CHAPTER 1 #2
The prisoner was a tall, dark-haired man with a shaggy growth of beard. His age was indeterminate, but she wouldn’t put him over forty, probably less. The beard didn’t help, and he was far back in the shadows.
He was sitting with his back against the wall, watching her with unreadable eyes.
Slate tried to say, “Excuse me,” snuffled, and sneezed twice.
An eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything.
I suppose “Bless you,” is a little much to ask under the circumstances.
“Are you—damn—urrrggghhkk—” Her tongue pressed itself to the roof of her mouth as rosemary stormed the castle of her sinuses. There were no survivors.
She sneezed until she could sneeze no more. Her eyelids ached. She put her hands over her face.
“I’d offer you a handkerchief, but I’m fresh out,” the prisoner said. He had a dry, abrasive voice. “I’m sorry if the smell offends you.”
“It’s not—” she waved a hand, still scrubbing at her traitorous nose and watering eyes. “It’s—snorgggk—allergies. Sorry.”
The other eyebrow went up, whether at the allergies or the apology. Slate wondered if it mattered which one. He didn’t say anything.
She got herself under control, sniffled a few times, and put one hand on the bars. “What are you in for?”
The prisoner looked away contemptuously.
“He killed eight nuns and two guards,” said the warden behind her. She could hear the glower without turning around.
“In fairness,” said the prisoner, holding up a finger, “it was three nuns and five novices. And I was possessed at the time.”
“Possessed?” she repeated, barely registering the word.
He looked intelligent enough, at least compared to the alternatives, and the odds of their success hinging on his ability to, say, do long division in his head seemed unlikely.
I’ve got that bit covered anyway. There was muscle enough on his frame for her purposes, but there was a slight hunch to his shoulders that worried her.
She moved suddenly, experimentally, and he flinched. Only a fraction, barely noticeable, but she’d been watching for it.
He’s not broken, but he’s got something. Shock, maybe. Definitely damaged goods. Could just be from being locked in here for a while, though. Hmm.
Still, I’m only asking him to die, not reintegrate with society, so maybe that won’t matter. I suppose being possessed could be problematic.
Unless it helps.
The rosemary smacked her again. She turned away from the cell, groping for a handkerchief that, at this point, provided only emotional support.
“Snerrrghghk…”
“Generally, the gawkers actually know who they’re looking at,” the prisoner said. “If the temple is sending women to minister to me in my hour of need, they might consider screening them better.”
The warden grunted. Slate flapped a hand at the prisoner irritably, face buried in the damp handkerchief.
Eight nuns and novices and two guards. Would you do that if the bars weren’t there?
Oh, probably.
“Wait—” she said, as it finally dawned on her. Possibly the sneezing had knocked some stray memory loose. “Possessed? Eight nuns?” She turned to look at the warder, who nodded glumly. “Lord Caliban?”
It had been a nine-day wonder through the capitol—the madness of Lord Caliban, the Dreaming God’s knight-champion, paladin and demonslayer, who had been taken by a demon himself and run mad, killing half the priestesses in his god’s temple in one single bloody morning.
She stared at him.
He inclined his head. “Sir Caliban, actually. They stripped me of my title, although they were forced to leave me the knighthood. At your service, I’m sure.”
“I thought they’d hung you!”
This was perhaps not the most tactful thing that Slate had ever said. Judging by the angle of his eyebrows, it was not the most tactful thing he’d ever heard, either.
He rose to his feet. He moved well enough, for a tall man in a box barely six paces wide. He lacked Brenner’s dangerous grace, but knights were in a different line of work than assassins, at least technically.
Same line of work, different approach, I suppose.
“Indeed,” said Sir Caliban. “It was judged that since I was possessed, I was not exactly responsible for my actions, and so I was given…mercy.” He sketched the lines of the small cell with one hand.
“Did they exorcise your demon?”
“The demon is dead.”
“But if you were possessed, why did they lock you up at all?”
He exhaled, a sound a little short of a sigh but rather longer than a snort. “Must I go into it?”
“Do you have anything else to do today?”
“Fair enough.” He gave her a small, mocking salute, perhaps in acknowledgement.
“Well. Questions of guilt have always been difficult with demons. It was determined that a soul such as mine must have been guilty of…something…to allow the demon entrance. And so…” Again, that quick sketching gesture, marking the boundaries of a severely limited world.
“Were you guilty?”
His eyes glittered, but he didn’t say anything. Slate hadn’t really expected an answer.
She leaned against the bars, moving more slowly. The warder started to say something, and she waved him off.
Moving equally slowly, like a strange cat meeting another in an alley, Caliban approached the bars.
“You’re not from the temple. For a gawker, you’re singularly ill-informed. And you’re standing much too close to the bars for anyone with sense.”
If he expected her to recoil in horror, he was disappointed.
He stopped a foot or two away. Slate was fairly sure that he could get an arm through the bars and around her throat if he chose, and equally sure that she could get out of the way if he tried, as long as the warden didn’t do anything stupid, like rush to her defense.
She wondered briefly if she’d even try to get out of the way. It seemed a matter of academic interest only.
He’d have to make it a quick death, he’ll hardly have time for a long one…
Her hands were wrapped around two of the iron bars. He looked down and very deliberately gripped the bars to either side.
Her fingers were small and scarred and nimble, darkened with ink and spattered with the pale marks of engraver’s acid. Her fingernails were somewhat chewed—a vile habit, but she didn’t expect to live with it much longer.
His hands were much larger but also scarred, old cuts forming a raised and random pattern across the backs. The sleeves of the prisoner’s tunic were too short for him, and when she followed his wrists upward, she could see the thick band of muscle across each forearm.
Swordsman, then. God’s teeth and toenails, I believe it actually is Lord Caliban.
She could smell unwashed flesh and old straw and rankness, but over that, pungently, hung the scent of rosemary.
Great. I’m paying attention. Now what? Do I offer him the job, or am I supposed to stay as far away from him as possible?
As usual, her erratic gift offered no advice.
She squared her shoulders and met the man’s eyes. They were dark and brown and held hers. One eyebrow had an ironic tilt, but behind his eyes, Slate could smell despair.
There were a great many things she had prepared to say—vague explanations, stripped of any facts that could be dangerous, mentions of the Dowager’s name, promises of amnesty in the unlikely event any of them survived. She considered them all and rejected them one by one.
“Would you like to go on a suicide mission?” she asked instead.
He smiled. It was the first genuine smile she’d seen all day.
“I would be honored,” he said.