Chapter Seventeen. A Shared Meal.
Seventeen
A Shared Meal.
The smell of cooking meat is so strong, my hunger is like a sword in my gut.
I’m at the Gauntlet, and for reasons that I cannot explain, I’m relieved that everything is as it has always been: the familiar customers at the tables, Sallae Mae and the working girls, the tender of the bar who hates his job …
Mr. Lewis who dislikes me. The voices are loud, and the air thick with the sweet smell of ale and the sour stink of bodies that are washed but once weekly.
It is precisely how I have spent every evening of my life. Yet something is … off.
All of the things I don’t like about the place are soothing to me, as if I miss them, and this makes no sense.
Also, there’s a fire pit in the center of the pub.
Why has Mr. Lewis allowed a ring of stones to be set right in the middle of the floor and filled with flames—
Somebody is cooking strips of meat on the flat blade of a massive broadsword.
And I’m wrong. It’s not a proper fire, as in one set with logs, and there’s no flat hearth to contain it. A torch is being held upright between a pair of leather-clad knees, and the sword is being held over it.
Confused, my eyes trace the corded thigh muscles that run down, right-angled, into the profile view of a hip. Rising up from that anchor, the torso of a man is clad in a long-sleeved black tunic, and tilted against a rough-cut wall, waves of long black hair drying in corkscrews—
I wake up in a rush, my lids flipping all the way open, the sound of the Gauntlet crowd dimming in a flash, the familiar glow of the pine tables and floors extinguished as if all the lanterns in the place are turned off at once.
Just a dream.
And where am I? I seem to be lying on my side with my cheek on a damp stone floor, and an essential exhaustion keeps me in that position as I try to figure out—
Merc.
Through the linen veil that covers my face, my eyes take in all the details of him, and my brain connects his grim presence with our grim present. A ringing disappointment blooms in my chest: I am in the tunnel. With him … and the balas that followed him out of the moat.
Which he’s turned into dinner.
The predator we bested is on its back by the murky pool, and a wide block of flesh has been taken from its ribs, the anatomy far too obvious and bloody for my tender eyes.
So my gaze returns to the man with a greed I don’t want to acknowledge.
In the torchlight, Merc’s legs and clothes are clean of both colors of blood, so I guess he gave himself a thorough bathing.
And as he monitors what he’s cooking, the planes of his lean, aggressive face are remote, his stare fixed on what he’s doing, even though I suspect his mind is far away.
I trace the scarring across his eye. Where have his thoughts gone in a private moment like this? To his family, whoever they are? A woman he once knew and loved? Children he’s had and misses dearly?
A wife he provides for by doing brutal things for money?
As misplaced jealousy digs into my hollow gut, I lift my aching head—
“So you’re awake then.”
His voice is low and deep, full of gravel. And then he turns his head and looks at me. As I am careful to focus on his throat, I sense that his eyes are hooded, and watch as his mouth flattens into a tense line.
In any other circumstance, I would ask him what’s wrong. As it goes, that would be a long list and all of it is very obvious.
“We need to eat as much as we can of that beast.” He returns to staring at the meat. “As much as you can stand. And we won’t be able to take the bread with us through the water, so we might as well consume it, too.”
I sit up, and the tunnel swings around like the bow of a ship. Throwing out a palm, I brace myself to keep from falling back over. The thought of swallowing anything but air makes my throat tighten to a gag.
“We wait until dawn.” He brings the broadsword around to inspect his cooking. “I could not find a way through the collapse in the dark. The daylight will show the way. If there is one.”
Not yet satisfied by the meat’s appearance, he returns the blade to the torch, and the sizzling resumes.
“You did well,” he mutters gruffly. “With your blade.”
It’s as close as he can get to thanking me for saving his life. And I’ll take it. “You’re … welcome.”
“I’ve cleaned and sharpened it for you.” He nods toward my feet. “That little thing was made well, by someone who knew what they were doing.”
Right within my reach, the knife is gleaming like a gem, and my hand trembles as I pick the familiar object up. Somehow, he’s brought it back from the dull and grungy state it’s always been in, and now every part of it shines as if new.
Clearing my throat, I say hoarsely, “I found it in the village square. After the traveling merchants’ day a couple of years ago.”
“Somebody is still missing the thing, I’ll tell you that. Made of fine steel and the handle’s honed alaight.”
“I don’t even know what kind of wood that is.”
“It grows in the northern territory.” His face seems to soften.
Or maybe I’m about to pass out again? “Those trees are the only thing that live on the mountain slopes. They’re small, and their trunks are twisted, yet the branches are only ever straight.
You have to hike to reach them, and when you get in range, the raagles will come after you because they nest in them. ”
“What’s a raagle?”
“Scavenger birds.” He shakes his head. “With a wingspan as wide as my arm. While you fight them off, the barbed branch you want will fight with you, too. Those ugly trees grow in tight knots of a dozen or more, and they hold on to their arms and legs jealously—and with good reason. Their wood is nearly as strong as what this sword is made out of.”
