no sounds of battle in the background. It was not Knight-Serrant Quillian that stood before her, it was simply Quillian, woman.
‘There is good to be done,’ Asper whispered, ‘here and now.’
Quillian’s hand twitched, the bronze knuckles rattling against her gauntlet. It rose up to her torso and froze there, quivering as though it wanted to go higher.
Then something flashed across her face, so swift that Asper might not have caught it had she not been so close. Quillian’s eyes widened for a moment, then shut tightly. When they opened again, they were soft, quivering, the beginnings of a tear forming in the corner of one eye. She bit her lower lip so hard that Asper feared blood might gush out at any moment.
‘Forgive me, Priestess,’ she said, her voice suddenly stern and brimming with duty once more, ‘I must see to the needs of the Lord Emissary.’
The Serrant departed with a haste Asper had never seen before: a loud, clunky, stumbling gait down the stairs of the helm. She even apologised after bumping into one of the sailors before vanishing into the companionway. And yet, even though the woman was gone, the tension remained thick and oppressive around the priestess.
The questions still lingered in the air, echoing in her head. Behind her, the sun had risen halfway out of the ocean, still unanswering.
‘Someone has a little infatuation, hm?’
Asper blinked and suddenly noticed him: a tall, black stain against the pristine ocean. Tucked in the corner of the helm, Denaos stood, hands at his groin, an arcing flight of golden, foul-smelling angels singing over the railing.
‘How long have you been there?’ she asked, raising a brow.
‘Quite some time,’ he replied swiftly. ‘And it appears I’ll be here for some time more.’ The golden shaft suddenly died in the blink of an eye. ‘You’d be surprised how little attention a man urinating requires in delicate situations.’
‘Given that said attention would require looking at said man, I’m really not.’ She formed a glare. ‘How much did you over—’
‘Wait!’ His voice was shrill and hurried. ‘Turn around.’
‘What?’
‘Turn around! Don’t look at me!’ He offered a bashful smile. ‘I can’t go if you look.’
‘You can’t be—’
‘Do it.’
The order came with such firmness that she found herself hard pressed to do anything but obey. Shortly after returning her gaze to the familiar sight of the sluggish sun, the sound of water singing acrid yellow tunes filled her ears, accompanied by a sigh so filled with relief it bordered on perverse.
‘Oh, sweet Silf, that’s better,’ he moaned. ‘This is what I get for drinking the cheap stuff.’
‘I thought men outgrew that.’
‘Oh, no one ever outgrows their soil habits.’
‘Their what?’
‘Soil habits,’ he repeated. ‘Pot practices, golden means, tinkle techniques if you like. Everyone has their own that they discover at birth and they can never get rid of them.’ The sound of water stopped; there was a grunt before it resumed. ‘For example, did you know that Dreadaeleon, before checking to make certain no one is looking, removes his breeches entirely, no matter which business he has to do?’
She thought she ought to protest that revelation, if only for propriety’s sake. However, she found herself silent; she had seen the wizard do that before. A new, slightly more unnerving image flashed behind her eyes.
‘Gariath doesn’t even take the time to prepare. He just lifts his leg and goes wherever he pleases.’ He snorted. ‘Must be why he wears a kilt, eh?’
‘So, you’ve seen everyone ...’ she coughed, ‘make water?’
‘Everyone except Kataria,’ he replied. ‘It’s true what they say about the shicts. They always go in a secret place.’ The sound of water rose suddenly as he tilted upwards. ‘Disgusting.’
‘Huh.’ She chose not to comment on that. ‘So, you’ve even seen—’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ Without waiting for further prodding, he continued with an obscene vigour, ‘I’ve seen you plenty of times. Now, you’re what I’ve heard called the “chamber-pot philosopher”, granted said title through the long contemplations while squatting.’
Her ears went aflame, face going a deeper shade of crimson than had ever been seen amidst roses. She found her mouth open, without a retort, even though it seemed that she ought to have a particularly scathing one. Still, she whirled about to face him, only to be met with a shriek of protest.
‘Don’t look!’ he screeched. ‘Turn around, turn around, turn around!’
She did so with only a mild stammer of outrage, more for her own benefit than for his. Undoubtedly, seeing her coloured so would give him some bizarre form of