She saw the muscles working on the side of Shivers’ head. “The first time I saved his life. The second I let him go, and chose to be a better man.”
“And you’ve been wandering round like a tinker with his cart ever since, peddling mercy to anyone who’ll take? Thanks for the offer, but I’m not buying.”
“Not sure I’m selling anymore. I been acting the good man all this time, talking up the righteous path, hoping to convince myself I done the right thing walking away. Breaking the circle. But I didn’t, and that’s a fact. Mercy and cowardice are the same, just like you told me, and the circle keeps turning, whatever you try. Taking vengeance… it might not answer no questions. It sure won’t make the world a fairer place or the sun shine warmer. But it’s better’n not taking it. It’s a damn stretch better.”
“I thought you were all set on being Styria’s last good man.”
“I’ve tried to do the right thing when I could, but you don’t get a name in the North without doing some dark work, and I done my share. I fought beside Black Dow, and Crummock-i-Phail, and the Bloody-Nine his self, for that matter.” He gave a snort. “You think you got cold hearts down here? You should taste the winters where I come from.” There was something in the set of his face she hadn’t seen before, and hadn’t expected to. “I’d like to be a good man, that’s true. But you need it the other way, then I know how.”
There was silence for a moment, while they looked at each other. Him leaning against the window frame, her sprawled on the bed with one hand behind her head.
“If you really are such a snow-hearted bastard, why did you come back for me? In Cardotti’s?”
“You still owe me money.”
She wasn’t sure if he was joking. “I feel warm all over.”
“That and you’re about the best friend I’ve got in this mad fucking country.”
“And I don’t even like you.”
“I’m still hoping you’ll warm to me.”
“You know what? I might just be getting there.”
She could see his grin in the light from beyond the window. “Letting me in your bed. Letting Furli and the rest stay in your house. If I didn’t know better I’d be thinking I’d peddled you some mercy after all.”
She stretched out. “Maybe beneath this harsh yet beautiful shell I’m really still a soft-hearted farmer’s daughter, only wanting to do good. You think of that?”
“Can’t say I did.”
“Anyway, what’s my choice? Put them out on the street, they might start talking. Safer here, where they owe us something.”
“They’re safest of all in the mud.”
“Why don’t you go downstairs and put all our minds at rest, then, killer? Shouldn’t be a problem for the hero that used to carry Black Now’s luggage.”
“Dow.”
“Whoever. Best put some trousers on first, though, eh?”
“I’m not saying we should’ve killed ’em or nothing, I’m just pointing out the fact. Mercy and cowardice are the same, I heard.”
“I’ll do what needs doing, don’t worry. I always have. But I’m not Morveer. I’m not murdering eleven farmers just for my convenience.”
“Nice to hear, I guess. All those little people dying in the bank didn’t seem to bother you none, long as one of ’em was Mauthis.”
She frowned. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“Nor the folk at Cardotti’s.”
“Cardotti’s didn’t go quite the way I had in mind either, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed pretty good. The Butcher of Caprile, they call you, no? What happened there?”
“What needed doing.” She remembered riding up in the dusk, the stab of worry as she saw the smoke over the city. “Doing it and liking it are different things.”
“Same results, no?”
“What the hell would you know about it? I don’t remember you being there.” She shook the memory off and slid from the bed. The careless warmth of the last smoke was wearing through and she felt strangely awkward in her own scarred skin, crossing the room with his eyes on her, stark naked but for the glove still on her right hand. The city, and its towers, and its fires spread out beyond the window, blurred through the bubbly glass panes in the closed half. “I didn’t bring you up here to remind me of my mistakes. I’ve made enough of the bastards.”
“Who hasn’t? Why did you bring me up here?”
“Because I’ve an awful weakness for big men with tiny minds, what do you think?”
“Oh, I try not to think much, makes my tiny mind hurt. But I’m starting to get the feeling you might not be quite so hard as you make out.”
“Who is?” She reached out and touched the scar on his chest. Fingertip trailing through hair, over rough, puckered skin.
“We’ve all got our wounds, I guess.” He slid his hand down the long scar on her hip bone, and her stomach clenched up tight. That gambler’s mix of fear and excitement still, with a trace of disgust mixed in.
“Some worse than others.” The words sour in her mouth.
“Just marks.” His thumb slid across the scars on her ribs, one by one. “They don’t bother me any.”
She pulled the glove off her crooked right hand and stuck it in his face. “No?”
“No.” His big hands closed gently around her ruined one, warm and tight. She stiffened up at first, almost dragged it away, breath catching with ugly shock, as if she’d caught him caressing a corpse. Then his thumbs started to rub at her twisted palm, at the aching ball of her thumb, at her crooked fingers, all the way to the tips. Surprisingly tender. Surprisingly pleasant. She let her eyes close and her mouth open, stretched her fingers out as wide as they’d go, and breathed.
She felt him closer, the warmth of him, his breath on her face. Not much chance to wash lately and he had a smell-sweat and leather and a hint of bad meat. Sharp, but not entirely unpleasant. She knew she had a smell herself. His face brushed hers, rough cheek, hard jaw, nudging against her nose, nuzzling at her neck. She was half-smiling, skin tingling in the draught from the window, carrying that familiar tickle of burning buildings to her nose.
One of his hands still held hers, out to the side now, the other slid up her flank, over the knobble of her hip bone, slid under her breast, thumb rubbing back and forth over her nipple, slightly pleasant, slightly clumsy. Her free hand brushed against his cock, already good and hard, up, and down, damp skin sticky on her palm. She lifted one foot, heel scraping loose plaster from the wall, wedged it on the windowsill so her legs were spread wide. His fingers slid back and forth between them with a soft squelch, squelch.
Her right hand was round under his jaw, twisted fingers pulling at his ear, turning his head sideways, thumb dragging his mouth open so she could push her tongue into it. It tasted of the cheap wine they’d been drinking, but hers probably did too, and who cared a shit anyway?
She drew him close, pressing up against him, skin sliding against skin. Not thinking about her dead brother, not thinking about her crippled hand, not thinking about the war outside, or needing a smoke, or the men she had to kill. Just his fingers and her fingers, his cock and her cunt. Not much, maybe, but something, and she needed something.
“Get on and fuck me,” she hissed in his ear.
“Right,” he croaked at her, hooked her under one knee, lifted her to the bed and dumped her on her back, frame creaking. She wriggled away, making room, and he knelt down between her open knees, working his way forwards, fierce grin on his face as he looked down at her. Same grin she had, keen to get on with it. She felt the end of his cock sliding around between her thighs, one side, then the other. “Where the fuck…”
“Bloody Northmen, couldn’t find your arse with a chair.”
“My arse ain’t the hole I’m looking for.”
“Here.” She dragged some spit off her tongue with her fingers, propped herself up on one elbow, reached down and took hold of him, working his cock around until she found the spot.
“Ah.”
“Ah,” she grunted back. “That’s it.”
“Aye.” He moved his hips in circles, easing deeper with each one. “That… is… it.” He ran his hands up her
