Prophecy's Ruin (Broken Well Trilogy) (18 page)

‘I believe you,’ she said, and actually looked uneasy for a moment. ‘Let’s change the subject,’ she continued, extending a hand with long, clever fingers. ‘I’m Jaya.’

‘Bel.’

When he took her hand his skin tingled and he instantly sensed
their shared connection. He sometimes had a similar feeling around Corlas, but had always assumed it was the bond of family. She, too, looked affected by what she felt.

‘Sorry,’ she said, breaking into a grin. ‘It’s just . . . well, have you ever met anyone else like us before?’

‘My father, maybe,’ said Bel. ‘My mother used to tell him he had the blood, but he doesn’t really believe it.’

‘So your mother?’

‘Yes, she had it. Strong too, according to my father. I never met her; she died giving birth to me and . . . well, to me.’

‘Lucky,’ said Jaya. ‘My mother lived.’ She spluttered into her drink. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean that quite how it sounded.’

Bel smirked. ‘I take no offence. I feel like I know her anyway, sometimes. Arkus knows, my father has told me much about her. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’d been through every moment he remembers.’ His cheeks went red. ‘Apart from . . . well, you know.’

She laughed.

‘But anyway,’ he blustered on, ‘a Sprite woman she certainly was. “Be careful if you ever meet a Sprite woman, son,” my father sometimes says. “You . . . ” . . . er . . .’ Bel trailed off as he suddenly realised he
was
talking to a Sprite woman.

Jaya smiled. ‘Forget I was here?’

‘I just didn’t put it together in my head before I started speaking.’

‘Well, you
are
a man so that’s to be expected. But do go on – what does your father say about Sprite women?’

‘Um . . . I’d rather not say now.’

‘You can’t do that.’ Jaya scowled at him. ‘I’ll arm-wrestle you for it.’

‘What?’ Bel glanced at her arms. True she was athletic, but there was no chance she would best him. ‘Okay,’ he said, and shrugged.

‘I’m gonna win, you know,’ she said, thumping her elbow on the table. He locked hands with her – again, a tingle – and ‘Go!’ she said.

She wasn’t weak, but she was still no match for him. He didn’t push her hand down immediately, but instead pretended to strain against her. ‘Oh, you’re so strong,’ he said, which made her expression more determined. He gave way a bit, letting her force his arm down as if he were losing, giving mock grunts and saying, ‘Oh no, you’re winning.’ As his hand came closer to the table he locked it up and held fast just a finger’s breadth above the wooden surface.

‘Pleased with yourself?’ she said. ‘Humouring me like that?’

Bel winked.

‘Pride before a fall,’ she said, and with sudden force that took him by surprise pushed his hand down the last little way to the table. She sat back, laughing. ‘I win!’

‘But –’

‘You men, really. You love playing that “oh, you’re so strong, you’re beating me” game. Put yourself in the most vulnerable position, at the worst angle, then one little push and it’s sneakiness beats muscles any day.’

‘That’s against the rules,’ said Bel.

‘Show me the rulebook.’

‘Rematch?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Bel laughed. ‘Damn it.’

‘So,’ said Jaya, ‘I know any honest keeper would honour our agreement. What does your father say?’

‘He says be careful if you ever meet a Sprite woman . . .’

‘Yes?’

Bel sighed. ‘. . . because your souls might fall in love before they tell you.’

He feigned relaxation. From the sparkle in her eyes juxtaposed with an overly casual sip of ale, she was doing the same thing.

‘So,’ she said, wiping her lip, ‘do you think that’s going to happen to us?’

Bel shrugged. ‘Not sure.’

‘Want to hire a room upstairs anyway?’

Bel had never finished a drink more quickly.

•

Corlas made his way through the Open Castle, nodding to guards as he passed. It was almost as if he watched from outside himself, noting how much he looked as if he belonged. Sometimes he forgot to think about it and the mask seemed real even to him. Over many years his fakery had become habit. At the beginning, after he’d learned about Iassia, it had been much harder. In knowing that he couldn’t leave lest the bird enslave him to some foul task, he had to appear as if the decision to remain were his own. He had talked at length with Fahren and Naphur and, admittedly, had found them more reasonable than anticipated. Naphur was a soldier at heart and right away spoke with Corlas as a familiar, cutting bluntly to the heart of any concern. Fahren assured him they had never deliberately separated him from his son, and backed up his words by giving Bel back to Corlas to raise. Perhaps all would have been forgiven if not for one thing. Even now, years later, he couldn’t wrap his mind around the greatest violation he’d ever known, which he was powerless to set right: his child was not whole.

