The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [86]
They encountered no excitement along the valley roads, and so Manuel had no opportunities to earn a bonus for being an active as opposed to merely present bodyguard. Passing the little red millwheel outside Bern gave Manuel the same heady rush of relief it always did—he was coming home, and the wheel turned the same as it always did, like life, like war, like everything he could think of. His delight was only tempered by the realization that he would be arriving without nearly as much of a fortune as he had hoped for, and with two very strange women. His wife knew and tolerated Monique, but how she would react to a Moor dressed as a nun, and what their servants might think—now that his journey with her was almost concluded, the alien witchiness of Awa reasserted itself in his mind, and even as he looked over the bramble thicket of her short hair he wondered just how the hell he had ever thought of her and their friendship as anything remotely normal. Then he glanced at his scarred but intact left hand holding the reins, and sighed. Befriending a necromancer had proven somewhat advantageous, he had to admit.
Manuel felt his face break into a stupid, uncontrollable grin as they turned onto Gerechtigkeitsgasse, but then Monique slowed her horse and said, “I’m ta look up some mink was here last pass, those pig-assed Swiss ’ores you introduced me ta last time I was up.”
“Oh,” said Manuel. “Well, come by when you’re done. Katharina will be disappointed if you don’t at least dine with us, and of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. We’ve got pallets I can put down in the studio.”
“You wanna come meet some pig-assed ’ores, Awa?” Monique said, trying to catch her friend’s eyes. Awa found the ears of the horse she shared with Manuel rather intriguing. “Get rid of some of that tension if—”
“No thank you,” said Awa, finally meeting Monique’s gaze. The larger woman seemed taken aback by the ferocity of Awa’s expression. “I would much rather see Manuel’s ladies than your pig whores.”
“Suit’cherself,” said Monique, wheeling her horse around. “Though his ladies don’t eat ass on no account, and certainly for no handful of pennies. I’ll be by for dinner after I’ve sealed the deal.”
“Take care, Mo,” said Manuel, turning his horse back down the street. Awa was rigid as a halberd on the horse before him, and Manuel tugged his hair, wondering how to balance this new wrinkle with his imminent reunion with his family. Then Awa let out a long sigh and relaxed, and Manuel chanced it. “So,” he said, “you and Mo, then, did you, ah …”
Awa turned her neck almost all the way around like an owl, staring at Manuel. Shit.
“Look, she, well.” Manuel shrugged. “She’s never stuck with anyone for longer than a night or two so long as I’ve known her, though she’s had plenty of girls who’d have stopped charging her from what I’ve seen.”
“From what you’ve seen?” Awa narrowed her eyes at Manuel. “And you introduced her to whores here in Bern? Pig-assed whores? What are you doing in brothels, Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern?”
“Not fucking,” sighed Manuel.
“Just looking, and painting.” “Just looking and painting? Nothing more?”
“Look,” Manuel said, eager to conclude the matter before reaching his house. “Katharina knows about anything I do— we’ve got arrangements, my wife and I, but for your own puerile curiosity, no, I don’t fuck them. Satisfied?”
Of course this only increased Awa’s curiosity, but in the moment she was still bitter over Monique’s attitude. “Satisfied. Your friend Monique has a shitty way of dealing with people—people who care about her. And this is coming from me!”
“Well,” said Manuel, “I’d guess she’s had a hard life—”
“She’s had a hard life?! Growing up in a warm workshop, not getting beat or tortured, to hear her tell it? Hard?”
“Workshop? She’s never told me anything about where she came from or what she did before she joined up with von Swine, so that must mean something, right?