As I measure my find, which I had always assumed had been discarded due to age, Merc concludes, “But if you prevail in your gathering, the reward is the handle on a little knife that will never rot, and retains a certain purchase, even when wet.”
“You have spent time in the north, then?”
There is a long silence. “I was born there. A very long time ago.”
It’s hard to imagine him as a young man, still growing into his full height and stature, harder still to picture him as a boy. And it’s utterly impossible to see him as a bairn, wrapped in swaddling cloth, all wide, innocent eyes and button nose.
“Is that where your family as yet resides?” I ask.
His head shakes a brisk “no” as he refocuses on the meat, but that pensive look stays on his profile.
“It seems like a place you miss,” I murmur.
His expression closes up again, his mouth flattening, his eyes narrowing on our meal. “Mourning anything is wasted effort. People, locations, objects. There are enough prisons around that you don’t volunteer for. Sentiment shouldn’t be added to that list.”
I think of my hovel beneath the stairs, and wish I could smell the subtle spice from my herbing, and set my head upon my bundled cloaks, and fall asleep under the sound of footfalls going up and down those creaky wooden steps.
The yearning I feel is so strong, it’s painful, and I have an inkling that he may be right.
After the events of tonight, dwelling on what I’ve been forced to flee from seems like an agonizing waste.
And I can’t bear what was done to Mare.
Picturing my last view of Mr. Lewis, my mind revisits his astonishing revelations in no particular order, as if my thoughts circle something left for dead, and then my eyes shift to my cloak and the pack. They are where I left them—
“Here.”
The flat plane of the broadsword swings in my direction, and I jerk back.
“You really think I’m going to hurt you?” Merc mutters.
It seems pointless to reply that I was just surprised. He seems spoiling for an argument.
“Use your knife,” he orders. “It’s too hot to touch.”
Doing as he says, there’s something intimate in my blade meeting his as I spear what he offers.
But then I have a problem. Over the course of my life, I’ve only eaten four things: greens that Mr. Lewis cultivates in his garden beyond the wall, milk that was delivered daily by Mr. Cavenish, bread that was the staple of the Gauntlet’s working girls, and psears from the trees that grow on the south shore of the moat.
Part of the dietary restriction was economic.
I was at the bottom of the social hierarchy and very poor.
Any delicacies like meat, candies, or exotic fare the travelers brought to market went into mouths that could afford such things, and I certainly was never invited to those tables.
The other part was practical. If my knowledge of herbs taught me anything, experimentation with growing things can be perilous.
Just because a fruit or vegetable sprouts and matures for the sun doesn’t mean it’s safe, and if I guessed wrong?
No one would have helped me if I succumbed to a bad mushroom or root.
“Is there a problem,” he says.
“I’ve never had meat before.”
“You lie—”
“It’s true. Who’s wasting that on me?”
Sniffing at the still-steaming piece, I’m surprised that my mouth waters and my stomach growls at the scent. With a piercing anticipation, I bring it to my mouth—
The linen sheath is in the way.
“You might as well show me.” His voice is remote. “Considering our agreement. Or do I need to remind you of what I’m getting in return for my efforts on your behalf.”
Shifting around, I bring the sheath up until I can lift the veiling enough to get my knife under the cover. I’ve never been so glad to have my face hidden. Then again, I’m blushing so furiously, maybe I’m casting a red glow.
“No kissing,” I blurt.
“That was not part of our—”
“Working girls do not kiss the patrons.”
He chuckles deep in his throat. “That, my dear, is not true.”
The idea he’s paid for women before shocks me. Then again, would it be better for him to have found a true love and never strayed out of loyalty? And why in fates do I care about his bedding partners.
“Sallae Mae never kissed the patrons,” I retort. “None of the working girls at the Gauntlet do.”
“Is that the woman who brought you into the trade?”
Ignoring him, I nibble off a bit with my front teeth, cautious in case my nose has misidentified things, and it is something tough and tasteless—
My mouth blooms with the most delicious taste, and I can’t help but moan while I eye the carcass. How anything so tough on the exterior can provide this singular delicacy, I have no idea, but my stomach doesn’t care about the particulars—or the bloody mess we took the meat from.
It just wants more.
“Oh, crescent moon…” I chew slowly to savor the experience. “This is—”
“Lewis was an arse who did not take care of you well enough. Here, have more.” Then Merc tacks on dryly, “Brace yourself, my sword’s coming at you again.”
As I glance his way, there’s a sexual charge to the comment and my cheeks get even hotter. “What about you?”
“We feed you first. Then I’ll see about me.”
I’m so touched, I nearly forget everything and meet his eyes. But that warmth fades as he announces practically, “If you’re going to make it through the journey that awaits us after our swim, we need you properly fed.”
The disappointment that hits me is as misplaced as my speculations about his lovers. And really, after all I’ve seen, why should I ever assume tenderness from any man?
“And one more thing.”
I finish chewing and take another piece. “What is that.”
“I am going to kiss you.” His voice lowers into a silky drawl. “Before we leave here.”