The man poked the knife cautiously with his finger. It was apparently held in mostly by his clothes, because it fell out and clattered on the floor.
“What the devil…?”
By this point Caliban had reached him. He picked him up by the neck.
The man stopped worrying about the knife.
“Where is Slate?”
“Gnnrrkk…”
“You have to move your thumb or they can’t talk when you do that,” advised Brenner, lounging against the wall.
Caliban adjusted his thumb and banged the back of the man’s head against the wall. “Slate,” he said. “Don’t make me ask again.”
“Who…”
“The woman who was brought here.”
“Torture… room….”
Brenner winced. “See, that was the wrong answer.”
Caliban lifted the man up several inches off the floor. “Has she been tortured?”
“Ngghkk…nggh…”
“Thumb,” said Brenner wearily. Caliban muttered to himself and changed his grip.
“Barely…didn’t…” He rolled his eyes wildly, apparently not sure what he could say that wouldn’t involve being killed in short order.
“Where is the torture room?”
“There,” the man gurgled hopefully. “Door…?”
Caliban punched the man between the eyes with a mailed fist, which dropped him to the ground, unconscious or dead. The paladin looked around wildly, spotting a heavy door set in the wall. Brenner was already sprinting toward it.
The assassin had always been faster, which was why Brenner was the first one who charged through the door, and thus, the one that Slate brained over the head with a table leg.
“Gaaah!” The assassin dropped, clutching at his skull.
Caliban skidded inside the room, nearly trampled Brenner, and saw Slate.
She looked like hell. The back of her head was matted with blood, her forearms were red to the elbow, and she had a table leg in one hand and an indescribable metal device in the other.
She was alive.
He hadn’t thought—hadn’t allowed himself to think—that she might be alive. He had expected, every moment, to find a body, some broken husk, all that was left after the torturers were through. He hadn’t dared to hope, because hope might destroy him.
“Brenner? Shit!” She dropped the table leg.
Caliban stepped over the prone assassin.
“Caliban? What are you doing h—?”
He didn’t think. He hadn’t planned to do it. He hadn’t planned anything at all.
So it was a complete surprise to both of them when he took another step forward, caught her up, and pulled her so close that neither of them could breathe.
“Wha—” she began, and he locked his mouth over hers.
This is madness. This is dangerous. This is really stupid to be doing right now, there are guards, you’re insane, you have a dead demon in you, you’re both covered in blood—
He didn’t care. She was alive and whole and in his arms.
Does she care? She’s just been tortured, you idiot, and you come in here and manhandle her. How chivalrous is that?
That shot told. He lifted his mouth away. Someone was gasping for air. Maybe it was him.
“Ahem,” said Brenner, from the floor.
“I’m sorry—” he started to say.
Slate grabbed his hair, nearly clipping his ear with the widget, and yanked him back down.
No, no, this is madness, this is not safe…
Slate’s lips opened under his. Her free hand slid up the back of his neck.
Any objections his mind might have been marshalling drowned under sensation. Her mouth was soft and hot and her body molded against his until expectation and coherent thought drowned as well.
“Sure,” said Brenner bitterly. “Don’t mind me. I’ve just been hit on the head.”
There is only so long that you can press yourself against a man wearing chainmail, particularly when he has a naked sword in one hand and you have an automatic fish strainer. Slate finally had to disengage, panting for breath.
She let her head fall back, smacked her injured scalp, and winced. He’d managed to back her against the wall. That had been some kiss.
She thought she could probably even get to like the faint scent of rosemary that surrounded him.
“You’re alive,” the paladin said hoarsely, burying his face in her shoulder. He had to bend quite a way down to do it, but Slate didn’t mind.
“Apparently so.”
“I was sure you’d be dead.”
“Surprise?”
He stepped back, letting her go. Slate could see all the practical reasons for doing so, and let him, not without reluctance. His body was almost feverishly warm. The world felt cold in comparison.
“Why’d you hit me?” Brenner wanted to know, rubbing his skull.
“I didn’t know it was you! I was planning on hitting the next person coming through the door, because I thought they’d come back to torture me.”
“Did they torture you?” asked Caliban, catching her arm. He held up her bloody wrist. “I’ll kill them.”
He sounded very matter-of-fact about it. The sky was blue, the night was dark, he was going to kill them. It was an alarming sort of voice, but Slate approved wholeheartedly of the sentiment.
“Actually, I did that myself cutting the ropes with my abalone peeler here.” She waved the widget.
Brenner’s eyes widened. “Do you know what that is?”
“No! Do you? It’s not a horse castrator, is it?”
“No, it’s…actually, probably better you don’t know.” He rubbed at his skull and gave her a reproachful look.
She grabbed his shoulder. “Sorry, Brenner.”
He met her eyes. She hoped he could read the apology there, for more there merely whacking him over the head.
“Hmmph. Well, as long as you’re safe, darlin’…” He straightened. “Now, then, we still have to get out of here.”
“Harder than getting in, maybe,” said Grimehug. “But don’t got to kill people twice, so that’s something, dark man.”
