Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (19 page)

"We're here."

"But you haven't answered the question."

The door was open. The sound of a full house drifted lazily out into the cool night air. He hung back; he did not want to have this particular conversation in any place that could be remotely considered public.

But he did want a drink.

"Kiriel," he said, staring into a welcome haze of smoke and light, "just because you ask the question doesn't mean I have to answer it."

He didn't much like the look he got in response. She was such a mystery to him. There wasn't anyone else he'd choose to have at his side—or back—in a fight. First, because of all the Ospreys she was the only one who was consistently—to his great chagrin—faster than he was, both on the draw and to the actual battle. Second, the Ospreys had an informal contest that had started up at about the same time as they met their first demon. It was a friendly competition, or about as friendly as any competition among Ospreys ever got; a head count. They'd started an Annie head count in the war twelve years past—one that was strictly speaking forbidden by the Crowns. That had been easier to win.

The demons never arrived in great numbers. But at the moment, the kills racked up by himself and Kiriel counted as joint efforts, putting the informal team where Auralis best liked to be: at the head of the pack, rather than in the middle. He didn't allow for the possibility of being anywhere near the back. No way he could be, and still be fighting side by side with her.

But outside of a fight…

She was young enough to be his daughter, much as it pained him to admit it. In and of itself, this wasn't a problem; he'd certainly had any number of girls that were scarcely older.

But he was no longer a young fool; he understood that entanglements of any sort had their price, and he paid it grudgingly. Better to cleanly offer coin and take only what was wanted, when it was wanted, than to pay in other ways.

"You find me attractive." It wasn't a question.

"A corpse would find you attractive." He smiled; the smile was politely refused by the stiff lines of her—yes, very beautiful—face. "But I don't sleep with Ospreys."

"You've slept with Alexis."

This was not he first time he had a strong desire to kill Alexis; if he somehow failed to do it, it probably wouldn't be the last.

"Did she happen to tell you how long ago that was?"

"When she was almost as young as I am," Kiriel said, through clenched teeth. "She says you don't like 'em old."

Strike that. This time, he
was
going to kill the bitch. He wondered if she were somewhere in the bar, listening with what little mage talent she had, and laughing. The slightly condescending and unpleasant expression that passed for a smile on Alexis' face often made everything about her seem sharper and harder.

It was only with Duarte that she really let her guard down. Of course, it was only with Duarte that she
really
stuck the knife in and twisted.

"Okay, let's try this a different way." He really wanted the drink on the other side of the door frame. Almost as much as he wanted to kill Alexis. He thought about both of these things with a forced intensity; it was better than actually thinking of Kiriel.

Because she was beautiful; she was attractive. She had every bit of allure that walking death always does for the right kind of man—and Auralis knew that he
defined
that type. He also knew death when he saw it. Not the risk of death, but death.

He didn't love life, but he had a few things he wanted to do before it ended.

He had experience in letting people down. Bitter experience. He had learned the patina of letting them down gently when given the opportunity; was not above cruelty in the right circumstance. Was certainly not above a gentle lie.

But she was Osprey. She would kill for him. He suspected that in the right circumstances, she would die for him. Somehow, the outsider had come in, when he wasn't looking.

He owed her honesty. He considered honesty to be highly overrated. He put his left hand, half flat, against the wall; there was nothing he could do to stop the right one from curling into a fist with suspiciously white knuckles. Long experience made him give up after a minute of trying. He took a step away from the door to let people in and out. The sign above them swung, creaking when the winds came tunneling into the still streets; they didn't stay long.

"Kiriel, I don't sleep with virgins. Too complicated."

She was silent for what seemed hours. "Alexis told me," she said at last, "that you would say no."

"Alexis," he said, "is smart. She's a bitch, but she's not a stupid bitch." He started toward the door, exposing his back. Stopped in the frame, when no echo of armor or footstep fell in behind him. He could feel his jaw clamping tight, and worked to loosen it.

"Kiriel," he said, turning.

She was still as stone, and about as colorful.

"You are going to be my life and death when we leave this city. You're already unofficially considered my partner, the other half—the better half—of a team. I can't—I will
never
be able—to be a real lover, a half husband like Duarte is to Alexis, like most men are to the women they love. All I can offer is a good time, and I can't even guarantee that. I can't do that with you.
You
have to mean more to me than just a quick—" The door hit him, hard.

The person pushing it made it clear that he thought people who got in his way were lucky to get hit in the back by a door traveling at high speed, and not something more fatal. Auralis, already not in the best of moods, thanked Kalliaris briefly for the interruption, and drove his conveniently preclenched fist into the man's gut, hard.

Which was fine, but unfortunately, the three men behind
him
weren't all that impressed when he went over and started retching in the street.

There was some chance, given the situation, that everyone's ruffled feathers could be calmed by a judicious display of apology for unfortunate reflexes, but Auralis, sometime Decarus of the Black Ospreys, wasn't about to let an opportunity slip away.

20th of Scaral 427 AA

Terafin Manse

"What is it about men and fighting?" Finch ATerafin did not have Jay's unruly hair, but she had—over years of exposure—picked up some of her gestures; she shoved straight hair back out of her eyes, giving it a frustrated tug over the forehead.

Teller, so aware of the value of words that he used them seldom, shrugged.

Carver's right eye was swollen shut; Angel's nose was broken. Finch considered it a small miracle that neither of them had lost any teeth—at least none that were visible. She didn't bother to ask them why they hadn't gone to the healerie. Unless it was likely to be fatal, neither the aged Alowan nor his young apprentice, Daine, were willing to offer their aid in relieving the pain of a self-inflicted wound.

Or several.

"Well?"

