There was, unfortunately, a small impediment.
“Take off this goddamn armor,” Slate rasped, stepping back. “I don’t know how to do the buckles.”
He did, as if it were an order, flinging it aside. She had never seen him so careless with his equipment. Only the demon-slaying sword escaped, handled with automatic reverence, and then he was standing there, bare chested.
Goddamn, he was pretty. It was practically offensive.
She did what she had wanted to do for a long time, and ran her hands over his arms. There were so many scars and they snaked around, over and under. She tracked one that ran over his shoulder, down his chest, where something had apparently tried to slice him open and hadn’t quite succeeded.
He shivered. “Slate…” he said, catching her hands. “Slate, I am not sure I can do this right.”
She raised an eyebrow at that. “Really? It’s pretty straightforward.” She glanced down and added “I could be wrong, but it doesn’t look like there’s going to be a problem.”
Caliban stared at her and then started to laugh. He raised her hands to his lips. “I meant that I wanted to make this perfect.”
His breath on her fingers was going to drive her nearly as mad as his voice.
“We’ll go for perfect next time,” she said, and dragged him down beside her.
It would not go down as one of history’s great acts of love, but it got the job done. They managed well enough.
When he entered her, they both gasped. It had been a long time. He pulled her head against his shoulder and moved, slowly, then harder, until in what seemed like no time at all, she was crying his name in his neck while her body bucked and she fell over the edge, into a moment that caught like pain.
“Shhh,” he said. “I’ve got you. It’s all right. It’s all…”
And then he shuddered even more deeply inside her and whatever he was saying turned into her name, and then into no words at all.
And as far as Slate was concerned, that was nearly perfect enough.
Caliban insisted on making the bed afterward. Slate let him tuck the blankets in around her and fought the urge to giggle hysterically.
“It’s more comfortable this way,” he said.
“If you say so…”
He sat on the edge of the bed, fingers laced with hers. “Do you want me to stay?”
“Yes.”
“I might…the demon might speak. You know that.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it already.”
He lifted her hand and kissed each knuckle. “It’s a little different when…well.”
Slate shook her head and pulled back the blanket. “Get in bed. We’ll manage.”
He was large and warm and reassuringly solid. Lying with her back against him was like putting her back to a wall. Not safe. None of us are safe. But maybe in a more defensible position.
She laughed to herself at that.
“Do I want to know?” asked Caliban.
“Probably not.”
“All right, then.” He wrapped his arms around her and she felt him sigh against her hair.
“Mmm?”
“I had planned to take my time,” he said, almost plaintively.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “When I’m not half-dead and stinking of onion salve.”
He laughed softly. “Tomorrow. Then I’m going to sleep now. There’s less chance I’ll say something stupid and you’ll make me sleep in the hall.”
She started laughing again, but it turned into a yawn, and then another one, and then she slept.
* * *
This is happening. That actually happened.
He had dozed and awoken and dozed again with Slate still in his arms and when he finally woke for good, she was still there. His hand was still cradled between her breasts and he could feel her heartbeat against his palm.
She was alive. Not in a crow cage. Not dead in Horsehead’s torture chamber. Alive. Unharmed…or, well. Bloodied but unbowed. Which was Slate all over.
She’s alive and I am allowed to touch her like this.
He wanted to run his hands over her body and learn all the places he hadn’t yet. He wanted to kiss her between the shoulderblades and set his lips in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to drive into her body until he drove out even the memory of fear.
I am a fool. I should have done this weeks ago.
He had wasted so much time. He could have been inside her every night, woken with her in his arms every morning. He would have been there when she woke with night terrors and he could have driven them away.
It was a night terror that had woken him. Something like that, anyway. Slate had jerked in his arms and mumbled something that sounded less frightened than angry.
A night irritation, perhaps?
“Slate…”
She twitched again. Memories of the crow cage? Something worse?
“It’s just a dream,” he said in her ear. “I’ve got you.”
And it worked. She sighed and the tension went out of her body. Caliban held her and thought, There is a person in this world who feels safe in my arms.
It felt like grace.
He knew that he should feel guilt, if anything. This was hardly a proper penance for his sins. But the only remorse he could summon was that they had not done this sooner, and that it had been over so quickly once they finally had.
Next time. Next time I will go slow and savor every moment. Next time…
Caliban’s lips twisted. Well…unless Brenner stabs me first.
As if the thought had summoned him, the door banged open, and the assassin stood framed in the doorway.
“Wakey wake—”
He stopped. His eyes moved from the paladin’s face to Slate’s, down the length of their bodies.
Caliban couldn’t help himself. He slid his hand down possessively over Slate’s hip and stared the other man full in the face.
Mine.
It was an entirely primitive response and Slate would undoubtedly have said something sarcastic and he regretted none of it.
Mine.
Brenner nodded slowly to himself. Caliban braced himself to throw himself over Slate and take a dagger to the shoulder if that was what was required. He wasn’t sure if he could get to his sword before Brenner got to him, but he could damn well try.
