name.”
“Birds Mottle.”
“That hardly matters,” he replied.
“Yes it does. Strangers don’t have names, not names you’d know, I mean. But I do, and you know it.”
“What were you thinking, showing me that leg of yours?”
She glanced down and frowned. “I wasn’t showing it to you. I was just letting it lie there, resting. It does that when I sit.”
“I ain’t fooled by anything so obvious,” Hordilo replied. He reached down and held his hand under her thigh. He hefted it once, then twice. “That’s a decent feel, I think.”
“You think?”
“I know. Decent weight. Solid, but soft, too.” He moved it up and down a few more times.
“Looks like something you’d be happy doing all day,” Birds Mottle noted.
Sighing, Hordilo sat back. “And you said you didn’t think I knew what you were thinking.”
“Got me.”
He rose. “All right, then.”
“Upstairs?”
“I get this all the time,” he said, “for being so handsome.”
Her eyes widened. But he’d seen that look, too, plenty of times, and whatever she was thinking, why, she could keep it to herself.
Feloovil Generous watched the two head up to Hordilo’s room. She shook her head. There was no telling the tastes of women, and of all the idiotic conversations she’d heard from Hordilo over the years, that one was close to tops. Can’t figure how he does it. How it works every damned time.
We’ll still see her hang, of course. So, I guess, everyone wins.
She patted the stinging slashes on her cheek, looked round to see if Felittle had cracked open the cellar door and slipped out, but even as her head turned she saw the door snap shut again, the latch thrown with a muted thunk . Good, that embarrassment from her own womb could rot down there, for all Feloovil cared.
In the rooms above—all the rooms barring the one now occupied by Hordilo and that slutty woman—all of her girls were weeping and trying to put together what was left of them. Someone would have to sweep up the clumps of hair and bits of skin, but that could wait on her lovelies repairing themselves with make-up and wigs and whatnot.
She’d warned her daughter about taking in that lizard cat. It might have shown up looking half-dead and with a witless look in its wandering eyes, but a wild creature was just that. It belonged out among the rocks, sliming across the cliff-faces above the waves eating birds and eggs and stuff, instead of killing and eating the village cats and some of the dogs, too.
A spasm of grief clutched her at the thought of the two dogs Red had torn open. Scurry and Tremble had been decent hounds, a little fat and slow, true—fatally so, it turned out—and now Wriggle was all alone and pining under Ackle’s table … and where had that stinking man gone to? He should have been back by now, with Spilgit in tow, which would have given her the opportunity to turn this miserable day right around.
Throat-cut tax collectors stung no tears in any village. Questions of vengeance didn’t need utterance, in fact, as it was more or less a given. She could picture a score of indifferent shrugs, and maybe a low quip about how Hood, Lord of Death, was the biggest tax collector of them all, or some such thing. A justifiable murder, then.
She should never have trusted Ackle with the task.
The door opened again and in strode three more strangers.
The man in the lead, carrying in both hands a huge sword, fixed Feloovil with a glare and in a ferocious accent said, “Where are they, then?”
“Up at the keep,” she replied. “Everyone’s up at the keep, and there they’ll stay, for as long as the Lord wants to entertain ’em. Now you three, you look worn out and all. So put those weapons away and sit down and I’ll check the cookpot.”
They stared at her for a moment, and then the man with the sword sheathed it and turned to his companions. “Like Wormlick said, we’re almost there. Time for a celebratory drink.”
The
“Birds Mottle.”
“That hardly matters,” he replied.
“Yes it does. Strangers don’t have names, not names you’d know, I mean. But I do, and you know it.”
“What were you thinking, showing me that leg of yours?”
She glanced down and frowned. “I wasn’t showing it to you. I was just letting it lie there, resting. It does that when I sit.”
“I ain’t fooled by anything so obvious,” Hordilo replied. He reached down and held his hand under her thigh. He hefted it once, then twice. “That’s a decent feel, I think.”
“You think?”
“I know. Decent weight. Solid, but soft, too.” He moved it up and down a few more times.
“Looks like something you’d be happy doing all day,” Birds Mottle noted.
Sighing, Hordilo sat back. “And you said you didn’t think I knew what you were thinking.”
“Got me.”
He rose. “All right, then.”
“Upstairs?”
“I get this all the time,” he said, “for being so handsome.”
Her eyes widened. But he’d seen that look, too, plenty of times, and whatever she was thinking, why, she could keep it to herself.
Feloovil Generous watched the two head up to Hordilo’s room. She shook her head. There was no telling the tastes of women, and of all the idiotic conversations she’d heard from Hordilo over the years, that one was close to tops. Can’t figure how he does it. How it works every damned time.
We’ll still see her hang, of course. So, I guess, everyone wins.
She patted the stinging slashes on her cheek, looked round to see if Felittle had cracked open the cellar door and slipped out, but even as her head turned she saw the door snap shut again, the latch thrown with a muted thunk . Good, that embarrassment from her own womb could rot down there, for all Feloovil cared.
In the rooms above—all the rooms barring the one now occupied by Hordilo and that slutty woman—all of her girls were weeping and trying to put together what was left of them. Someone would have to sweep up the clumps of hair and bits of skin, but that could wait on her lovelies repairing themselves with make-up and wigs and whatnot.
She’d warned her daughter about taking in that lizard cat. It might have shown up looking half-dead and with a witless look in its wandering eyes, but a wild creature was just that. It belonged out among the rocks, sliming across the cliff-faces above the waves eating birds and eggs and stuff, instead of killing and eating the village cats and some of the dogs, too.
A spasm of grief clutched her at the thought of the two dogs Red had torn open. Scurry and Tremble had been decent hounds, a little fat and slow, true—fatally so, it turned out—and now Wriggle was all alone and pining under Ackle’s table … and where had that stinking man gone to? He should have been back by now, with Spilgit in tow, which would have given her the opportunity to turn this miserable day right around.
Throat-cut tax collectors stung no tears in any village. Questions of vengeance didn’t need utterance, in fact, as it was more or less a given. She could picture a score of indifferent shrugs, and maybe a low quip about how Hood, Lord of Death, was the biggest tax collector of them all, or some such thing. A justifiable murder, then.
She should never have trusted Ackle with the task.
The door opened again and in strode three more strangers.
The man in the lead, carrying in both hands a huge sword, fixed Feloovil with a glare and in a ferocious accent said, “Where are they, then?”
“Up at the keep,” she replied. “Everyone’s up at the keep, and there they’ll stay, for as long as the Lord wants to entertain ’em. Now you three, you look worn out and all. So put those weapons away and sit down and I’ll check the cookpot.”
They stared at her for a moment, and then the man with the sword sheathed it and turned to his companions. “Like Wormlick said, we’re almost there. Time for a celebratory drink.”
The
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