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Authors: Jennifer Roberson
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blood-bound.”
“That I tolerate him at all is a miracle unto itself,” Brodhi pointed out, “and if we were
not
blood-bound—or kin at all, for that matter—I wouldn’t tolerate him in the least.”
Darmuth grinned. The green gem sparked. “So difficult to believe you are related, you and Rhuan. One can hardly credit that your father and
his
father, born themselves of the same parents, could sire such decidedly different sons upon—”
“Never mind,” Brodhi interrupted sharply, who didn’t like to discuss such things with anyone, let alone with Darmuth. Perhaps especially with Darmuth, who knew more about Brodhi and Rhuan than anyone in the world.
Except possibly for Ferize. Who was, after all, Darmuth’s kin-in-kind.
“But I should like to contemplate this,” Darmuth said brightly, gemstone glinting. “We know what will become of you both if you don’t succeed in your tasks. One would think you’d be in accordance, as you desire the same things—”
Brodhi cut him off with a sharp, silencing gesture. “But we don’t. We want entirely different things, Rhuan and I.” With sustained effort he regained his fraying composure. “It is a mark of how deeply different we are, Darmuth. In tastes
and
temperaments.”
“Perhaps.” Darmuth tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps not.”
This time the gesture of dismissal was not a human one. “Go away, Darmuth. You and I are not blood-bound, nor kin-in-kind.”
The shorter man inclined first his head, then folded his body upon itself in a parody of abject submission. “Spare me, I beg you. Be not unkind to your inferior.”
The word Brodhi spoke was not even remotely polite.
Darmuth, laughing, unfolded his powerful body and took himself away.
ILONA KNEW THE stride even before she saw his face. She heard the muted rattle of fringe bearing beads, rings, and shells swinging from the outer seams of his amber-hued leggings and tunic. She glanced up from the low table set just outside the rear steps of her wagon. “You’re late. Quite late.
Extremely
late.”
Rhuan slowed, then stopped altogether. He came over to where she sat upon her cushions laid out on her rugs, surrounded by glowing pierced-tin lanterns hanging from wrought iron crooks driven into the ground, the low laquered table modestly hiding her knees. “I know.” He quirked an eyebrow, marking her preparations and professional posture. “Business poor tonight?”
“Not after Jorda speaks his piece to the people of his karavan. Then they’ll all come. I am simply preparing.”
He winced. “Am I that late?”
She nodded. “He’s threatened to slit your throat already. Darmuth suggested he not, as you are occasionally useful. He was looking for you earlier, too.”
“I was talking to the Watch.”
Ilona smiled archly. “Drunk again?”
“I’m never drunk,” he retorted. “No. About a dead man.” She tended her table, straightening rich silks and embroidered velvets, placing charms, carved stones, and blessing-sticks in precise arrangements. “Did you kill him?”
He was as aggrieved as she had ever seen him. “Why does everyone think
I
killed him? I don’t kill every individual who crosses my path!”
“Only most of them.” She was comfortable bantering with him. He made it easy. “Rhuan—Jorda truly is unhappy. We’re to leave at first light.”
“
That
late,” he muttered. “I thought we had two more days.” He shook his head; the gold and silver rings threadedloosely through multiple braids clattered faintly against his beadwork. “All right. I’m going.”
“Who died?” Ilona called after him.
He turned back, hesitating. “Some poor man who stumbled into Alisanos, then found his way back out again.”
She chilled. Stilled. “Was he—?”
“—human?” Rhuan’s expression was grim. “Not anymore.”
Ilona felt her belly clench up into a hard knot as Rhuan left. She murmured a prayer to Sibetha, the god of hand-readers, then expanded it to
“That I tolerate him at all is a miracle unto itself,” Brodhi pointed out, “and if we were
not
blood-bound—or kin at all, for that matter—I wouldn’t tolerate him in the least.”
Darmuth grinned. The green gem sparked. “So difficult to believe you are related, you and Rhuan. One can hardly credit that your father and
his
father, born themselves of the same parents, could sire such decidedly different sons upon—”
“Never mind,” Brodhi interrupted sharply, who didn’t like to discuss such things with anyone, let alone with Darmuth. Perhaps especially with Darmuth, who knew more about Brodhi and Rhuan than anyone in the world.
Except possibly for Ferize. Who was, after all, Darmuth’s kin-in-kind.
“But I should like to contemplate this,” Darmuth said brightly, gemstone glinting. “We know what will become of you both if you don’t succeed in your tasks. One would think you’d be in accordance, as you desire the same things—”
Brodhi cut him off with a sharp, silencing gesture. “But we don’t. We want entirely different things, Rhuan and I.” With sustained effort he regained his fraying composure. “It is a mark of how deeply different we are, Darmuth. In tastes
and
temperaments.”
“Perhaps.” Darmuth tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps not.”
This time the gesture of dismissal was not a human one. “Go away, Darmuth. You and I are not blood-bound, nor kin-in-kind.”
The shorter man inclined first his head, then folded his body upon itself in a parody of abject submission. “Spare me, I beg you. Be not unkind to your inferior.”
The word Brodhi spoke was not even remotely polite.
Darmuth, laughing, unfolded his powerful body and took himself away.
ILONA KNEW THE stride even before she saw his face. She heard the muted rattle of fringe bearing beads, rings, and shells swinging from the outer seams of his amber-hued leggings and tunic. She glanced up from the low table set just outside the rear steps of her wagon. “You’re late. Quite late.
Extremely
late.”
Rhuan slowed, then stopped altogether. He came over to where she sat upon her cushions laid out on her rugs, surrounded by glowing pierced-tin lanterns hanging from wrought iron crooks driven into the ground, the low laquered table modestly hiding her knees. “I know.” He quirked an eyebrow, marking her preparations and professional posture. “Business poor tonight?”
“Not after Jorda speaks his piece to the people of his karavan. Then they’ll all come. I am simply preparing.”
He winced. “Am I that late?”
She nodded. “He’s threatened to slit your throat already. Darmuth suggested he not, as you are occasionally useful. He was looking for you earlier, too.”
“I was talking to the Watch.”
Ilona smiled archly. “Drunk again?”
“I’m never drunk,” he retorted. “No. About a dead man.” She tended her table, straightening rich silks and embroidered velvets, placing charms, carved stones, and blessing-sticks in precise arrangements. “Did you kill him?”
He was as aggrieved as she had ever seen him. “Why does everyone think
I
killed him? I don’t kill every individual who crosses my path!”
“Only most of them.” She was comfortable bantering with him. He made it easy. “Rhuan—Jorda truly is unhappy. We’re to leave at first light.”
“
That
late,” he muttered. “I thought we had two more days.” He shook his head; the gold and silver rings threadedloosely through multiple braids clattered faintly against his beadwork. “All right. I’m going.”
“Who died?” Ilona called after him.
He turned back, hesitating. “Some poor man who stumbled into Alisanos, then found his way back out again.”
She chilled. Stilled. “Was he—?”
“—human?” Rhuan’s expression was grim. “Not anymore.”
Ilona felt her belly clench up into a hard knot as Rhuan left. She murmured a prayer to Sibetha, the god of hand-readers, then expanded it to
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