They were silent, but Carver's eyes flickered to the side of Angel's impenetrable expression. Which meant that Angel had started the fight, and Carver had come to his aid. Again. Angel had chosen not to take the ATerafin name; he could not be accused of being a disgrace to the House. Carver didn't have that much leeway. He had already been called in, quietly, to speak with Gabriel, The Terafin's right-kin; the man she trusted to deal with potential embarrassments to the House name.

Do you
know
what you're doing to him
? She wanted to shout at Angel. Wanted to add to the bruises that were already discoloring his once perfect, pale skin. But what was the point? Carver had taken the House name, but at heart he was what he had always been: part of Jay's den, and willing to die to defend it when he wasn't scared witless by whatever it was that it needed defending from.

The kitchen was absolutely silent. Finch was certain the reflection that stared back at her from the rounded sides of carefully cleaned pots had actual
gray
hair. On the other hand, she had walked into the job with her eyes open; she had always covered for Jay during Jay's merchant voyages.

But those voyages, undertaken at the behest of The Terafin, were different from this one. Because on regular Terafin business, Jay always took Angel and Carver with her; she often took Teller. Jester, she left behind to man the kitchen with Finch. Finch had traveled with her once, by boat, and left Teller in the kitchen. She learned from that experience that she did not enjoy boats, and that she enjoyed the Northern cold and the Northern barbarians—a word she had to struggle not to use—even less, and she had commandeered the reading and writing work for every absence that followed.

She would have gone with Jay this time, given half a chance. Might have even had to fight with Teller for the opportunity.

But she would have given it up if she could have sent Angel in her place. If they could only send one person, it would, by unspoken agreement, be Angel.

"What was it about this time?"

"Same as usual," Carver replied.

"Which means nothing."

"Pretty much." His shrug was economical, a Carver gesture pared down to its bare minimum. "You haven't heard anything, have you?"

Which meant, of course, anything from Jay.

"No."

Silence. The silence was grim. It was getting tiresome.

And Finch was bloody tired.

"She's fine," she heard herself say.

"And you know that how?" Angel snapped, speaking for the first time in about two days.

"We've been over this before. They found no bodies."

Silence.

"Look, if someone as important as Jay was killed, we'd know."

"We'd be the last to know.
She's
the important one, don't you get it? Without her, they don't give a shit about the rest of us."

"Angel, she can't be killed. It's not like they've—"

"They've already come damn close."

More silence. Heavy, uncomfortable silence. Finch was good at arguing; hells, everyone in the den could hold their own in a verbal free-for-all, although Teller almost always turned silent as stone and Jester, earning his name, usually tried to divert hostility with humor.

Jay, send word.

To Angel, she said wearily, "Damn close is as close as 'they' get. And it's a lot farther away than she'll get if she hears about this."

He tensed a moment, and then relaxed, lifting his hands to his face. Quite a bruise there, across his eyes and the bridge of his nose, but then again, he'd always been a bit too pretty for Finch's taste.

Not that anyone really noticed who was pretty anymore within the den, although some people couldn't keep their eyes from wandering all over the place outside of it.

"Did you call us because of the… fight?"

"The brawl? No. Not even because of this," she said, picking up a piece' of paper with a very uneven but perfectly legible—and long—itemized statement of Financial Grievance. She handed it to Teller, who had been summarily deputized into passing all such matters to Gabriel. Teller was a hard person to lecture.

"Then why?"

"The damn Council's been sniffing around." That got their attention.

"The council?"

"Rymark. Elonne. Marrick." She turned her face to the side and spit toward the hearth. "Haerrad, the bastard."

"You told him we work for her," Angel said. Not a question.

"Yeah."

"And?" .

"He told me we were
all
ATerafin."

"Shit." Carver's voice was low, the single word a stretch of tension that was palpable.

"Not all of us," Angel said.

"Not all of us, and I expected you to bring that up. Satisfied?"

"Not particularly."

"Too bad. It'll have to do."

"What are they asking for?"

"God knows. Not money. They want our support."

"Ours?"

"Sure." Finch put both hands against the tabletop and pushed her negligible weight out of the chair. She glanced at Teller, who set aside the lamp—which wasn't lit, given the time of day—and rose with her. He had become a nonpresence; he took no notes, kept no record that was not internal. But if he was a nonpresence, it was in the way that air was; you missed it like anything when it was gone. "They know Jay values us; they know that we work for Jay. They know that we have some pull with her."

Jester laughed out loud. "They need better sources."

The corners of her lips tugged up; response to Jester was a part of her that was so old she didn't remember the first time she'd laughed at something he'd said. "Yeah, well;"

"Teller?"

"I know. But we can dance."

"Jay said no the last time, and it—"

"I
know
what happened. It was me that ended up in the healerie with broken bones. But Jay handled it wrong. She barreled through. She should have said yes, and played her hand carefully."

"She sucks at cards," Angel said grudgingly.

"She does," Carver concurred, shoving a lock of hair out of his eye and grinning. "I've got the money—and bruises— to prove it." His smile was brief and perfect.

"
We've
never been that straight. Not without her. Think about what we do. We can agree to whatever it is they're asking us for, but cautiously. Carefully. They won't trust us, unless we can be properly greedy, and we won't trust them, and they'll know it, but they all want power and if we 'want' it, too, they'll believe it. We can dance this dance."

Finch stared at Teller for a long stretch. Aside from the fact that he'd spoken more at this meeting than he had all week, he'd also broken a rule that was never put into words. You could criticize Jay for many things. Her temper. Her language. Her clothing. Her eating habits, or lack thereof.

But you just didn't criticize her for a
real
decision. She'd brought them from the streets of the twenty-fifth holding, a band of petty thieves headed for starvation—or worse— to the most powerful House in the Empire. She'd given them a name—well, all except Angel. A real future.

And a war.

"Haerrad isn't asking for a dance. He's asking us to juggle big, sharp knives."