Fahren had not hidden the fact that part of Bel had been ripped away by cursed magic and taken to Fenvarrow. All Corlas’s instincts cried out to do something about it, but what? He couldn’t leave the Open Halls for fear of being caught by Iassia. Even if he could, what was he supposed to do – march to Fenvarrow, to Skygrip Castle, and snatch his child from the hands of the Shadowdreamer?

Fahren had tried to console him. ‘Bel is healthy and happy,’ he’d said. ‘What crawled out of him was nothing but a dark worm, something he’s better off without.’ Corlas could see that Fahren was not as certain as he professed, but he’d pretended to accept Fahren’s words. Meanwhile, he couldn’t help but wonder, every single day, about his other boy. Did the Shadowdreamer care for him well, or was he being honed with harsh methods? What was he like; what did he look like? Did he look like Bel, or someone different? Did he know about Corlas? Did he despise Corlas for abandoning him?

When Bel was six, Corlas had listened to Fahren explain to him about the division of his soul. The old mage had simplified it for the young boy, making it sound as if Bel had been cleansed of an ugly ailment. ‘Normal folk have to live with their dark sides,’ Fahren had said. ‘You are blessed to be rid of it.’ It worried Corlas how Bel had taken that to heart – or perhaps ‘let it go to his head’ was a better description. More than once he’d had to explain to his boy that his transformation did not make him better than other people.

Corlas arrived in the personal chambers of the Throne. Time had treated Naphur well and, save some extra lines on his brow, he was the same man who’d strode into the Open Castle eighteen years before. Fahren, who stood smoking at an open wall, was a bit less sprightly these days, but everyone still thought he’d live forever. The Throne, who reclined in a voluminous red armchair with a glass of wine, now had streaks of grey at the temples and, though he was still stout and strong, had developed a paunch.

‘Ah, Corlas,’ he said. ‘Have a seat and get some wine into the bloodline Corinas.’

‘Thank you,’ said Corlas, sitting. ‘How was your trip?’

‘Surprisingly pleasant,’ said Naphur. ‘Contrary to expectations.’ He turned to Fahren. ‘You know how I feel about the Trusted of Centrus –’

‘You don’t trust him,’ said Fahren.

‘– but Baygis was quite happy to lead the negotiations. That fox could convince the rain to fall sideways. Anyway, it gave me time to uncover a nest of huggers outside Kahlay and do the Trusted a favour by leading my personal guard against them.’

‘A favour?’ chuckled Fahren. ‘I’d say it was the huggers who did
you
a favour by providing you with some sport, poor beasts.’

‘Poor beasts, Arkus’s arse! Rip your ribs out your back as soon as hiss at you. Anyway, I’ve decided to make Baygis my chief ambassador, which has inflated his ego even more. Just what was needed.’

‘So he’s giving up his duties as overseer?’

‘He thinks he can do both and he’s welcome to try. Maybe he’ll be too busy with it all to annoy me as much.’ He turned back to Corlas. ‘On the subject of sons, we were just discussing your prodigy. I understand Bel’s partner will be unfit to serve as a keeper for some time?’

‘So I’ve heard,’ said Corlas.

‘Well, although it would be easy enough to assign him another partner, I’ve been debating about whether or not to pull Bel from the keepers entirely.’ He sat forward in his cushions. ‘I want to assign him to a troop.’

Corlas was surprised, though not displeased.

‘A couple of days ago,’ said Naphur, ‘we received news of a hugger infestation near the forest town of Drel. You may have heard?’

‘Aye.’

‘The Drel soldiers are managing to keep the huggers out of the town, but they don’t have the numbers to go into the forest and deal with the source. I’m sending a troop and I’d like Bel to be in it. The troop leader is Munpo, a capable man who’s fought huggers many times.’

‘I know of him.’

‘So,’ continued the Throne, ‘I guess I want to know if you agree with this course of action.’

Corlas smoothed down his beard, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. ‘As we know, Bel has always been extremely skilled with whatever weapon is put in his hands. There is little more he can learn from us without actually entering the fray. I also know he grows impatient with his confinement behind the wards.’ The taskmaster shifted his weight. ‘I would ask why you accelerate him, though. Others will wonder too.’

