Read Online Fifth Quarter by Tanya Huff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tanya Huff
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Fantastic fiction, Canadian Fiction, Fantasy Fiction; Canadian
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she was afraid that she might have somehow, inexplicably, gone deaf while she slept.
"Vree?"
"Shhhh."
The whisper of her hair against the cotton blanket as she turned her head sounded unnaturally loud. Very slowly, muscles tensed, she sat. Used to working in darkness, she found the dim, late evening light slanting through the narrow windows and the double louvered door leading to the courtyard more than sufficient.
"What is it?" Bannon demanded.
"Can't you hear it?"
"I can't hear anything."
"That's what I mean." A life spent in barracks and army camps hadn't prepared her for the quiet. She'd learned—everyone learned—to sleep through almost anything but she'd never woken up to such a total lack of noise.
"It's like we dozed off on target," murmured Bannon, wonder touching his mental voice. "Maybe everyone's cleared out."
Vree's nose twitched and her stomach growled loudly in response. A small stone crock, a dipper, a cup, and a covered bowl had been set on the low table beside the bed. Lips pressed tightly together in disgust, she sheathed her daggers and crossed her legs beneath her. "They could've just pushed a pillow over my face and saved themselves the bother. I can't believe I didn't hear them bring this in."
"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.
The pot was almost too pretty to use.
Thumbs tucked under the drawstring, she shucked her breeches down and squatted. Things got complicated for a few moments.
"Bannon, what is it with you!"
"Nothing."
"Something's wrong. You'd think you never saw me piss before."
"I've never been you pissing before."
"So what? It's still my body."
"Yeah, but I'm in here, too, and…"
"And what?"
"Nothing!"
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
"Vree?"
"Shhhh."
The whisper of her hair against the cotton blanket as she turned her head sounded unnaturally loud. Very slowly, muscles tensed, she sat. Used to working in darkness, she found the dim, late evening light slanting through the narrow windows and the double louvered door leading to the courtyard more than sufficient.
"What is it?" Bannon demanded.
"Can't you hear it?"
"I can't hear anything."
"That's what I mean." A life spent in barracks and army camps hadn't prepared her for the quiet. She'd learned—everyone learned—to sleep through almost anything but she'd never woken up to such a total lack of noise.
"It's like we dozed off on target," murmured Bannon, wonder touching his mental voice. "Maybe everyone's cleared out."
Vree's nose twitched and her stomach growled loudly in response. A small stone crock, a dipper, a cup, and a covered bowl had been set on the low table beside the bed. Lips pressed tightly together in disgust, she sheathed her daggers and crossed her legs beneath her. "They could've just pushed a pillow over my face and saved themselves the bother. I can't believe I didn't hear them bring this in."
"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.
The pot was almost too pretty to use.
Thumbs tucked under the drawstring, she shucked her breeches down and squatted. Things got complicated for a few moments.
"Bannon, what is it with you!"
"Nothing."
"Something's wrong. You'd think you never saw me piss before."
"I've never been you pissing before."
"So what? It's still my body."
"Yeah, but I'm in here, too, and…"
"And what?"
"Nothing!"
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
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