The one-legged man caught his eye. “Argenti?”
Tor nodded.
“A prize?”
Tor frowned, but nodded because why not. It was easier than explaining who she really was.
The man smiled broadly, exposing an array of missing teeth. “From a raid?”
“Been on my share.” Tor jerked his chin at the man’s missing leg. “That happen on a raid?”
The man bent down and knocked on his prosthesis. “The Fringe.”
Tor winced and eyed the man with new respect. “Bad things happen there.”
“Long time ago.” His eyes lingered on Tor’s tattoos. “You were at Punt-Rayabad?”
Tor ran his tongue over his teeth. Long time since anyone had mentioned it. Seven days of gory combat. Screams and the stench of shit. That was all he really remembered. And pure hatred for his father. More than anything, it was a reminder that he was back on Vestigi territory. No one else spoke of that miserable fight, but to the Vestige, it was epic. A thousand men against a whole planet. Children spoke of them as heroes. Tor hadn’t slept for a month after that. “I was there.”
“Not many of you alive.”
Tor jerked his head. “I took an ax to the back four days in. My brother dragged me behind a building. Kids found me bleeding in a corner and practiced on me. I came to, and they scattered. By then it was mostly over. Just random luck.”
Sanger had saved his life, dragging him like that. He’d been injured as well. Tor had never asked how he’d survived that hellhole. That had been the turning point—Sanger had argued with their father over every raid after that. And only a few months later, his father had taken brutal and bloody revenge against Sanger’s wife.
“Battle’s like that.” The old man spat on the street. “The fucking Alliance.”
Tor spat too. “Fucking Alliance, indeed.”
They stood in companionable silence after that, because they didn’t need to talk anymore. They knew what they needed to know, and there wasn’t much to say.
When the women were done talking, Tor extended a hand to the old man. They nodded their goodbyes.
“See? This place isn’t so bad.” She dropped her hand on his forearm.
He considered pushing her away but didn’t. “You were good with that woman.”
“As opposed to what? Being bad with her?”
“You could have been rude.”
“I’m never rude.” She smiled. “Except with you.”
“Why did they bother teaching you Vestigi, if your only job was to breed?”
They walked in silence down the rough street, past hundreds of curious, but non-threatening eyes. “I suppose to make me conversant at parties.”
“Waste of time.”
“As it turns out, it’s rather coming in handy, isn’t it? Though they ought to have taught me the finer points of cursing since it comprises roughly...” She grinned as they entered the central square. “Oh, say... half of your vocabulary. What does that one you say all the time mean? Mangianne? Meenganne? Man... mang... manggeena?”
He barked out a surprised laugh. The words were so filthy—and so specific— even he was slightly shocked. “I wouldn’t say that in publ—”
“Mengana? Mengonna?” she continued, making it worse.
His mouth dropped.
“Mang? Mang? Mang?”
So much worse. He doubled over. Tears. He was laughing so hard tears came out. A crowd had gathered around them. She hadn’t even noticed.
“Migané! That’s it.” She’d raised her voice in her excitement, and people in the street stared, eyes wide, faces contorted with disgust. No doubt shocked to their core that a woman—especially a fancy Argenti woman decked out in lace—would shout something like that in public. “Migané! Migané! Why are you laughing? Did I say it wrong? Menginee? Migané.” She broke off, looking at the people gathered around them. “I’m sure it’s migané,” she whispered.
He rested his hands on his knees and tried to suck in air. “Stop. Just stop.” His stomach hurt from laughing. “Please. Stop.”
A woman hissed in their direction and pulled her friend away.
A middle-aged man with a mustache stopped mid-stride, nose wrinkled like he’d smelled something foul. “The mouth on her,” he said. “It’s lucky there’re no kids around. And no one eating. Disgusting.”
“I know. I know.” Tor wiped at his eyes. “She’s like a space pirate. Can’t take her anywhere.”
The man nodded sympathetically. “She looks too sweet to have a mouth like a shitbox. Tell her to stop eating mang if they set her ass aflame.”
Klym looked faint. “Mang?”
“Spicy beans.”
Her face fell. “Oh, dear.”
“She’s from Argentus,” he called to the man. “I think all their women talk this way, the barbarians. Can you imagine? Nothing but bathing-chamber humor.”
“Bathing-chamber humor?” she mouthed.
“No wonder they’re going extinct, then,” the man said. “If all the girls roam around shouting about their bowels. And for god’s sake tell her not to talk about her ass hairs in public.”
The look on Klym’s face was one he never wanted to forget. He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, raising the holo-cam in her hand up to capture an image of their faces, him laughing and her frowning.
The man passed them by, giving her a wide berth.
“Oh, stop laughing at me.” She shoved his shoulder.
The crowd still lingered, gawking. A few of the men were studying her tits like there’d be a test tomorrow.
He stopped laughing and raised a brow. “She’s foreign. She didn’t know what she was saying. Go on, then.” He tilted his chin, and the crowd began to dissipate.
She watched them walking away. “What in the world did I say? Beans and h-hair?” She covered her mouth with her palms, her face turning redder by the minute. “Should I apologize?”
He rested his cheek on top of her head. “It’s okay if you have a hairy asshole, Klym. You’ve got other fine qualities.”
The elbow came out again, and she whisper-hissed, “I do not have a hairy bottom.”
“You sure? I’d be glad to check for you.”
She squeaked.
He squeezed his jaw between his thumb and forefingers, kneading the muscles there. “My cheeks hurt.” He turned her to walk down