The assassin put both hands on the doorframe with exaggerated care. “We’re moving to the safehouse,” he said. “I suggest you two get dressed.”
And he closed the door and walked away.
Thirty-Eight
“Did someone come in?” yawned Slate, stretching.
“Brenner.”
“Oh,” said Slate, in a rather different tone, and sat up.
“Is that a problem?” asked Caliban. He could feel shards of ice settling in his chest. What if she made a mistake? What if it wasn’t really me she wanted…?
“Rejecting a man who slits throats for a living is always a problem,” said Slate dryly. “But I dumped him and we’ve worked together fine since, so I’m not that worried.”
“Is he in love with you?”
She snorted. “Love’s not in his vocabulary. We’re friends, by which he means he respects my talents and nobody’s paid him money to kill me.”
She stretched. This did things to her body that Caliban watched with great appreciation. “What did he want, anyway?”
“We’re moving to a safehouse,” said Caliban. “We should probably get dressed.”
“Ugh.”
He folded his arms around her and put his face against her neck. “Why did we wait so long to do this?”
“’Cos we’re stupid.”
He snorted. “I seem to recall being the one who said most of the stupid things.”
“Yes, well. I was being polite.” Slate yawned again. “No rest for the wicked, though.”
He released her, not without reluctance. She rolled out of bed and began pulling on clothes. Her bruises were beginning to turn spectacularly violet
, and Caliban winced looking at them.
“I need to wash,” Slate muttered. “I think I’ve still got torture gunk on me.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t—”
“You came and got me. If anything, I’m sorry I was careless enough to get caught.”
“You don’t need to apologize for that!”
“Then neither do you.”
“Slate—”
She held up her hand. “Are you going to say something stupid again?”
He considered this. “Quite possibly?”
“Is it about sex?”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
She rolled her eyes. “Put your pants on. I’ve been beat up by better men than Boss Horsehead.” She rubbed the back of her neck and grimaced. “Honestly, sitting in that damn cage for half the night was much worse. I’m going to have a crick in my neck for the next week.”
Caliban cleared his throat. “I could rub that for you?”
“See, now that wasn’t stupid. Say more things like that.”
“I’ll do my best….my liege.”
“Gahhh!”
* * *
Five minutes later, Caliban sat at Magnus’s table. Learned Edmund was the only one there, poring over Brother Amadai’s notes.
Slate emerged from the bathing chamber a few minutes later, slightly damp, and sat down beside the paladin on the bench.
Caliban glanced around then began to rub the knotted muscle at the base of Slate’s neck. He wasn’t sure why he felt an urge to hide—it wasn’t as if Magnus and Grimehug didn’t know already, and Brenner certainly did now. Still. Force of habit, perhaps.
Slate, apparently untroubled by such concerns, made a small, pleased noise and lowered her chin.
Learned Edmund didn’t even seem to notice. He beamed at them both. “Mistress Magnus and Brenner are securing our transport. It should be only a few minutes, I hope. Apparently this building is in the Gnole Quarter.”
“In the Gnole Quarter,” said Brenner, strolling in, “and hidden inside one of their dens. It’s a hideout for failed artificers.”
Caliban fought the urge to snatch his fingers away from Slate’s skin. He met Brenner’s eyes. “Failed how?”
“Only one real way to fail here,” said Slate, leaning back against him. “Blow up the wrong thing…place…person, or fail to blow them up.”
“Could they not simply make a device that did not function? Would that not count as a failure?” asked Learned Edmund.
“You’re new in town, aren’t you? Blowing up is how everything here fails.”
“Oh.”
“The gnoles have extracted our gear from the hotel,” said Brenner. “Too dangerous to go back for the horses, though.” He did not sound as if this pained him much.
“Darn,” said Slate.
Caliban sighed. He’d rather liked his horse.
“And my mules?” asked Learned Edmund.
“I’m sure they’ll be sold to a very nice drover who only uses them on holy days,” said Brenner.
Learned Edmund signed a small, sad benediction.
“And we’ve found our way into the factory,” said Brenner. “You won’t like it.”
Slate sighed heavily. “Well, I figured it was inevitable.”
“You know it is, darlin’.”
“For those of us who aren’t able to read minds,” said Caliban, “what method is that?”
“The grave-gnoles,” said Slate.
“Got in it one.” The assassin tipped a finger at Slate. “We’re riding in with the body carts.”
Caliban grunted. The thought was…horrifying, actually, if I’m being honest.
But the alternative was apparently going in by water, and that would be infinitely worse. The cold water dragging at him, closing over his head, over and over…
“Oh well,” said Slate. “Not the first time that I’ve disguised myself as a corpse.”
There was a pause while everyone in the room absorbed this statement.
“What? How else was I getting into that mortuary? They had locks and guards and dogs. I stained everything with dye like I had the witch-pox, so they didn’t want to touch me and I was able to sneak out later and get into the files. You would not believe how many times they were selling a single grave. It was nasty.”
