scowl, and her hand twitched on her belt, unsure whether to reach for her knife or the pouch of money. Ninian just waited. Angering Brígh was worth it for the show of conflict on her face—if she didn’t pay him, Cathair could have her skin for disobedience. “I can make you pay, you know,” Brígh growled, hand grudgingly unfastening the money bag from her belt. “You’re becoming awfully bold for a damned slave.”
“I’m indentured,” Ninian corrected with a smirk. “And I’m part of the family as much as you are.” He caught the money as she threw it at him, and he tucked it in his pocket. “We all are, aren’t we?”
“You’re not worth paying,” she grumbled.
Ninian sighed. “They can’t have me dying of hunger, now can they?” He turned away. “Next time, Brígh.”
“I hope you lose,” she called after him, but he only kept walking.
Scruffy clouds skidded over the autumn sun as Ninian made his way homeward, and he whistled some half-remembered tune to the rhythm of his feet on the pavers. The coins in his pocket felt pleasantly weighty. If he were responsible only for himself, he’d be able to eat for a couple of days on such earnings, but as it was, he thought he might at least get a proper mouthful of bread and parsnips. His empty stomach grumbled at the thought.
As his path took him farther from the old citadel and closer to the coast, the streets grew busier and harder to traverse. He stepped aside to let two women pass him by, both of whom were carrying armfuls of wood, and a young man with a wheelbarrow of tattered fabrics nearly trampled Ninian as he hurried past. Above him, a trio of girls hung ragged black ribbons across the street, and the smell of cooking smoke lingered in the air. The Festival of Souls was coming, and the time had come to prepare.
Invigorated by the swirl of humanity, Ninian quickened his pace. He gracefully dodged a woman with an apronful of dirty turnips, danced around a man with a massive keg of something horrible and alcoholic, and broke into an easy jog toward home.
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