new body to explore and caress, new lips to press upon her own.
But this is silly. Scillara's amiability was ever casual. She was a woman who preferred a man's charms, such as they were. And truth be told, Blend had played in that crib more than once herself. So why now has this lust awakened? What made it so wild, so needy?
Loss, my dear. Loss is like a goad, a stinging shove that sets one lunging forward seeking handholds, seeking ecstasy, delicious surrender, even the lure of self-destruction. The bud cut at the stem throws its last energy into one final flowering, one glorious exclamation. The flower defies, to quote in entirety an ancient Tiste Andii poem. Life runs from death. It must, it cannot help it. Life runs, to quote a round man's epitome of poetic brevity.
Slip into Blend's mind, ease in behind her eyes, and watch as she watches, feel as she feels, if you dare.
Or try Antsy, there at the counter on which are arrayed seven crossbows, twelve flatpacks of quarrels amounting to one hundred and twenty darts, six shortswords, three throwing axes of Falari design, a Genabarii broadsword and buckler, two local rapiers with fancy quillons – so fancy the weapons were snagged together and Antsy had spent an entire morning trying to separate them, with no luck – and a small sack containing three sharpers. He is trying to decide what to wear.
But the mission they were about to set out on was meant to be peaceful, so he should just wear his shortsword as usual, peace-strapped as usual, everything as usual, in fact. But then there were assassins out there who wanted Antsy's head on a dagger point, so maybe keeping things usual was in fact suicidal. So he should strap on at least two shortswords, throw a couple of crossbows over his shoulders and hold the broadsword in his right hand and the twin rapiers in his left, with a flatpack tied to each hip, the sharper sack at his belt, and a throwing axe between his teeth – no, that's ridiculous, he'd break his jaw trying that. Maybe an extra shortsword, but then he might cut his own tongue out the first time he tried saying anything and he was sure to try saying something eventually, wasn't he?
But he could run the scabbards for all six shortswords through his belt, and end up wearing a skirt of shortswords, but that'd be all right, wouldn't it? But then, where would he carry the sharpers? One knock against a pommel or hilt and he'd be an expanding cloud of whiskers and weapon bits. And what about the crossbows? He'd need to load them all up but keep everything away from the releases, unless he wanted to end up skewering all his friends with the first stumble.
What if—
What's that? Back to Blend, please? Flesh against flesh, the weight of full breasts in hands, one knee pushing up between parted thighs, sweat a blending of sweet oils, soft lips trying to merge, tongues dancing eager and slick as—
'I can't wear alla this!'
Scillara glanced over. 'Really, Antsy? Didn't Blend say that about a bell ago?'
'What? Who? Her? What does she know?'
To that entirely unselfconscious display of irony, Blend could only raise her brows when she caught Scillara's eye.
Scillara smiled in response, then drew again on her pipe.
Blend glanced over at the bard, and then said to Antsy, 'We're safe out there now, anyway.'
Eyes bulging, Antsy stared at her in disbelief. 'You'd take the word of some damned minstrel? What does he know?'
'You keep asking what does anyone know, when it's obvious that whatever they know you're not listening to anyway.'
'What?'
'Sorry, that so confused me I doubt I could repeat it. The contract's cancelled – Fisher said so.'
Antsy wagged his head from side to side. 'Fisher said so!' He jabbed a finger at the bard. 'He's not Fisher – not the famous one, anyway. He's just stolen the name! If he was famous he wouldn't be just sittin' there, would he? Famous people don't do that.'
'Really?' the bard who called himself Fisher asked. 'What are we supposed to do, Antsy?'
'Famous people do famous things, alla time. Everybody knows that!'
'The contract has been bought out,' the bard said. 'But if you want to dress as if preparing for a single-handed assault on Moon's Spawn, you go right ahead.'
'Rope! Do I need rope? Let me think!' And to aid in this process Antsy began pacing, moustache twitching.
Blend wanted to pull