“Pardon,” said Learned Edmund from outside the doorway, “but I believe there are more people coming?”
“You brought him?” said Slate. “What were you thinking?”
“He wouldn’t stay at the hotel, darlin’.”
“Paladins in the Grey Church, priests here…Brenner, you’ve really got to learn to say no.”
“What? Why is this my fault?”
“Because obviously when I’m not here, you’re the sensible one.”
“But I don’t want to be the sensible one,” said the assassin plaintively. “I want to be the one who kills people and gets paid a lot of money.”
Slate would have had something to say about that, but Caliban picked her up around the middle and carried her bodily into the hall.
“I see I’m not walking now.”
“Your feet are covered in blood.”
“It was the boots. If I’d known you were staging a rescue, I’d just have stayed tied up and left more of my blood on the inside. Take the left corridor.”
“Eh?”
“Left. It goes to the old delivery entrance. Gods willing, it’ll have fewer guards.”
“How do you know that?”
“Obviously because I’ve made deliveries here before.”
Three men rushed into the end of the hall, shouting.
“Darlin’, I thought you said—”
“I said fewer! Not none!”
Caliban put her down. She was somewhat relieved by that. Being carried by a man in armor, even one who had kissed you like you were his last hope of heaven, was not a terribly comfortable experience.
Grimehug settled into his accustomed spot as her crutch. He rolled an eye up at her. There was a splatter of blood across his stripes.
“Glad you’re alive, Crazy Slate. Called you right, though.”
&
nbsp; “Yeah, I think you did. You don’t happen to have a knife on you, do you? They took mine.”
Brenner reached back without speaking and handed her a dagger. It was still warm from the previous owner, who was lying on the ground. Certain vital parts appeared to no longer be connected to other vital parts.
“Thanks, Brenner.”
“What are friends for?”
Thirty-Six
Ashes Magnus opened her door, looked at the motley crew, and sighed. “One night only,” she said. “After that, you’re going to a safehouse down the way. And if anybody breaks anything looking for you, I’m billing the Many-Armed God. With interest.”
“We haven’t met,” said Slate, “but I have a strong desire to be your friend.”
She was walking more or less under her own power, supported by Grimehug on one side and Sweet Lily on the other. Caliban was hovering behind her anxiously.
There had been a moment of discussion about how exactly she was going to leave the warehouse. Caliban was all set to go back to carrying her the entire way, until Brenner pointed out that he only had three knives left and a large man with a sword would be extremely useful for clearing hallways.
Grimehug and Slate had solved the matter by stomping ahead, like a mismatched team in a three-legged race, and Caliban had stopped hovering and gone back to guarding.
Someone had apparently figured out that something strange was happening at the warehouse and Boss Horsehead’s men were filling the streets, but none of them were well-organized and none of them paid attention to gnoles. Grimehug had led three of the four humans into the narrow gnole tunnels and away. (In Caliban’s case, this had been more than a little difficult, and at one point they had to dismantle part of a wall to fit him through, but they had managed.)
Brenner had simply melted away into the shadows and then reappeared on the other side.
“Wasn’t hard,” he said. “They’re all tripping over each other’s backsides. I put a bolt in a couple of them, just to stir up some confusion.”
Once in the Artificer’s Quarter, it was easier. People were used to seeing bloody, confused people in the street. Learned Edmund began talking very loudly about what they had learned from a hypothetical explosion, and anyone who had looked up rolled their eyes and looked away again.
Ashes Magnus was very calm about having fugitives in the house.
“Not the first time,” she said. “Probably not going to be the last, either. Usually it’s from people who blew up something up that they shouldn’t.”
“Do you want to know what we did?”
“Hell no.”
Slate grinned. “Artificer Magnus—”
“Ashes,” said the artificer. “And you’re Slate and the pretty one’s Caliban and that boy who thinks he’s clever is Brenner and if anyone asks, I’ve never met any of you.”
“How much will that cost?” asked Slate.
Magnus laughed. “You’ve paid already. Brother Amadai’s notes. Learned Edmund brought me what he had, and now I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. At least until we get the rest of them deciphered.”
“Do you think they’ll be helpful?” asked Slate.
“Helpful or not, they’re fascinating. That man was a genius. Not your garden-variety genius either. You can’t throw a brick without hitting one of those around here. Amadai had something else. He was bent.”
She said this with deep admiration. Slate nodded, then winced.
Learned Edmund tutted over the back of her head. “It’s not deep,” he said. “It just bled a lot because of where it is. I don’t think I need to sew it.”
“Just clean it out,” said Slate. She sat at Magnus’s kitchen table and stretched her arms out in front of her. Her wrists were raw from rope burns.
“No tendon damage. Lucky you. I’ve got a salve for that,” said Magnus, and dropped a jar on the table.
Caliban looked at her battered hands and thought, I did not kill enough of them.
Slate tried to open the jar, scowled at the lid, and he reached out and took it away from her.
The salve smelled of honey and onions. Caliban dipped his fingers into it and took Slate’s hands between his.
