Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [284]
"Is that why you gave me Lombelon?" he asked.
"No." I shook my head. "No, that was different. I thought it was right, that's all. That it should belong to you. Phèdre warned me that you might not be grateful. That you might come to hate me for it in the end.”
"I did," Maslin said candidly.
"I noticed," I said.
We both laughed. Maslin grinned at me. "I'll always hate you a little bit.”
"Only a little?" I asked.
"A bitter little husk of hatred," he said cheerfully. "Shoved into the deepest, narrowest corner of self-loathing in my heart, where I will continue to envy and despise you. For the fact that Ysandre de la Courcel searched the ends of the earth to acknowledge you as her kinsman, while my own paternity went unacknowledged and forgotten. For the fact that Phèdre nó Delaunay loved you enough to make you her foster-son, while I remained the gardener's daughter's bastard. For the fact that Joscelin Verreuil, the Queen's Champion, taught you to wield a sword while I was wielding pruning shears. For the fact that you rubbed these things in my face, whether or not you meant to. And, in the end, for the fact that Sidonie loves you and not me.”
"Fair enough," I said. "What about the rest?”
"The rest of my heart?" Maslin asked.
I nodded.
He leaned over in the saddle and took my shoulder in a hard grip; one that lay somewhere between affection and violence. "I've a feeling I missed an opportunity somewhere. I'd count you a friend if you'd still have me.”
"I would," I said. "Gladly.”
Maslin released me. "Well, then.”
Unlikely as it was, from that moment onward, I began to think of Maslin as a friend, albeit a prickly one. We worked together easily and rode together in tolerable companionship. The going was a good deal easier. We were travelling a road instead of breaking a path through endless wilderness. To be sure, it wasn't much of a road, but the snowfall was light enough that we could still make out the trail forged by Tadeuz Vral's messenger.
I was concerned about the reception we'd find when we reached the first village. Gordhoz was a midsized town; smaller than Tarkov, but larger than many of the little farming communities where I'd found hospitality. Maslin didn't know what sort of stories the Tarkovan guards had spread, here or elsewhere. But I reckoned we'd have to confront the issue sooner or later, so we sought out the village's single inn, which did a fair business offering food and lodging to pilgrims bound for Miroslas. I'd stayed there myself, as had Maslin and the Tarkovans.
"Ah." The innkeeper stood in the doorway and regarded us impassively. He was a barrel-shaped fellow with a mustache that reminded me of Captain Iosef, and he spoke in Rus. "The spy and his hunter.”
"No spy, sir," I said. "It was a mistake.”
He shrugged. "If you were a spy, you were a bad one. The war is won. You have money?”
I jingled my purse. "We do.”
He opened the door wider. "Come in.”
Betimes it is a blessing to be reminded that the world does not revolve around one's problems, and this moment was one such. Maslin and I stayed there a full day, reveling in luxury. The innkeeper had a pretty young wife who served us beer and stew, and blushed every time she met either of our eyes. I smiled at her more than I ought, just because it was so good to see a woman's face again.
"One crook of a finger and she's yours," Maslin observed.
I smiled. "Let's not buy trouble.”
Instead, for a fee, the innkeeper's wife laundered our filthy clothing and blankets, lending us old shirts and breeches, patched but clean, that must have belonged to her husband. While our own things dried on racks before the fire, we dashed through the cold, snowy streets to the public bath-house.
It was much like the one in Tarkov where my troubles had begun; except this time I was careful not to allow anyone to see Jagun's brand.