Scourge of the Betrayer by Jeff Salyards Page A

but their heavy breathing for a few moments. I was afraid the captain was going to force himself on her, but the next thing I heard was feet hitting the wooden floor soundly. Braylar said, “Get out.” Followed by silence. Then, more loudly, “Out with you! Get dressed and go. Now.”
    I imagined her holding the blanket up to her chin, her face flushed with fleeting lust and confusion. Barely above a whisper, she said, “Please. Don’t be angry. It’s just, well, were we alone and all, I’d—”
    He laughed, “You grow suddenly shy in the middle of fucking a stranger because there’s an audience? No. Get out.”
    I heard her shift her weight, perhaps rolling onto one elbow, touching his shoulder or his elbow, saying, “This doesn’t mean—”
    But again, he didn’t let her finish. “It’s a simple word. There’s no mistaking its meaning. Much like the word ‘no.’ Out.” Whatever fire she might have still felt went out as surely as if he’d pissed on it. Which was ironic, considering what happened next. I heard him stand and take a few hesitant steps. The sound of metal rattling on the wood. A few seconds later, the sound of liquid hitting the metal. In the silence, it sounded like thunder or battle.
    She felt around for her nightclothes and slipped into them. Braylar remained standing where he was, clearly waiting for her to leave. After a few more seconds he kicked the chamber pot and said, “I’d ask you to take this on your way out, but that would be discourteous to the other guest in the room, no?”
    I heard Syrie sigh and the floorboards told me she moved toward the door. I imagined her hand feeling its way down the frame to the handle, then I saw a space of black slightly less black than our own as she opened the door and slipped out, pushing it closed behind her.
    Syrie was a better woman than my mother. I felt equally awful for having judged her so harshly and for allowing my own lust to rise up.
    Braylar stumbled back to his bed, threw back the blanket, slid in, and said, “Would that I’d rescued a whore.” I listened as his breathing quickly grew heavier, woollier, and some time later, sure he was asleep, I walked over to the chamber pot as quietly as I could and emptied my own overfull bladder.
    After I lay back down, my mind was ablaze with everything that transpired that night, and I felt like my chance for more slumber had disappeared completely. But as it often does, sleep snuck up and ambushed me again.

    ⊕

    I was shaken awake, bladder somehow full again and head pounding. The room was still dark, and I was completely disoriented. Was it morning? Braylar was standing next to the bed. He shook me harder. “Get up. Now. Up.”
    “What is it?”
    “Get your things.”
    Half asleep, I didn’t understand. “But it’s dark. What’s happening?”
    I heard him move across the room. A few moments later, the lantern bloomed and I blinked and covered my eyes. When I adjusted to the brightness I saw Braylar pull on a boot, his weapon belts already buckled around his waist.
    I sat up and put my feet on the floor. “It’s not yet dawn. Why must we—”
    “They’re coming. We don’t have much time.”
    I pulled my tunic and trousers on. “Who? Who’s coming?”
    “I don’t know,” he replied, pulling on the other boot as he hopped to maintain his balance, adding, “I wish I had time to shit.”
    “If you don’t know who it is, how do you know we need to go? I don’t—”
    “Violence is coming, Arki, coming fast. I don’t mean to be here when it arrives.”
    My mouth was desert dry and my head felt like it had been run over by an ox and a heavy wagon behind. I wanted dearly to use the chamber pot, but he clearly wasn’t in a mood to tolerate any delays. I got dressed as quickly as I could and threw my satchel over my shoulder.
    “Good, then—” He stopped to cock his head, listening.
    I listened as well. There it was. A creak. And another. And then muffled voices