of a washcloth and a bucket of water. It had been days since his last bath, and Rebo was amazed by the rivulets of gray liquid that ran down his legs and into a fl?oor drain. Having tested the water in the tub and found it to his liking, Rebo put one foot in, and followed with the other, before beginning the gradual process of lowering himself into the hot liquid. After days spent out in the cold, nothing could surpass the sensation of warmth that rose to engulf the runner’s tired body, or the feeling of tranquility that followed.
Steam rose, and an almost overwhelming sense of lethargy had overtaken the runner by the time a hinge squeaked, and the door opened inward. Because Phan had drawn the second shortest straw, Rebo wasn’t entirely surprised to see her, although he was pretty sure the runner was early. He wanted to say something, knew he should have said something, but couldn’t summon the necessary energy.
Conscious of the fact that Rebo was watching her, Phan began to disrobe. Having attempted to ingratiate herself with the threesome yet failed to gain their complete trust, it was time to use her backup plan. Slowly, and with occasional sidelong glances at Rebo, Phan ran a wet washcloth over her trim torso. Then, having cupped each breast in turn, she ran a hand down between her legs. Rebo, who had forgotten his own bath by that time, felt himself respond in a predictable manner.
Having completed her sponge bath, and with patches of suds still clinging to her tattooed skin, Phan made her way over to the raised platform, where she lifted a shapely leg up over the side of the tub. “May I join you?”
Rebo knew he should say no, given the nature of his relationship with Norr, but Phan was in the tub by that time, and was busy settling herself onto his fully erect penis. Though still beautiful to look at, Phan’s body was covered with what looked like a road map of healed cuts and puncture wounds. More than the runner had, which was saying something. Rebo closed his eyes as the young woman took him in. She fi?t him like a glove, a hot glove, and the pleasure was intense.
Then, determined to see as well as feel, Rebo opened his eyes. Phan was kissing his neck at that point, and because of the difference in heights, the runner could look down on the upper portion of his lover’s back. He was shocked by what he saw . . . The tattoos Rebo had fi?rst seen back in New Wimmura, the tattoos that marked Phan as a runner, were so faded as to be nearly invisible! And, if the tattoos were fake, then it seemed logical to suppose that the rest of her story was fake as well!
Rebo’s once rock-hard erection had already started to wilt by that time, and Phan was just about to ask what was wrong, when the door opened and Norr entered. Judging from the mischievous smile on her face, and the bottle of wine clutched in her right hand, it looked as though the sensitive had plans to share Rebo’s bath as well. But when Norr saw that Phan was present, the light went out of her eyes, and the color drained from her cheeks. Then, speaking with a dull, somewhat mechanical voice, the sensitive said, “Here, I thought you might enjoy this,” and bent to place the bottle of wine on the fl?oor. The hinge squeaked as she left, the door swung closed, and the sensitive was gone. Rebo felt sick to his stomach. Having grabbed the sides of the metal tub he heaved himself up out of the water, stepped out onto the cold tiles, and from there to the fl?oor. The runner’s skin continued to steam as he made his way over to where his clothes waited. “Wait!” Phan demanded.
“What’s the hurry? So she’s mad. . . . Are you a man or a boy?”
The runner made no answer as he donned enough clothes to navigate the inn’s drafty halls, bundled the rest under his right arm, and left. Phan watched the door close for the second time and shrugged. In spite of the fact that her plan hadn’t played out as intended, the effect would be the same. A wedge had been driven into the relationship between Rebo and Norr—and that was a good thing.
The problem was that the brief interlude with the runner had left the assassin unsatisfi?ed. Still, the water was delightfully hot, and there to be enjoyed. Slowly, so as to prolong the sensation, Phan allowed the water to close over the top of her head.
Rebo arrived at the room that Norr shared with Phan only to discover that the sensitive was busy moving out of it and into a small cubicle at the far end of the hall. “Here,” the runner said, as he reached out to take her pack. “Let me carry that.” But the sensitive refused to let go.
“No,” Norr said emphatically, “you won’t. Leave me alone.” The variant’s heels made an angry clicking sound as she strode down the hall.
Rebo hurried to keep up. “It wasn’t the way it looked.”
Norr stopped and turned to confront him. Her eyes were fi?lled with anger. “How stupid do you think I am? You were naked, in the tub with her, and the thought forms were clear to see. . . . Oh, and one other thing,” the sensitive added.
“You’re fi?red.”
“You can’t fi?re me,” Rebo objected. “I work for Lysander.”
“You detest Lysander.”
“So? I gave my word.”
“But you never gave your word to me,” Norr replied. “Is that what makes having sex with Phan acceptable?”
“It wasn’t acceptable,” the runner replied contritely. “Allowing her to get in the tub was a mistake. Please accept my most sincere apology.”
“No,” the sensitive said intractably. “I won’t.” And with that, Norr entered her room and slammed the door behind her.
Rebo wanted to tell Norr about the tattoos, and the sick feeling in his stomach, but it was too late for that. The bath’s warmth had been dissipated by then, the runner’s skin had cooled, and his breath was visible as he walked down the dimly lit hall. Night had fallen—and it promised to be both long and dark.
Like all of the youngsters raised within the steely embrace of the assassin’s guild, Du Phan had been taught how to set her mental alarm clock and wake up whenever she needed to. Which was why her eyes popped open three seconds before the ancient clock in the lobby began to chime. And, thanks to the fact that she no longer shared the room with Norr, there was no need to be quiet as the assassin got dressed and tiptoed down the stairs. A brutish watchman sat next to the front door. He was wrapped in an old blanket, and a double-barreled shotgun rested across his knees. His head lay back against the grimy wall, and judging from the volume of his snores, the security guard was sound asleep.
Phan circled the man, opened the front door, and slid into the night. It was breathtakingly cold, but the assassin forced herself to pause for a moment and listen. She had a story ready for the telling, but preferred not to use it and felt relieved to hear nothing more than the sound of her own breathing.
