‘Popularity is a curse,’ Iskaral said, stretching out with his hands behind his head and staring up at the taut ropes of the mattress above him. ‘Not that she’d know anything about that. I’d better visit the local temple, assert my tyrannical dominance over all the local acolytes and fakir priests and priestesses. Priestesses! Might be a pretty one or two. As High Priest, I could have my pick as is my right. Make offerings in the shadow between her legs, yes-’
‘I’d know, Iskaral Pust,’ Mogora snapped, moving about on the bed above. ‘I’d just know, and then I’d take my knife, one night when you’re sleeping, and I’d snick snick and you’d be singing like a child and squatting t’piss and what woman or mule would want you then?’
‘Get out of my head, woman!’
‘It’s not hard to know what you’re thinking.’
‘That’s what you think! She’s getting more dangerous, we need a divorce. But isn’t it why most mates break up? When the woman gets too dangerous? Must be. I’m sure of it. Well, I’d be free then, wouldn’t I? Free!’
The mule brayed.
Mogora laughed so hard she wet herself, if the rank dribbles from above were any indication.
Scillara and Cutter had taken the berths closest to the stern in an effort to achieve some sort of privacy, and had rigged a section of spare canvas across the walkway, Despite this, Mogora’s half-mad laughter reached through, triggering yet another scowl from Cutter.
‘If those two just realized how perfect they are for each other, we’d finally get some peace.’
Scillara smiled. ‘I’m sure they do. Most marriages involve mutual thoughts of murder on occasion.’
He glanced over at her. ‘You’ve some strange ideas, Scillara. About all sorts of things.’
‘I was wondering, when you head out tonight, will you want my company? Or would you rather go on your own?’
He could not hold her gaze and made a show of stretching his back before reclining on his bunk. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You’ll like the Phoenix Inn. Meese, Irilta, Murillio, Coll and Kruppe. Well, maybe not Kruppe, who rubs some people the wrong way, but he’s harmless enough… I suppose.’ He rummaged in the pouch at his belt for a moment, then drew out a single coin. A Blue Moranth silver sceptre, which he began deftly working through his fingers. ‘Won’t they be surprised to see me.’
She managed a smile. ‘Cutter’s belated return.’
‘Well, “Cutter” isn’t the name they know me by. I was Crokus Younghand back then.’
‘And where is he now? This Crokus Younghand.’
He spent a moment squinting at the coin before replying, ‘Dead. Long dead.’
‘And what will your friends make of that?’
He sat up, suddenly restless and still unwilling to meet her eyes. ‘I don’t know. They won’t be happy.’
‘I think I will leave you to it, Cutter,’ Scillara said. ‘I’ll join Barathol and Chaur wandering the night markets and such-there’s a fete going on, yes? That sounds inviting. As for my meeting your friends, best it wait a day or two.’
He glanced at her. ‘Are you sure? You don’t-’
‘I’m sure,’ she cut in. ‘You need this night to yourself. You’ll have enough questions to answer without my presence confusing things even more.’
‘All right,’ and despite his efforts his relief was palpable. ‘But come tomorrow-everyone knows where the Phoenix is, so all you need do is ask.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, rising from where she sat on the edge of her own berth. ‘I’d best hunt Barathol down, so he doesn’t leave without me.’
‘Must be nearing dusk.’
‘So it is, Cutter. Lady’s pull on you this night.’
‘Thanks.’ But it was a distracted response.
As she made her way forward, forced to shoving the damned mule to one side, Scillara told herself that the hurt she was feeling was unwarranted. He’d found comfort in her arms, because there was no one else. No love was involved. Not once mentioned, not even whispered nor murmured in the thick, sleepy moments after lovemaking. Little more than mutual satisfaction, comfort and convenience.
And now, well, that time had passed. Reunion with friends beckoned Cutter that old world In which he hid known his place. Difficult enough that he might no longer fit-explaining the overwight, pipe-sucking ex-whore at his side would only embarrass him.
He had changed her, she realised, pausing just inside the hatch. As if she’d absorbed some essence of bin uncertainty, his lack of confidence. She no longer felt her usual brazen, bridling self. No longer ready with a sneer, no longer armoured against the vagaries of this damned world. Here, a dozen strides from the largest eity she had ever seen, was neither the time nor the place for such weakness.
