yourself, hey?”
The phrase stung like a whip-strike, like a slap across her face. Her grief igniting now, burning into furious, white-focus temper, a necessary outrage and outlet, Triqueta dropped the carafe to shatter on the tabletop and slammed the heel of her hand, hard, into the man’s face.
“Fuck you!” Sometimes Ecko’s colourful language had exactly the impact she needed. “I’m losing a friend. What’s your excuse?”
The man rocked back, one hand to his nose, scarlet seeping between his fingers. From around them came the familiar rhythm of shouting and benches scraping, the ripple of impending violence.
“You cursthed bith!” The man’s other hand was drawing his belt-blade - there was no braided, peace-bonding string at this end of the Amos wharf. A moment later, it was in his hand, gleaming dully in the rocklight. The crowd closed round them, whether to watch or participate Triq had no idea.
Come on then. I can still do this... you just watch me...
Then, in a harsh scraping of bench, Jayr stood up.
The noise ground across the room, made people cringe. There was a moment of complete stillness.
Triqueta blinked. Swallowed.
When Syke, Banned commander, had named the girl “Infamous” it had been a jest - a tongue-in-cheek comment on her pit-fighter past. Many a wager had come in its wake - in two returns with the Banned, Jayr had fought just about every soldiery and Range Patrol champion from Amos to the Kartiah Mountains and back.
Now, she filled the room like a shadow, like a bared threat. Her Archipelagan features had an odd, haughty beauty, her scalplock was exotic, her shoulders carved with flat muscle, her Kartian slave-scars shining white - in this tavern, there would be no damned doubt as to what they meant. She was a crossbreed of cultures, exotic and impossible. She folded her arms, said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
The man fell back, garbling an apology, resheathing the blade and pressing his other hand to his nose.
After a few rustles and mutters, the rest of the surrounding drinkers returned to their seats.
Apparently, the show was over.
* * *
Triqueta wiped her bloody knuckles with the silken fabric of her skirt.
Her head was pounding now - the booze-fuelled flare of anger had left her, and she felt empty and cold. She struggled to focus through vision and thought that blurred. Everything swayed, and she felt sick.
Jayr was sitting quietly, her face troubled. Something about her little display had bothered her, but Triq was too sozzled to quite get her head round it.
Jayr said, “We should get back. Don’t like leaving him for long.”
But Triq couldn’t face the wreckage of her friend - not yet, not like this - the thought of it brought a rush of tension to her blood that woke her up faster than a well-placed bucket of water.
She said, managing to enunciate clearly, “Did you ever take him back to the Library?”
“Gods, no. Never want to set foot in the place again. I’d burn it down if I could.”
“Maybe we should look? Maybe we’d find something to -?”
“To make him better?” Jayr gave a short, humourless laugh. “There isn’t anything. We should just put him the rhez out of his misery.”
Triq blinked. “You said you were fighting to keep him alive.”
“I am. But what’s the point?” The girl bit at her nails, spat out tiny, bitter fragments of white. “He can’t tell us what he saw, he can’t help us fight the bad guys; he can’t wipe his own arse. We’re Banned - we ride free, trade free, no one tells us what to do. If he was a horse -”
“He couldn’t wipe his arse if he was a horse, Jayr.” Triqueta said it with a straight face, but Jayr stared at her as though she was screaming loco.
Then Triq cracked a smile and they both chuckled, a shared warmth and relief that eased the tension. On an obscure impulse, Triqueta gave the younger woman an awkward hug. “You’d never abandon him. You stupid mare.”
Then someone by
The phrase stung like a whip-strike, like a slap across her face. Her grief igniting now, burning into furious, white-focus temper, a necessary outrage and outlet, Triqueta dropped the carafe to shatter on the tabletop and slammed the heel of her hand, hard, into the man’s face.
“Fuck you!” Sometimes Ecko’s colourful language had exactly the impact she needed. “I’m losing a friend. What’s your excuse?”
The man rocked back, one hand to his nose, scarlet seeping between his fingers. From around them came the familiar rhythm of shouting and benches scraping, the ripple of impending violence.
“You cursthed bith!” The man’s other hand was drawing his belt-blade - there was no braided, peace-bonding string at this end of the Amos wharf. A moment later, it was in his hand, gleaming dully in the rocklight. The crowd closed round them, whether to watch or participate Triq had no idea.
Come on then. I can still do this... you just watch me...
Then, in a harsh scraping of bench, Jayr stood up.
The noise ground across the room, made people cringe. There was a moment of complete stillness.
Triqueta blinked. Swallowed.
When Syke, Banned commander, had named the girl “Infamous” it had been a jest - a tongue-in-cheek comment on her pit-fighter past. Many a wager had come in its wake - in two returns with the Banned, Jayr had fought just about every soldiery and Range Patrol champion from Amos to the Kartiah Mountains and back.
Now, she filled the room like a shadow, like a bared threat. Her Archipelagan features had an odd, haughty beauty, her scalplock was exotic, her shoulders carved with flat muscle, her Kartian slave-scars shining white - in this tavern, there would be no damned doubt as to what they meant. She was a crossbreed of cultures, exotic and impossible. She folded her arms, said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
The man fell back, garbling an apology, resheathing the blade and pressing his other hand to his nose.
After a few rustles and mutters, the rest of the surrounding drinkers returned to their seats.
Apparently, the show was over.
* * *
Triqueta wiped her bloody knuckles with the silken fabric of her skirt.
Her head was pounding now - the booze-fuelled flare of anger had left her, and she felt empty and cold. She struggled to focus through vision and thought that blurred. Everything swayed, and she felt sick.
Jayr was sitting quietly, her face troubled. Something about her little display had bothered her, but Triq was too sozzled to quite get her head round it.
Jayr said, “We should get back. Don’t like leaving him for long.”
But Triq couldn’t face the wreckage of her friend - not yet, not like this - the thought of it brought a rush of tension to her blood that woke her up faster than a well-placed bucket of water.
She said, managing to enunciate clearly, “Did you ever take him back to the Library?”
“Gods, no. Never want to set foot in the place again. I’d burn it down if I could.”
“Maybe we should look? Maybe we’d find something to -?”
“To make him better?” Jayr gave a short, humourless laugh. “There isn’t anything. We should just put him the rhez out of his misery.”
Triq blinked. “You said you were fighting to keep him alive.”
“I am. But what’s the point?” The girl bit at her nails, spat out tiny, bitter fragments of white. “He can’t tell us what he saw, he can’t help us fight the bad guys; he can’t wipe his own arse. We’re Banned - we ride free, trade free, no one tells us what to do. If he was a horse -”
“He couldn’t wipe his arse if he was a horse, Jayr.” Triqueta said it with a straight face, but Jayr stared at her as though she was screaming loco.
Then Triq cracked a smile and they both chuckled, a shared warmth and relief that eased the tension. On an obscure impulse, Triqueta gave the younger woman an awkward hug. “You’d never abandon him. You stupid mare.”
Then someone by
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