Before Caliban could think of anything to say to that, Ashes Magnus leaned in the door. “Your carriage awaits, gentlefolk.”
The carriage was a wagon apparently full of crates, with a canvas tarp thrown over it. It had pulled up behind Ashes Magnus’s workshop.
There was an opening in the center, between the crates. They all piled into it. Magnus pushed a crate to block the view of anyone watching. Slate heard her footsteps as she walked past the boards, then the creak as she climbed up onto the wagon seat and gave the driver directions.
It took a moment to settle themselves. Slate leaned back against Caliban. He felt a flash of surprise, then wrapped his arms around her. This too, it seemed, he was allowed.
Brenner studiously ignored them both.
“Do you think he’s trustworthy?” murmured Slate, jerking her head in the direction of the driver.
The assassin studied the wall of crates. “If he isn’t, I’ve got a gap here. I can get a crossbow bolt into his kidneys if he tries anything funny.”
“I can hear you,” said the driver.
“Then everybody’s on the same page, aren’t they?” said Ashes Magnus.
“Your friends get ruder every time, Magnus.”
“Yes, but they pay more every time, too.”
“There’s that.”
The wagon creaked and rattled through the streets. Learned Edmund clutched the box of Brother Amadai’s notes to his chest.
Caliban rested his chin on top of Slate’s head. We are likely going to die soon. It is wrong to feel this gloriously happy.
He feared for Slate, of course. He feared for them all. And yet…and yet…
I clearly do not believe that the gods will be so unkind as to separate us.
He knew that was foolishness. The gods would sacrifice Their followers without a second thought to achieve Their ends.
But Slate’s back was warm against his chest and her hair smelled like soap. Last night she had smelled like sweat and sex and she had cried out his name as if he had been the only other creature in the world.
I will not fail again. I will not fail her. If I have learned nothing else, surely I have learned enough not to fail at this.
The ride to the safehouse did not last nearly long enough, so far as Caliban was concerned.
When they finally unloaded, they were in the Gnole Quarter. The driver accepted his money, did not look at them, and drove away.
“Is he reliable?” asked Slate.
“I’ve no idea,” said Ashes. “Which is why we’re walking from here to the actual safehouse.”
Slate grinned. “You are a woman after my own heart, Mistress Magnus. And I hear you appreciate indexes, as well.”
Ashes looped her arm through Slate’s and whispered something to her that made the forger laugh out loud. The two of them strolled off together, followed closely by Learned Edmund.
Caliban looked at Brenner. Brenner looked at Caliban.
“Lead the way,” said Caliban, gesturing.
“You just don’t want me to have a clear shot at your back,” said the assassin, as he followed after the others.
“You are correct,” said the paladin, and brought up the rear.
Thirty-Nine
A gnole burrow was, Slate discovered, somewhere between a tent and a badger’s den. The outer shell was an abandoned building, but once you stepped inside—and down—you found yourself in a maze of tunnels, winding through old basements and excavations down among the foundations.
The tunnels were divided up by blanket walls hung from the ceiling, making a number of small rooms, like cells in a beehive. Some held beds, some stood empty.
The central hub
had an actual fireplace with a chimney that vented outside, and a round table with benches. It seemed like a compromise between the gnole architecture and a safehouse used by artificers. Even the beds in some of the rooms varied between recognizable mattresses and what looked like enormous rat’s nests.
Their gear was waiting in the central hub. Slate picked a room with a human-style bed in it and dropped her packs inside the door.
She turned and saw Caliban standing in the hall. He had his own packs in his arms.
“Ah…” he said. “I…ah…if you would prefer…I know…”
He trailed off awkwardly.
“Do you want to sleep here with me?” asked Slate.
“Only if it is what you want.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
He swallowed. “Very, very much.”
Slate held the blanket door open like a tent-flap. “You already know that I snore.”
He set his gear down inside, caught her up in his arms and kissed her.
They were both a bit mussed by the time they returned to the central room.
“You’ve got a week or two of grace here,” said Ashes. “They’ll bring food, too.”
“They ought to,” muttered Brenner. “We’re paying them enough.”
“They’re good people, the gnoles,” said Ashes. “Trustworthy, more or less, by which I mean that if you buy one off, they stay bought. And nobody thinks to ask them questions.”
“I suppose we must talk to the grave-gnoles next,” said Slate.
“The grave-gnoles don’t come into this burrow,” said Learned Edmund. “They have their own, I’m told.”
“I thought Grimehug wouldn’t speak to grave-gnoles,” said Caliban.
“The little shy one was in here earlier,” said Brenner. “She’s agreed to bribe the grave-gnoles. Although I think they’re mostly doing it because she asked them to.”
“Sweet Lily,” said Learned Edmund.
“Oh, Sweet Lily,” said Slate, amused. “Does the fact that she’s female not bother you, Learned Edmund?”
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