She stared at their hands. So did he. As if in a dream—am I doing this? truly?—he rubbed the salve over her wrists, across her palms. Her hands were so small compared to his. Both of them scarred, though, hers with acid blotches and his from swords.
Her pulse was beating under his fingertips, but she sat as still as a statue. The calluses on her palms were small, hard knots. The skin on her wrists was very soft.
Am I hurting her? Is this pain? Is she afraid?
Was I too late?
She had not kissed him like a man who was too late, but perhaps it had only been the rescue and the relief and if Brenner had moved faster—and ducked more quickly—it would have been the assassin instead.
He had finished salving her wounds minutes ago, and he realized that he was still staring at their joined hands. Hers lay cupped inside his fingers, and his thumb lay across her palm.
He looked up, finally. Her usually expressive face was blank, as if she were concentrating on something so hard that she had retreated from her own flesh.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, almost inaudibly. “No, it’s fine.”
“Ah!” said Learned Edmund cheerfully. “Thank you, Caliban. Quick treatment of scrapes will prevent scarring.”
They both jumped guiltily. Caliban dropped her hands and she drew them back against her body.
“God of architects,” muttered Ashes Magnus, rolling her eyes.
Learned Edmund looked puzzled. In the corner, Grimehug began to whistle, sounding like a tea-kettle that could carry a tune.
Slate excused herself and went to the privies. When she returned, somewhat cleaned up, Caliban hadn’t moved at all.
“I should go to bed,” said Slate. “Ashes, thank you for your hospitality.”
“Go, go.” The artificer made shooing motions. “Try to get some rest.”
Slate walked away, down the hall. She looked over her shoulder once, then resolutely looked away.
Caliban stared after her.
A heavy fist landed on the table and made them all jump. “Young man,” said Ashes severely, “if you do not go after that woman, you are too stupid to be allowed to live.”
Learned Edmund’s puzzled look deepened.
Improbably, after all that long and wretched night, Caliban found that he was laughing.
“Grimehug—”
“Staying out here tonight, big man,” said the gnole cheerfully. “In case a gnole needs to find me.”
They are humoring me. Dreaming God help us all.
He rose to his feet and looked at Ashes Magnus. “I am probably too stupid to be allowed to live,” he admitted, and he bowed very deeply to her, as if she were the head of his own order.
“Well,” sniffed Ashes, to his retreating back, “at least you admit it.”
Thirty-Seven
He caught up with Slate in front of her door. It was not a long hallway. She must have walked very slowly.
They stood in the hall and looked at each other. The silence quickly passed uncomfortable and moved into downright painful.
“I’m sorry,” said Caliban finally. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” said Slate bitterly, “don’t you ever get tired of beating yourself up?”
He sagged. I’m doing this wrong. Again.
“Look,” she said, opening the door to her room, “I have had a hell of a night, and I’m going to bed. If you want to be strong and noble and miserable, do it in your own room.”
He lifted his eyes the floor. Her back was to him, and as he watched, the lines of her back softened just a little.
“However,” she said quietly, not looking at him, “if you’re as shook up and scared as I am, and you would like to be shook up and scared together…well, you know where to
find me.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Caliban didn’t know how long he stood in the hallway. The door was made of knotted pine, and the grain swam in front of his eyes, resolving into round-eyed faces, like little owls. He could hear the wooden floor creaking as Slate moved inside her room.
He had been strong all his life. He had been strong until the demon had come, and strength no longer mattered, and then when he was broken, he had kept on trying to be strong because he didn’t know what else to do.
Perhaps he’d come at last to a place where strength no longer availed him. Perhaps it was time to try something else.
The pine owls boggled at him.
He lifted a hand to the door.
Slate yanked it open and clenched her fist in his tabard.
“I think,” he said hoarsely, “that I’ve had enough of being strong.”
“Good enough,” she said, and pulled him inside.
* * *
Slate had had fantasies about this moment, god help her. She’d wondered what he’d say. You’re beautiful. I want you. I’ve waited for this.
Probably not, I love you, but, Take me now would have been fine.
Given how her life was going, she had been somewhat resigned to, We’re about to die, wanna go out screwing? although in her fantasy, she’d been the one talking, and all he had to say was, Yes.
Knowing Caliban, though, it was probably going to be, I’m sorry.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, staring down at her wrists.
Well, she’d figured it was going to be something like that.
“I don’t know what they might have done—”
“Very little, apart from whacking me on the head and scaring the hell out of me. I mostly did this to myself getting loose.”
“Are you certain you…”
Oh, hell with it. If you wait for him to talk himself into it, you’ll both die of old age.
She turned and took his face in both hands and kissed him, with a great deal of pent-up passion and no small amount of pent-up rage.
By the time she finished, his breathing was ragged and he was standing with his knees locked, like a horse that had run too far, too fast. He had both hands clamped around her back and she wanted to melt against him like—damn, like a thing that melts, who cares, this is not the time to worry about specific melting things—
The Wonder Engine_Book Two of the Clocktaur War Page 19