‘Others will have to believe that it’s because of his great skill,’ said Naphur. ‘The truth is, if Bel is to do the things he is supposed to do, he must have experience in the field. Fahren still harbours doubts about Bel following a warrior’s path, but I do not. I wish to see how he fares in harm’s way.’

The Throne seemed confident Bel would succeed easily, which made Corlas uneasy. The lad was untried in any real way, yet Naphur appeared to consider him an instant hero. The fact that Bel could swing a sword well in training was no guarantee of safety on the battlefield. Nothing was.

‘I approve,’ said Corlas, ‘of Munpo’s inclusion also. But . . .’ He was troubled. The High Mage wasn’t interjecting with his usual concerns for Bel’s protection, so Corlas was forced to express them himself. ‘Do you not fear for his safety?’ he asked. ‘By which I mean beyond the huggers themselves?’

‘Indeed,’ said Fahren. ‘Of course.’

‘So what are we going to do?’

Fahren shrugged. ‘Be worried. Pray for his safety.’

Corlas must have looked confused.

‘Corlas,’ said Fahren, ‘hopefully the shadow won’t mark Bel’s passing. There’s no reason for anyone to think he is anything but another blade of the Halls. On top of that . . . well, if we don’t give him some freedom soon, I fear he will shake us off. I don’t want that. I’ve spent many years wondering how to shape Bel’s destiny, but I have never found an answer. Perhaps he must be allowed to choose his own path. Certainly he must learn to fend for himself.’ Fahren sighed. ‘I don’t like it, believe me.’

‘Me neither,’ Corlas said, then shot Fahren a gruff smile. ‘But I think I like you more, High Mage.’

•

Bel ate with gusto, for after last night his appetite seemed without end. Never had he had such an experience, shared such a deep connection with someone . . . it hadn’t seemed to matter that they’d known each other only hours. When they had touched, it was more than touch – it was like the very blood under his skin was drawn to her. What explanation was there? He did not care. He could barely wait to see her again in two nights’ time.

‘Bel? Bel!’

Bel stopped slicing his steak to find Corlas watching him ruefully. ‘What?’

‘That’s a merry glint in your eye this morning,’ Corlas observed, making it sound like a question.

‘Hmm?’ said Bel. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘And a wide grin on your face while you stare at something only you can see.’

Bel arched an eyebrow. ‘A gentleman,’ he said, ‘does not kiss and tell.’

‘Very well,’ chuckled Corlas. ‘But I need the gentleman to break his reverie a moment.’ His expression grew more serious. ‘They wanted me to be the one to tell you. You are being assigned to a troop.’

Bel stopped mid-slice. ‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

Bel put down his fork. ‘Do they ever pull people out of the keepers early?’

‘No. Not unless there is a great war.’

‘So why me?’

Corlas finished chewing a chunk of meat, then wiped the juice from his beard. ‘I won’t bandy words,’ he said. ‘The Throne is grooming you for a military career. He thinks it might be part of this destiny of yours, and wants to test you. You are to be sent out on your first real assignment.’

Excitement shone in Bel’s eyes. ‘What is it?’

Corlas remembered his own enthusiasm for his first assignment, and chuckled. ‘Huggers,’ he said, ‘coming out of Drel Forest. An unusually large infestation. The soldiers of Drel have asked for help, so the Throne is sending a hunting party.’

‘And I’m to go with them?’

‘Aye.’

This clearly appealed to Bel. ‘When?’

‘Soon. Within a couple of days.’

‘Which troop?’

‘Under Munpo.’

‘Are you going?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ said Bel. ‘Don’t you miss it?’

Corlas smiled.

‘So why don’t you come? Doesn’t some time away slaying monsters sound like just the holiday you need?’

Corlas stared at his hands splayed on the mess hall table. The truth was, he was very aware of how long he’d been trapped behind the wards. For a moment he allowed himself to be swept along by Bel’s enthusiasm . . . then he remembered blood-drop eyes watching from amongst leaves.

‘I cannot,’ he said.

‘But the Throne respects you. He’d let you go if you asked.’

‘No. Do not try to convince me.’

‘But –’

‘No!’ said Corlas angrily, startling Bel mid-chew. For a moment his shoulders rose and fell, but he mastered himself. Leaning back with a sigh, he met his son’s worried eyes.

‘I’d go with you, lad, if I could. But I cannot. Please don’t ask me again. Now,’ he stood, picking up his plate, ‘finish your meal and then I’ll tell you everything I know about huggers.’

