Ōbhin felt sick thinking that way. His friend was one of those resources. Dje’awsa had much to answer for. He hoped to lop the bastard’s head off. He’d perverted the Tones, using Black Niszeh to work such evil in the world.
“Been an hour,” Fingers grunted again. “I want to find my bed.”
“When have the dead ever been considerate?” asked Smiles.
Fingers grunted. “S’true. Supposed to write my wife today and send her money.”
Ōbhin glanced at Fingers. The man ran his thumb across the knuckles of his left hand. “You still write to her? Send her money?”
“Most of my pay.”
“Why?”
Fingers shrugged. “She’s my wife. I swore a vow.”
Ōbhin swallowed. He’d only broken vows. Vows to protect the satrap’s family. Vows to always love Foonauri. To defend her when he took her from Qoth. He’d collected his blood money and left the city reeling from the earthquake and volcanic eruption. “But you hate her. Wasn’t it the baker she, er, well . . . ? Seems a good enough reason to hate a woman for doing that.”
Fingers spat. “Truth is, she hates me. Or she should. Maybe she has taken a lover now, but she hadn’t when . . .” He cracked the knuckles of his left hand, five pops that sounded so loud in the still, foggy air. “I’m no good ‘round her. Better if I’m away. Can’t hurt her then. Never wanted to, but . . .” He snorted. “It became easier to pretend, you know? Make it seem like her fault. Else I’d just hate myself. Don’t know why I’m telling you this. Antsy, I suppose.” He spat. “Damn corpses should just come. Next thing, I’ll be weepin’ ‘bout my mama.”
The awkward silence that descended upon the three made Ōbhin’s spine squirm. He wanted the dead to attack and end his discomfort. He cleared his throat, aching to say something. Fingers’s pain bled out of the man thicker than the silvery fog cloying the air.
Clearing his throat, Ōbhin said, “So, uh, when the corpses come, you and Smiles bind up their torsos, then I’ll lop off their heads.”
“We know what to do,” Smiles said. He chuckled. “You’re worryin’ worse than my mom whenever I replace the roof’s thatch. She thinks I’ll fall off. I keep tellin’ her, ‘I’m more surefooted than Dad. When I fall, I’ll land on my arse ‘n not my head.’” Smiles shook his head. “For some reason, she don’t find that funny.”
Ōbhin snorted in amusement, glad for the distraction. He’d just been babbling there, saying the first thing to come to his mind. He felt weary, and not from the long night in the cold. It was the waiting. It tired a man’s soul as well as his body, beating down his convictions. It was easy to have courage when the blood pumped hot, but after it cooled, after you’d stewed in your thoughts for hours and hours, marinating in doubts . . .
Fingers straightened. He peered out of the slit in the main gate. “Somethin’s comin’.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The flood of cold exhilaration straightened Ōbhin’s back. The dull ache from his wound vanished as his ears pricked. A muffled sound thudded in the fog. He stepped up beside Fingers and peered through the horizontal slit. Ōbhin couldn’t see much. No lights from the neighboring manors, just a dense fog that swallowed his vision an arm’s reach away.
“Footsteps?” Ōbhin whispered, listening to the sound. It grew louder.
“Yep,” Fingers answered. He drew his binder. The soft glow of purple spilled across their chainmail. Ōbhin rested his sword hand on his blade, ready to draw as the thudding grew into distinctive steps.
A party approached, but no rattle of bones or the squishing sound of rotten flesh constrained in sagging skin reached Ōbhin’s ears. It wasn’t the dead they heard, but the living. He hoped it was just men about on honest business in the predawn hours on a foggy night. Maybe even simple burglars thinking to take advantage of the conditions to slip into one of the expensive homes along the southern shore of Lake Ophavin. Ōbhin fought against the trembles, his breathing slow.
“Ōbhin!” a hoarse voice barked out of the fog. A familiar voice. “I know you’re manning that gate. I can see you peering through the slit. Let’s talk.”
“About what, Ust?” Ōbhin shouted back.
“How can he see us?” hissed Fingers.
Ōbhin shook his head. He could see a faint glow to the left of the gate on the road. Someone held a diamond lamp, the steady light illuminating the silver fog. His thumb ran over the pommel of his sword as he considered his options.
“Step out and let’s talk, or I’ll batter that gate down and crush you beneath it.”
“Open it,” Ōbhin said. “Get ready to lock it shut behind me.”
“We’re not leaving you stranded out there,” Smiles said.
“You will if you have to,” Ōbhin answered, his heart laboring. In this fog, he wouldn’t see much, but neither would they. Ust must have guessed I was at the gate. Where else would I be?
Fingers pulled up the heavy beam of hard oak that fitted into iron braces on the back. Smiles shouldered open the right half of the gate. It creaked and groaned, protesting the movement. When he had the clearance, Ōbhin stepped out into the foggy night.
“Well?” he demanded. “If you want to die so badly, I could have assisted you back at the Gray Pillar.”
“Why didn’t you?” Ust asked, the footsteps approaching.
The glow grew brighter. Shapes appeared around
