It was an unspoken rule that distressed damsels were obliged to yield a gratuity that frequently involved tongues.
Surely, he reasoned, that’s worth delivering another quick knife to the kidneys . . . of course, she’s probably dead, you know. He cursed himself as he rounded a corner. Stop that thinking. If you go ruining your fantasies with reality, what’s the point of—
A shriek ripped through his thoughts. Not a woman, he realised, or at least no woman he would want to slip his tongue into. The scream was a long, dirty howl: a rusty blade being drawn from a sheath, a filthy, festering, vocal wound.
And, he noted, it was emerging through a nearby door.
His feet acted before his mind could, instinctively sliding into soft, cat-like strides as he pressed himself to the cabin wall. The dagger that leapt to his hand spoke of heroism, trying to drown out the voice of reason in his head.
You can see the logic in this, can’t you? he told himself. It’s not like anyone’s really expecting you to come dashing up to save them.
The door creaked open slightly, no hand behind it. He continued forwards.
In fact, I doubt anyone will even have harsh words for you. It’s been about a year you’ve all been together, right? Maybe less ... a few months, perhaps; regardless, the point is that no one is really all that surprised when you run away.
He edged closer to the door. The sound of breathing, heavy and laboured, could be heard.
And this won’t solve anything. Nothing changes, even if she isn’t dead. His mind threw doubt at him as a delinquent throws stones. You won’t be any braver for it. You won’t be a hero. You’ll still be the same cowardly thug, the same disgusting wretch who gutted—
Enough. He drew in a breath, weak against the panting emerging from behind the door.
But it was not the kind of panting he had expected, not the laboured, glutted gasps of a creature freshly satiated or a fiend with blood on his hands. It was not soft, but hardly ragged. The breathing turned to heaving, someone fighting back vomit, choked on saliva. There was a short, staggered gasp, followed by a weak and pitiful sound.
Sobbing.
Without pausing to reflect on the irony of being emboldened by such a thing, Denaos took an incautious step into the shadowy cabin. Amidst the crates and barrels was a dark shape, curled up against the cargo like a motherless cub, desperately trying to hide. It shuddered with each breath, shivering down a slender back. Brown hair hung messily about its shoulders.
No pale monstrosities here, he confirmed to himself, none that you don’t know, anyway.
‘Odd that I should find you here,’ he said as he strode into the room, ‘cringing in a corner when you should be protecting the Lord Emissary.’
Hypocrite.
‘I protected the Lord Emissary . . .’ Asper said, more to herself than to him. Silver glinted in the shadows; he could see her stroking her phoenix pendant with a fervent need. ‘They came aboard . . . things . . . frogs . . . men, I don’t know.’
‘Where?’ His dagger was instantly raised, his back already finding the wall.
She raised her left arm and pointed towards the edge of the room. The sleeve of her robe was destroyed completely, hanging in tatters around her shoulder, baring a pale limb. Following her finger, he spied it: the invader lay dead against the wall, limbs lazily at its sides, as though it were taking a nap.
‘Lovely work,’ he muttered, noting her staff lying near the corpse. ‘What? Did you bash its head in?’ She did not reply, provoking a cocked eyebrow. ‘Are you crying?’
‘No,’ she said, though the quiver of her voice betrayed her. ‘It . . . it was a rough fight. I’m . . . you know, I’m coming down.’
‘Coming down?’ He slinked towards her. ‘What are you—’
‘I’m fine!’ She whirled on him angrily, teeth bared like a snarling beast as she pulled herself to her feet. ‘It was a fight. He’s dead now. I didn’t need you to come looking for me.’
Tears quivered in her eyes as glistening liquid pooled beneath her nose. She stood sternly, back erect, head held high, though her legs trembled slightly. Unusual, he thought, given that the priestess hoarded her tears as though they were gold. Even surrounded by death, she rarely mourned or grieved in the view of others, considering her companions too blasphemous to take in that sight.
And yet,