Fifteen / Troop

Fifteen

Troop

Troop

‘Now, Hiza,’ said Bel smugly, ‘I don’t want you losing sleep over me – especially since sleeping is about the only thing you can do.’

‘Very funny,’ said Hiza. He lay in a bed in the Hospital of Arkus, the sun shining warmly into his open room. ‘Is this what you came for? I thought you had your fill of gloating yesterday.’

‘I had to say goodbye,’ said Bel. ‘And thank you once more for breaking your ankle.’

‘Hmf,’ said Hiza. He absently went to scratch his foot, discovered there was plaster in the way and scowled. ‘Bloody hospital,’ he said. ‘What I’d give to be coming with you.’

Bel grinned. ‘I know.’

‘Oh, get out,’ said Hiza. ‘Get out before you float out. I can see how eager you are to be off.’

‘I’ll bring you back a hugger claw.’

‘Don’t bother. I’ll be getting one for myself any day.’

Bel smiled at his friend and left the room. He strode along white corridors, manoeuvring smoothly around healers and patients. As boys, his gang had explored the hospital many times and any laid-up soldiers who tolerated questions and told war stories would find themselves with an eager audience. To get on the boys’ bad side, however, was to run the risk of being mercilessly tormented. Many a healer had come running in response to shouts about mischievous children and caught nothing more than the echoes of laughter. Bel wondered if there were any bold scamps around to bother Hiza.

He left the hospital and headed for the barracks, a barely concealed bounce in his step. Hiza had spoken true: he was filled with excitement. Today he’d meet his new troop, and tomorrow they would leave for Drel.

•

News of his transfer preceded him. It was an unusual occurrence to be pulled from the keepers early and Bel’s new comrades were highly curious about why the exception had been made. As Troop Leader Munpo introduced Bel to them at the barracks, the expressions on the assembled faces were varied – from friendly, to dour, to unreadable.

Bel met each pair of eyes, nodding and smiling no matter the reaction he received.

‘All right,’ finished Munpo in his dry, croaky voice. ‘Let’s take it out the back.’

The troop leader was a wiry fellow who constantly smoked brittleleaf rolls. His gnarled skin put his age anywhere between forty and sixty, he wore his lank brown hair slicked back in a ponytail, and craned his neck in a way that put Bel in mind of a vulture. His head bobbed up and down slightly as he led them to the training grounds, adding to the effect. Walking behind him in the group, Bel noticed a ropy blade called Hunna looking him over. Hunna nodded in acknowledgement.

‘Howzit goin’?’ he said.

‘Good, thanks.’

‘Yeah? You lookin’ forward to killin’ some huggers?’

‘Absolutely, my man,’ said Bel, knowing that others were paying attention to the exchange.

‘You better be,’ said Hunna. ‘’Cause these ain’t no common browns, ya know. Green huggers are worse than browns.’

‘Indeed,’ said Bel. ‘More intelligent, more coordinated, they stalk you through the trees and you never hear them coming.’

Hunna frowned.

‘You fought huggers before, Blade Bel?’ said a steely voice from his other side.

It was Gredda, Munpo’s penulm, which made her second in command of the troop. She was a muscular woman of around thirty with mousy hair tied back in a ponytail. Bel wondered if she remembered him from when he’d been small and had brought her sword back into the barracks.

‘Many times,’ he said. Gredda raised an eyebrow. ‘As a child, admittedly,’ he continued. ‘Equipped with only my trusty wooden sword, I kicked their hairy arses from one side of the Open Halls to the other. I wasn’t allowed to fight them at dinnertime, though.’

A couple of chortles followed, but Gredda remained stony-faced. ‘So you really don’t know what you’re in for,’ she said.

‘If you say so.’

‘Some of us are curious, Blade Bel, as to how you came to be with us.’

‘Oh,’ said Bel, as if this was surprising news. ‘You mean why was I pulled out of the keepers early? Well, that’s no secret. My partner broke his ankle, and rather than have me sit idle while he heals his heels, they boosted me into a troop that needed an extra soldier. This one.’

Gredda scowled. ‘That’s horse shit. Why didn’t they just assign you a new partner?’

‘Yeah,’ chimed in Hunna. ‘Think no one’s lost a partner in the keepers before?’

‘We heard they moved you ’cause you’re a favourite of the Throne,’ said Gredda.

‘Ah,’ said Bel. ‘So that’s what you heard.’ He smiled. ‘Well, it’s true I know the Throne, but that’s not why they moved me.’

