Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [68]
And then he’d come back to himself, with Chant’s pleas in his ears.
After that, he’d felt nothing but shame.
Demascus had suspected that he might not much like the person he used to be. Now he was beginning to fear that it was worse than that. He knew he’d been a killer, but he’d supposed he’d only killed for the highest moral reasons, at the behest of divine beings.
What if he’d enjoyed it?
He felt unwell.
Demascus heaved himself up and went to the clay washbasin beneath a mirror framed in bronze. He splashed water on his face, and saw Inakin again in the reflection, as he whipped the Veil around the vulnerable neck …
No. Think about something else, he told himself. Anything!
Right … After they’d shown up on Carmenere’s patio, she’d proved a gracious host to the two strangers. And to Riltana, who’d clearly wronged the earthsoul. Demascus had the good grace not to inquire what was the matter. It was no business of his. Although based on his own first interaction with Riltana, he could guess well enough.
He found a washcloth and soap.
Riltana was probably lucky Carmenere hadn’t thrown the thief out on her ear.
But the devotee of Selûne wouldn’t hear of them heading back through the city with “Rilta” so recently recovered from her burn, and who knew what other creditors lurking in the streets.
Which had suited him. By the time they’d finished explaining to Carmenere how they thought the Firestorm Cabal was covering up some sort of cult, the night was well advanced. The more they’d described how and why they believed the Firestorm Cabal was involved in something insidious, the more concerned and distressed Carmenere became, though she hadn’t explained why.
Whatever her reason, it apparently convinced the earthsoul to help. Even Riltana, who was the reason they’d intruded on the earthsoul in the first place, looked surprised when Carmenere agreed to send a message to her aunt in the morning.
He dried his hands and face on a towel displaying patterns that reminded him of layered sediments beneath the ground. Then he buckled on his armor and coat.
He took the pale length of the Veil between his hands. “Do you have any direction for me this morning?” he asked.
The scarf didn’t so much as flutter.
He tied it in a knot around his sword hilt, so that two ends fell free, and left his room. He walked the length of a twisting hall.
At the end of the passage he found Chant, Carmenere, and Riltana gathered around a small table beneath a skylight. He automatically took account of each exit and window, and where every person stood in relation to the next …
He blinked, and focused on the pawnbroker. Chant, with all his bulk, seemed uncouth and out of place in the room with such fine matching decor. Not that he seemed to care; the man only had eyes for the repast laid out on the table.
The human had remained visibly upset long after their run-in with the rumormonger. That concern seemed washed away by the aroma of breakfast cakes, and the scatter of crumbs around Chant’s plate told the tale of his unsinkable appetite.
“Eat something,” urged Carmenere. She pointed to a platter of fruit, cheeses, and a pile of steaming flat cakes.
Demascus grabbed a pale oblong fruit and bit into it. It was unexpectedly sweet and firm. He gobbled the entire thing, except for the stem, in moments.
Chant smiled, and tossed him a piece of cheese. “Try the cheese. The silverstar has a discriminating palate!”
Carmenere nodded in thanks at Chant’s compliment.
Demascus chewed on the cheese. It was smooth, nutty, and certainly better than any cheese he could remember eating. Not that that meant much.
He said, “Thanks for putting us up, and feeding us.”
“My pleasure,” the silverstar responded. “If you would like some smoked meat, I have that too. I didn’t put any out because Riltana doesn’t eat meat.”
“You don’t eat … meat?” said Chant, his tone as incredulous