Shadow's Edge - Brent Weeks [41]
Vi suddenly wanted to bathe. She grabbed her saddlebags and her sword. Then stopped.
Hu was unconscious. She was sure of it. She could draw her blade and bury it in his heart in less than a second. He deserved it a hundred times over. He deserved a hundred times worse. She took the hilt in her hand and drew the blade slowly, silently. She turned and looked at her master, thinking of a thousand humiliations he’d inflicted on her. A thousand defilements until he’d broken her. It was hard to breathe.
Vi turned on her heel, sheathed the sword, and flung the saddlebags over her shoulder. She got as far as the door, then paused. She walked back to the bedroom. The women were awake now, one blasted with a glassy-eyed stare, the other one buck-toothed and busty.
“Hu gets bored,” Vi said. “I give you a coin flip chance of living through every day you spend with him. If you want to leave, he’s asleep now.”
“You’re just jealous,” the buck-toothed one said. “You just want him for yourself.”
“Your funeral,” Vi said, and left.
15
Is the Sa’kagé at war, or not?” Brant asked.
Jarl shifted in his seat. Momma K said nothing. She was letting him lead, if he could.
The safe house had taken on the appearance of a war room, that was sure. Brant had brought maps. He was gathering data on Khalidoran troop strength, noting where each unit was stationed, where food and supplies were distributed, and constructing a chart of the Khalidoran military hierarchy, cross-referenced with where the Sa’kagé had informants, along with ratings of the informants’ reliability and access.
“That’s a more difficult question to answer than—” Jarl said.
“No,” Brant said. “It’s not.”
“I feel that we’re in a kind of war—”
“You feel? Are you a leader or a poet, sissy boy?”
“Sissy boy?” Jarl demanded. “What’s that mean?”
Momma K stood up.
“Sit down,” both men said.
They looked at each other, scowling. Momma K sniffed, and sat. After a moment, Jarl said, “I’m waiting for an answer.”
“Do you have a dick or do you just suck them?” Brant asked.
“Are you hoping to get lucky?” Jarl asked.
“Wrong answer,” Brant said, shaking his head. “A good leader is never snide—”
Jarl punched him in the face. The general collapsed. Jarl stood over him, and drew a sword. “That’s how I lead, Brant. My enemies underestimate me, and I hit them when they aren’t expecting it. I listen to you, but you serve me. The next time you make a dick comment, I’ll have yours fed to you.” His face was cool. He brought the sword up between Brant’s legs. “That’s not an idle threat.”
Brant found his crutch, stood with Jarl’s help and brushed off his new clothes. “Well, we’ve just had a teachable moment. I’m touched. I think I’ll write a poem. Your answer is…?”
The poem comment almost set Jarl off. He was about to say something when he saw Momma K’s mouth twitch. It was a joke. So this is military humor. Jarl shook his head. This was going to be a challenge.
Good gods, the man was a bulldog. “We’re at war,” Jarl said, not liking the feeling of giving in.
“How good is your grip on the Sa’kagé?” Brant asked. “Because I’ve got serious problems here. Or rather, you do.”
“Not great,” Jarl said. “The Khalidorans have had a galvanizing influence, but revenue is way down, and command is breaking down: people not reporting to superiors, that sort of thing. A lot of people think the occupation is bound to get easier now. They want business as usual.”
“Sounds smart of them. What’s your master plan to oppose them?”
Jarl frowned. There was no master plan, and Brant made that seem incredibly stupid. “We—I—had planned to see what they did. I wanted to learn more about them and then oppose them however I needed to.”
“Does it strike you as a good idea to let your enemy launch fully formed stratagems on you and then be forced to react from a position of weakness?” Brant