‘No?’

‘Nah. They moved me because I’m the
best.
’

Now he knew he had everyone’s attention.

‘Is that so?’ spat Gredda derisively.

‘Indeed.’ Bel fired a wink at her. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me. I’m a master of the sword, a demon with the bow, as skilled a warrior as ever there was. Why, you’ll never meet
anyone
with such lightning-fast reactions, such eagle-eyed accuracy, such sure-footed –’

Bel’s foot hit a tussock of grass and he stumbled to fall on the ground. He rolled onto his back with an exaggerated look of surprise on his face.

‘Arkus!’ he exclaimed. ‘They didn’t tell me there’d be
grass
on this mission!’

The soldiers guffawed and Bel was glad his prank had paid off. Only Gredda marched on unimpressed.

‘Why din’ they just tell us they was sendin’ a troop clown?’ said Hunna, offering Bel a hand. Bel took it and they fell back into step. ‘So, serious,’ said Hunna in a low voice. ‘Why
did
they send you over?’

‘I’ve told no lies, comrade,’ said Bel. ‘I’ve told no lies.’

•

Together the troop trained, and Bel knew he was being watched. If his talents were on display, so be it. The troop would get their show.

Standing in a line of soldiers firing down the archery range, Bel notched arrow after arrow into his bow. Each shaft flew straight and true, hitting the target’s red centre some twenty paces away. As he turned from the range he saw that he’d impressed his onlookers, one notable exception being M’Meska, a Ryoshi Saurian. She stood upright on powerful hind legs, reaching Bel’s shoulders in height. Her body was covered in bright green scales and her tail was a pace long. Above her snout she had yellow eyes on either side of her head, and Bel knew she’d be a hard one to sneak up on. A row of spines ran from the crest of her head down the back of her neck, and rose in anger as she watched Bel sinking arrows into targets. M’Meska was the acknowledged champion bow of the troop and, as the line of archers switched over, she walked past Bel with a silent snarl, pointedly taking his former position in the line. She proceeded to fire impressively, though she hissed in anger as one of her shafts sank into the border of red and yellow, further from the centre than any of Bel’s.

Swordplay was next, using practice blades. Munpo arranged the bouts in a tournament style, three pairs jousting at a time while the others watched. Bel’s first match was against Hunna, which he won swiftly in two quick movements. Hunna was annoyed, claiming he’d not been ready, and demanded a rematch. Bel granted it to him, and again won swiftly. As he glanced towards those watching, he saw that their admiration for his skill was in danger of becoming begrudging. Perhaps he
had
won a little too easily.

He forced himself to draw out his second bout, against a well-muscled blade called Keit. Keit was a natural swordsman, flexible and strong, and far superior in skill to Hunna. Back and forth they went, swords flashing with speed and precision. For Bel it seemed like a dance, and he almost laughed with pleasure as his opponent forced him backwards under a barrage of blows. Cheers went up amongst the onlookers, and Bel realised with annoyance that they were barracking for Keit. Although he knew he should let Keit win, vanity proved more powerful than humility. As calls for Keit filled his ears, he suddenly found himself standing over the fallen man, his sword levelled at Keit’s heart. The troop fell silent as Bel reached out to offer the man a hand up. Keit’s hard blue eyes stared up at him, and for a moment Bel thought his offer was refused – but then Keit’s hand caught his in a strong grip and Bel helped him to his feet.

‘Well fought,’ said Bel.

‘And you,’ said Keit. ‘Corlas must be quite a teacher.’

‘That he is,’ came the dry voice of Munpo.

The troop leader removed a brittleleaf end from his chapped lips and flicked it away, then drew his sword from its frayed scabbard. He nodded at Bel, who realised he was being challenged by his commanding officer. Staring at Munpo, he resented the man for placing him in such an awkward position. He had no desire to show up Munpo in front of his troop, but he didn’t trust his pride to let him take a fall to such a dilapidated opponent. Corlas had spoken of the man with respect, but even so Bel couldn’t imagine the wiry little warrior posing much threat. Reluctantly he took up an answering pose, sword held ready. It was too much for the soldiers still jousting, who stopped to watch their troop leader challenge the new blade.

