Fifth Quarter (9 page)

"Good servants walk on shadow feet
. Commander Neegan always says that more assassins are screwed by personal body servants than by guards. What's in the bowl? I'm starved."

"I'm
starved," Vree corrected absently, leaning forward and lifting the lid. "Cold millet and cooked slaughtering veg. Just like home."

"Sniff again, sister-mine. When the army cooks this, it smells like onions. This smells like…"

"… hot peppers and…" With her nose nearly resting on the edge of the bowl, it didn't even look like the grayish-brown, sticky mass she was used to. "… and orange. And there's more than just a couple of half-cooked chunks of zucchini in there, too." Her right hand jerked to a stop, the scoop of food on the first two fingers nearly at her mouth. "Bannon!"

"What if he's trying to poison us?"

Vree swallowed a curt,
What if he is
? along with a mouthful of saliva and considered the question. "No. He's grown used to having power and he needs us… me to get more. He won't give up the chance."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Ever hear of an officer turning down a promotion?"

The food tasted better than it smelled. The crock held cold water with slices of lime floating on the surface—Vree ignored the cup and drank straight from the dipper. It was a beautifully crafted piece of metal-work, shaped into the likeness of a broad-petaled flower on a gently curving stem, and if she'd had her pack… The army officially frowned on looting but pragmatically ignored most of the less blatant occurrences.

"I've never
been
you pissing before."

Nothing? She looked down. Realized the problem. And couldn't stop the snicker—instantly regretted. Male obsessions that called for a wisecrack under other circumstances were no longer funny. "I'm sorry, Bannon."

"You're not a man. You don't understand. You can't understand." The next thought was so soft she hardly heard it.
"I'm
not a man."

Frowning, Vree straightened and shoved the pot back into its cabinet with the side of her foot. He was partially right—she wasn't a man and she didn't understand—but she could feel his distress and wanted to ease it. "Look, being a man is more than just… I mean, you're still you, and… Well, slaughter it, Bannon, you're
not
a woman."

"I'm in a woman."

"Yeah? Not for the first time."

"It's not the same thing." But this protest carried the feel of a reluctant grin and his next words proved that she'd managed to distract him. "Mind you, I've always wondered. Vree, if I'm stuck in here for a while, do you think you could…"

Gyhard stared at the throwing dagger buried to the hilt in the door frame by his head, then he turned to stare at the young woman scowling at him. Although his heart raced and the highly conditioned body he now wore trembled with the need to react, he kept his tone mild. "I suppose I should have knocked?"

Vree fought to bring her blushing under control, which only made it worse. "What do you want?" she snarled.

"I thought, now that you've rested, that you might like to visit the bathhouse." He held out one of the flowing house robes he, as Aralt, had provided for guests. "I didn't want to mention this earlier, but you're filthy."

Soaped, scrubbed, rinsed, and feeling almost relaxed, Vree leaned back in the soaking pool until the warm water lapped at the point of her chin. "I could get used to this."

"Up yours." The water level rose as Gyhard lowered himself into the pool and she shifted position. "Aralt did all right by himself."

"There were certain perks involved in being district governor," he admitted, stretching his arms out along the submerged tile ledge. "Probably why I stayed with it for so long."

Vree circled a finger above the water, indicating not only the soaking pool but more-or-less the entire bathhouse; the lush curtains of hanging plants, the mosaics, the clusters of scented candles. "I'm amazed you wanted to give this up."

He shrugged, the motion sending ripples out from his shoulders. "I was old. While I'd allowed it to happen, I found I didn't care for it much. The older you are, the closer you are to a death that can't be avoided."

"He's about three feet from his death right now."

"As soon as we get a chance, Bannon. I promise."

From under half-lowered lids, Gyhard watched the minute changes in his companion's expression and wondered how she managed to so closely coexist with another life.
Still, I suppose all those years in barracks and field camps are as good a training for lack of individuality as you can get
. He'd barely touched young Bannon's memories during the transfer as, at the time, he'd had no desire to know the man he was displacing. Now, he wished he'd been just a little more thorough, if only to have gained more information on the sister. Considering her trade, there was a sense of vulnerability about her that he found astounding.

Gyhard flexed his ankle and gloried in the response of young muscle. "Well, tell him from me that it's a superb body and I'm not surprised he wants it back."

"Tell him yourself. He can hear you."

"He's using your senses?" The concept intrigued Gyhard. "Is he able to exert any physical control?"

Below the surface of the water, Vree unclenched the fist Bannon had made. "No," she lied, sneering slightly. "He's a passenger. That's all."

But she could tell he didn't like it, that he hated the thought of being considered a passive observer. She'd have hated it also had their positions been reversed. Levering herself out of the pool, she reached for a drying cloth. "What now?"

"Now we eat a late but excellent supper and then we get some sleep. We'll be leaving for the Capital in the morning. I assembled most of what we'll need while you were sleeping. Can you ride?"

"No." The cloths were both incredibly soft and absorbent. Vree wondered if they'd miss a couple. "And neither can you."

Standing in the pool, Gyhard stared up at her. "What are you talking about? I've ridden all my life."

Vree smiled unpleasantly. "Your head has, but that body's never been on a horse. Even if you know what to do, you'll have to teach the body how to do it."

"I am
not
walking all the way to the Capital."

"You
won't be in it."

"On it."

" Whatever."

The robe settled down on her shoulders in time to see Gyhard stepping up out of the pool. He might be in Bannon's body, but he didn't move like her brother and the effect was strangely disconcerting. All at once, she found she couldn't look away. "Bannon?"

It was too quiet. Vree lay stiffly under the weight of the cotton blanket and stared into the darkness. The sights, the sounds, the smells of the army were missing. No comforting barricade of life surrounded her. She could smell the lingering perfume of the bath; could hear the pounding of her own heart; could see nothing. Couldn't sleep.

The room that had seemed so confining before, now seemed infinitely large. She couldn't get any sense of the other lives in the villa and felt as though she were floating alone in the night with no reference points to ground her.

"Vree? You're not alone." His voice laid an arm across her shoulders and pulled her into a loose embrace. "I'm here."

A night bird screamed. The silence swallowed the cry.

What were they doing, Emo and the others? Had they fought? Had they died? Was her pack still sitting where she'd left it? When would they divide her kit? When would they be sure she wasn't coming back?

Her palms were damp again.

"Hey, do you remember how Ugy used to snore? How crazy it used to drive you? You'd get up and slip across the barracks to pinch his nose closed, oh, two or three times before you finally got so pissed off you'd throw something heavy and hard at him. It'd crash and he'd swear and half the squad'd wake up ready to pound him…"

As Bannon built a wall of memories around her, Vree began to relax. The night filled with the familiar, with the known, and his voice became one of many voices. When she finally surrendered to sleep, she took the last words she heard with her.

"It's all right, sister-mine. We'll go together…"

Chapter Four

His last companion had gone to pieces days before. He wasn't sure how many days, sunrise and sunset had grown so much alike of late, but he remembered holding her tenderly as the last of her flesh rotted beyond the point where it would contain her. When it was all over and her kigh had fled shrieking into the darkness, he'd taken one of her few remaining finger bones, threaded it on a silver wire, and added it to the multitude hanging from the silk cord he wore around his neck.