own way.”
chapter 37
Dismal gray clouds were building up over the back of the Hallowdeans in the distance as Brak made his way to the Inn of the Hopeless after R’shiel’s visit to the shop. Going the long way around the square to avoid passing the Defenders’ Headquarters, he glanced skyward and decided it would probably rain again tonight.
Mysekis had been after him for several days now. Mysekis wanted to know if there was anything between Brak and Khira. The captain often found a reason to drop into the shop, but Brak had neither the time nor the inclination to play matchmaker. Besides, Khira had an abiding dislike for the Defenders. Her facade would crumble in a moment if Mysekis started making serious eyes at her. It was a complication he did not need. Only the ambiguity of his relationship with the physic had kept the captain at bay thus far. The simple solution would have been to admit that there was a relationship, but Brak had his own reasons for not wishing to confirm or deny the rumor, not the least of which was the buxom innkeeper L’rin. He was, after all, half-human.
Brak suspected Mysekis would be at home for lunch, but he didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into someone who would make him wait at the Headquarters Building for the captain’s return. He skirted the square and slipped down a narrow alley into a muddy lane where the garbage wagon stood forlornly as two prisoners emptied the rotting garbage from the rear yards of the shops into the wagon. A miserable-looking mule was hitched to the wagon, held by Sergeant Lycren, in the unlikely event that the mule had either the energy or inclination to bolt. “Ho, friend!” Lycren called with a lazy wave. “And just what are you up to? Sneakin‘ around the back alleys like a convict.”
Lycren scratched idly at his unshaven chin as he watched his prisoners working further up the alley. Both men were stripped to the waist and sweating, even in the feeble sunshine that straggled into the lane. The larger of the two men was a double-murderer named Zac, and the other was Tarja. Brak took a step backward into the shadows. To his knowledge, Tarja was not aware he was in the Grimfield, and he planned to keep it that way as long as possible.
He made an excuse for his haste to Lycren before hurrying down the lane in the opposite direction and slipping through the wooden gate at the back of the inn. He let himself in through the kitchen, snatching a freshly baked bun as he strolled through, waving to the angry cook who yelled at him. Tossing the hot bread from hand to hand he entered the dim taproom. Several Defenders, their uniforms crumpled and unbuttoned, sat near the window in the weak sunlight, hunched over their ale, waiting for lunch to settle. Brak ignored them and walked up the stairs, biting into the bun and burning his tongue in the process.
At the end of the long hall Brak stopped and knocked on the solid wooden door. The hall was gloomy and quiet at this time of day. Most of the inn’s guests would be out and about their business. The lunch crowd had departed, so this was about as quiet a time as any there was in the Inn of the Hopeless.
The door opened a crack. “It’s me,” he said softly. L’rin opened the door with an inviting smile, stepped backed as he slipped in, locking the door behind him.
L’rin’s room was the largest in the Tavern besides the taproom. Huge, multipaned windows let in filtered sunlight through the layer of dust and grime that coated everything in the Grimfield. The room was both L’rin’s office and bedroom. A large cluttered desk stood under one window, and beside it stood a huge locked chest where she kept the takings from the inn. The bed was a heavy four-poster with rich blue velvet drapes and snowy white rumpled sheets over a thick down mattress. Brak reclined on the bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist, his naked chest as sculpted as a marble statue.
A knock at the door sent L’rin scurrying around the room to get dressed. Although Brak was certain she had locked it, the door opened a fraction, and a blonde head appeared in the crack. Dace glanced at L’rin, who looked rumpled and more than a little guilty, her thick honeycolored hair in total disarray and her gown slipping down over one broad shoulder.
“Did I interrupt something?”
“You’re late,” Brak snapped, although he was neither surprised nor entirely displeased by the fact.
“Good thing, by the look of you two,” Dace remarked with a grin. “You are looking particularly lovely today, L’rin.”
“Thank you, Dace,” L’rin said, actually blushing from the compliment, as she turned to her dresser and began to straighten her hair. It took her only a moment to arrange it to her satisfaction, and she turned to Brak. “I have to be getting back downstairs. Don’t come down straight away. People might talk.”
Brak nodded and waited until she had left the room before turning on Dace, who was smiling angelically.
“You have been blessed by Kalianah, the Goddess of Love,” Dace remarked.
“And cursed by Dacendaran, the God of Thieves,” Brak added sourly. “What are you doing here?”
The God of Thieves shrugged. “Helping.”
“How exactly are you helping?”
Dace sat himself down on the stool in front of L’rin’s dressing table. “You know, you really should be a bit more respectful, Brakandaran. I am a god, after all.”
“You’re a Primal God. You don’t need respect. A bit of common sense, maybe, but not respect.”
Brak had received quite a start when he realized Dacendaran had taken up residence in the Grimfield. It made sense, when he thought about it. The Grimfield probably had the highest concentration of thieves anywhere on the continent, and Dacendaran needed no temples or priests to worship him. He just needed thieves. The Sisterhood would have been mortified to think that a god resided among them.
True to his nature, Dacendaran was a slippery character, and this meeting had taken some time to arrange. This was Brak’s first chance to speak with him alone since Dace had appeared on the verandah of the tavern to watch Tarja being whipped, and Brak was a little surprised he had shown up at all.
“According to R’shiel, Tarja didn’t betray the rebellion at all,” Dace said, swinging his legs under the stool and looking for all the world like an innocent child. “Are you still going to kill him?”
Brak folded his arms above his head against the headboard. “Who said I was going to kill him?”
“I’m a god, Brak, not an idiot. Why else would you be here with another rebel? To save him? You forget that I’m something of an expert on the baser side of human nature. And you are rather unique, you know.”
Brak frowned. He didn’t need to be reminded of what set him apart from the rest of the Harshini.
“Of course, you should be thinking about the demon child,” Dace continued, ignoring the look Brak gave him. “Not dillydallying about pretending to be a rebel assassin. Why do you suppose they call her the demon child? It’s not as if the demons actually had anything to do—”
“Don’t get sidetracked,” Brak cut in. “You know who it is, don’t you?”
Dace looked a little annoyed. “Well, of course I do! You don’t think I couldn’t tell a te Ortyn Harshini from a human, do you? And there’s only one outside of Sanctuary. I’m not supposed to get involved though. Zeggie would be really mad at me.”
“Zegarnald?” Brak asked with a frown. “Why does the God of War care so much about the demon child?”
Dace bit at his bottom lip. He looked more like a child accused of mischief than a god. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a god thing.”
“A god thing?” Brak repeated incredulously.
“You know what I mean.”
“I have no idea,” Brak replied. “Enlighten me, Oh Divine One.”
Dace sighed. “Xaphista has to be destroyed. The demon child is the only one who can do that.”
“You could just dispose of him yourselves, you know.”
“Of course we couldn’t! What would happen if the gods started killing each other? Honestly, Brak, you are
“Honestly? Now there’s a word I don’t often associate with you.”