Munpo took a step back, inviting Bel to attack. Bel lunged and their swords clashed. Munpo’s grip was surprisingly strong, his sword steady against Bel’s blows. The troop leader edged backwards, blocking Bel’s sword each time with understated moves, defending only a small circle around himself. He was quick, and Bel found his defence difficult to penetrate. He aimed a powerful swing, hoping strength alone would unbalance Munpo. Munpo simply lowered his blade, and Bel stumbled as his blow met no resistance. Munpo attacked for the first time, stepping forward to spike his sword, dagger-like, at Bel’s stomach. Already off balance, Bel had to put more effort into his defence than he would have liked, batting away the attack gracelessly. Munpo pressed his advantage, little jabs and slices coming one after the other in quick succession. Such was the economy of his movement that he remained totally steady as he continued forward. Bel’s defence was bigger by comparison and he knew he was expending more effort than Munpo. He tried to control his frustration at being pressed back by the quick little man, just as Munpo swung his sword back in a wide arc, leaving his left side exposed. Bel seized the opportunity, swiping quickly, but Munpo was already dodging away. Too late Bel knew it had been a trick, luring him to attack when he was already off balance. Munpo bounced forward to press his practice blade against Bel’s rib cage.

As the troop applauded the victory, Bel stared at the older man. Munpo, who’d barely broken a sweat, nodded at him. ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he said.

Conflicting emotions fought in Bel. Although he had not wished to beat this man in front of the troop, he’d considered the choice of losing to be his. He knew he wasn’t invulnerable – Corlas still beat him sometimes, but Corlas was a hero and his teacher besides. Against the spindly Munpo, Bel found it hard to accept defeat. Added to that, the rest of the troop was clearly glad that he’d been proven fallible. He understood this, of course, but he would have preferred to have secretly known that he could have won if he’d wanted to. It was a sobering blow to his ego.

Outwardly he took it with good grace. He nodded respectfully to Munpo and stepped back into the troop, where he received a few slaps on the back.

‘Head up, blade,’ said someone beside him, who turned out to be Keit. ‘Munpo is wilier than a fox in a henhouse.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Bel. ‘Though such a fox would look better fed.’

Keit barked a laugh, and suddenly Bel was very thankful that Munpo had won.

•

After dinner the troop went to the Soldiers Bar, located next to the mess hall in the barracks. Being the only bar in the Halls, it wasn’t just a meeting place for soldiers and so did a strong trade most nights. It was a long room, with squares cut into the floorboards through which trees grew from the earth beneath. Along the walls lanterns shone brightly, their heat rising up through the non-existent roof into a sky of twinkling stars. The bar itself ran the length of the far wall, while in the rest of the room attendants moved between tables taking orders. None of the noise travelled outside the bar due to the ‘Essence of Walls’, and thus didn’t disturb sleeping soldiers elsewhere in the barracks.

Bel was waiting at the bar for his next drink when M’Meska stepped up beside him, a tall glass of bloodfire in her bluntly clawed hand. He noted that a tail was a handy thing to lean on when its owner had consumed too much bloodfire.

‘You lucky today, Varenkai,’ she said in a voice ill equipped for human language, rasping and full of odd clicks. ‘Hit target good, yes?’ She upended the glass of thick liquor down her throat.

‘If anything,’ said Bel, ‘I’d say you’re the lucky one.’

‘What mean?’ demanded the Saurian, slamming her glass down empty on the counter.

‘Since I’m about to buy you a drink.’

He gestured at a bartender, and a moment later a mug of ale and another glass of bloodfire arrived. The Saurian grunted and took another large swig.

‘You do know that’s bloodfire, not water?’ said Bel, counting out copper.

‘I know,’ said M’Meska, missing the friendly dig. ‘Saurian blood not so thin as Varenkai, and sun not shine so bright in Halls as at Furoara Sands. I need warm my blood so far from home.’ She gulped from the glass at a rate that made Bel queasy.

‘Now,’ said M’Meska, ‘you.’ She tapped the bar, summoning the bartender. ‘Two,’ she said, holding up two claws.

‘Ah,’ Bel began in protest, ‘I don’t think –’

‘Warm your blood,’ said the Saurian. She held up her claws again at the hesitant bartender. ‘Two,’ she repeated.

The bartender shrugged and soon two glasses of bloodfire stood before them on the bench. Bel stared at his with some trepidation.

‘Drink,’ said the Saurian, lifting her glass in a clumsy toast. Bel, not wishing to offend the strange soldier, lifted his too. They drank, Bel sipping and M’Meska swallowing greedily.

‘Bah,’ said M’Meska, licking her lips. ‘You shoot like Saurian, but still drink like human.’