ring, too.” He let the legate’s arm drop in disgust. “This is the last fucking time I trust Brotherhood spies to get my intelligence for me.”
Eril looked embarrassed. In the months they’d been harrying Trelayne’sslavers, he’d pulled Marsh Brotherhood favors for Ringil where he could, but the Brotherhood itself hadn’t been particularly cooperative about it. In the end, sworn-sons-of-the-free-city bullshit aside, they were criminals trying to buy their way into upriver respectability, and Ringil’s terrorism wasn’t any more comfortable for them than it was for the slavers. And Eril, blood debt notwithstanding, was a mid-ranking enforcer, acting alone and out on a limb, with very limited pull.
Surprised it’s lasted even this long, really
.
Well—you did save his life
.
Ringil sighed and cast a brooding glance around. Daylight already strengthening in the east, washing the first faint color into the tree line and the sandy terrain below. The night gone to bleaching shreds of darkness in the west, and all around the thousand eyes of the slaves and their new saviors, all seemingly resting on him.
An imperial legate. Great.
“Perhaps now,” the legate stormed. “You realize the gravity of your error.”
“There’s no error here,” Ringil told him.
They hauled Poppy Snarl to her feet and held her pinioned for Ringil’s inspection. There was some jeering and groping along the way—Snarl had aged well on the proceeds of Liberalization and the new trade. She still had a bright sheen to hair and eyes, a harsh-boned beauty in the face and curves in all the right places. Hands pawed and squeezed at the more obvious options. She flailed and spat, her clothing tore. Someone—it was hard to keep track of the men Eril hired, Banthir, was it? Or Hengis?—retrieved Ringil’s dragon-tooth dagger from the dirt and brought it to him, wiped carefully clean. The man bowed for respect and handed the weapon over. Ringil nodded absent thanks, tucked it away.
Snarl head-butted one of her captors, sent him stumbling. Raucous laughter from the others.
“Got a temper on her, this one.”
“Soon sort that out. Just needs a good splitting is all.”
“Get in the fucking queue, man. You don’t—”
They quieted as Ringil approached. He still held the Ravensfriend unsheathed in his hand. Snarl bared her teeth at him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Gil?”
He considered her for a moment. “I’m just the messenger. Does the name Sherin mean anything to you?”
“Oh, for Hoiran’s
sake
! Slab said you were …” Snarl bucked again between the men who held her pinioned. “This is really about some whining idiot second cousin of yours? You know, when Findrich told me that, I didn’t believe him. I said you were too fucking smart for that shit.
Had
to be something else. What the fuck happened to you, Gil? You used to be a
player
.”
Ringil backhanded her across the face. Someone among his men voiced a low, hooting cheer. He started to feel vaguely sick.
“I asked you a question, Poppy.”
By then she could see it coming, knew her hand was played out. A blank, street-tempered defiance hardened her features. She spat at him, spittle threaded with blood from where the blow must have cut the inside of her mouth. She put on a dreadful, death’s-head smile.
“What do
you
think, hero? You think I keep count of every piece-of-shit slave I buy, every bad-debt auction knockdown that falls in the net?”
“This particular piece-of-shit slave was my cousin.”
“So fucking what? You want to believe I was there personally when they broke her? Grow the fuck up, Gil. This is a business. You think I
care
?”
Ringil remembered where and how he’d finally found Sherin. Remembered what had been done to her.
He looked into Poppy Snarl’s eyes. Saw nothing there he could defeat.
“Take her away,” he said woodenly. “Do what you will. But leave her alive.”
Mob
Eril looked embarrassed. In the months they’d been harrying Trelayne’sslavers, he’d pulled Marsh Brotherhood favors for Ringil where he could, but the Brotherhood itself hadn’t been particularly cooperative about it. In the end, sworn-sons-of-the-free-city bullshit aside, they were criminals trying to buy their way into upriver respectability, and Ringil’s terrorism wasn’t any more comfortable for them than it was for the slavers. And Eril, blood debt notwithstanding, was a mid-ranking enforcer, acting alone and out on a limb, with very limited pull.
Surprised it’s lasted even this long, really
.
Well—you did save his life
.
Ringil sighed and cast a brooding glance around. Daylight already strengthening in the east, washing the first faint color into the tree line and the sandy terrain below. The night gone to bleaching shreds of darkness in the west, and all around the thousand eyes of the slaves and their new saviors, all seemingly resting on him.
An imperial legate. Great.
“Perhaps now,” the legate stormed. “You realize the gravity of your error.”
“There’s no error here,” Ringil told him.
They hauled Poppy Snarl to her feet and held her pinioned for Ringil’s inspection. There was some jeering and groping along the way—Snarl had aged well on the proceeds of Liberalization and the new trade. She still had a bright sheen to hair and eyes, a harsh-boned beauty in the face and curves in all the right places. Hands pawed and squeezed at the more obvious options. She flailed and spat, her clothing tore. Someone—it was hard to keep track of the men Eril hired, Banthir, was it? Or Hengis?—retrieved Ringil’s dragon-tooth dagger from the dirt and brought it to him, wiped carefully clean. The man bowed for respect and handed the weapon over. Ringil nodded absent thanks, tucked it away.
Snarl head-butted one of her captors, sent him stumbling. Raucous laughter from the others.
“Got a temper on her, this one.”
“Soon sort that out. Just needs a good splitting is all.”
“Get in the fucking queue, man. You don’t—”
They quieted as Ringil approached. He still held the Ravensfriend unsheathed in his hand. Snarl bared her teeth at him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Gil?”
He considered her for a moment. “I’m just the messenger. Does the name Sherin mean anything to you?”
“Oh, for Hoiran’s
sake
! Slab said you were …” Snarl bucked again between the men who held her pinioned. “This is really about some whining idiot second cousin of yours? You know, when Findrich told me that, I didn’t believe him. I said you were too fucking smart for that shit.
Had
to be something else. What the fuck happened to you, Gil? You used to be a
player
.”
Ringil backhanded her across the face. Someone among his men voiced a low, hooting cheer. He started to feel vaguely sick.
“I asked you a question, Poppy.”
By then she could see it coming, knew her hand was played out. A blank, street-tempered defiance hardened her features. She spat at him, spittle threaded with blood from where the blow must have cut the inside of her mouth. She put on a dreadful, death’s-head smile.
“What do
you
think, hero? You think I keep count of every piece-of-shit slave I buy, every bad-debt auction knockdown that falls in the net?”
“This particular piece-of-shit slave was my cousin.”
“So fucking what? You want to believe I was there personally when they broke her? Grow the fuck up, Gil. This is a business. You think I
care
?”
Ringil remembered where and how he’d finally found Sherin. Remembered what had been done to her.
He looked into Poppy Snarl’s eyes. Saw nothing there he could defeat.
“Take her away,” he said woodenly. “Do what you will. But leave her alive.”
Mob
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