The Tainted Cup (Shadow of the Leviathan, #1)(62)
“Then do you trust them now?”
“Oh, no. I continue to feel something is amiss here. I just don’t know what it is. Yet still—tonight, stay sharp. We must establish the death scene, and there is most certainly someone out there who wishes you not do that. Strovi seems a solid sort, but…keep your hand close to your sword.”
I paused. “My sword is, ah…still made of wood, ma’am.”
She frowned and cocked her head. “Oh. Well…in that case, make sure your boots are laced up proper, boy, so you can run like hell.”
CHAPTER 20
| | |
STROVI AND I EXITED the tower just as the curfew bells stopped ringing. The streets of the city were now silent and empty, the buildings half lit by a moon shrouded in clouds. There were no lanterns or lights to be seen, except for the one swinging from Strovi’s hand and those carried by the patrolling Legionnaires.
If I’d not had Strovi striding along with me I’d have been locked up within twenty paces: each time a Legionnaire spotted us, they’d hurriedly advance, then pause at the sight of the captain, bow, salute, and let us proceed. Strovi would often shout a word of encouragement to them, or clap them on the back and bid them farewell. In the dark of that night, he seemed far older and more at ease than I. I had to remind myself we were almost the same age.
“Deserters,” he said to me at one corner, almost apologetically.
“Beg pardon, sir?” I said.
“That’s why there’s so many patrols. Streets aren’t often safe at night. Too many mutineers and deserters trickling back from the walls, trying to make it out of the canton. Captain Miljin might have acted a bit mad with you yesterday, flashing his sword about, but he wasn’t wrong when he mentioned that. They hide in houses in the day and move by night.”
I tried and failed to suppress a yawn. “I-I…I see, sir. I’ll take note.”
He smiled sympathetically. “Tired?”
“Somewhat, sir. I’m not used to sleeping so high up in a tower. Especially one that moves with the wind.”
“Let us stop at a station, then. I could use a hotfoot myself.”
He led me to the next corner, where a huge black canvas tent had been set up in the street. Legion officers in varying states of armor milled about before it, resting, regrouping, or receiving orders. Though I was tall, most of these men were taller, thicker, stronger than I, augmented chaps who could cleave me in two if they so much as tried. Yet they all saluted Strovi as the captain led me through to the back, bowing their heads and tapping their collarbones respectfully.
At the back sat a clay stove, the fire within bright and flickering. Three young boys squatted nearby, tending to the flames and boiling pots of water. Strovi held up two fingers to them, and they poured us two cups of tea, then grabbed a clay cask and dropped in a healthy finger of sotwine to each.
Strovi held his cup up to me. “Hotfoot. Clar-tea and mulled sot. We’ll be dancing and prancing for hours now, Kol. Chin to roof.”
He tossed his cup back and I did the same. It was hot and acrid and sweet, but not unpleasant. Instantly I felt warmth fill my bones, and then I felt a strange bubbling at the bottom of my brain, as if it were cooking in a pot.
Strovi grinned as he saw my face. “The Apoths have made many amazing alterations, but this strain of clar-herb is my favorite.”
We tarried in the warmth of the fire, drinking the dregs of our tea—“The last sip,” Strovi commented, “you could practically chew”—while the captain politely inquired about my time in the Iudex, and Daretana, and with Ana. It felt quite strange: I hadn’t had such casual conversation with anyone in months—certainly not with Ana—but definitely not with someone like Strovi, who seemed to embody the full bloom of imperial service. The man’s movements were easy and graceful, and his face was handsome and noble, with a laugh that never entirely left his pale green eyes.
“Nice to have a bit of civilization, isn’t it?” he said as we finished. “The only thing missing is a puff of pipe.”
“Oh. Wait a moment, sir,” I said. I reached into my pocket and produced the half of a shootstraw pipe Miljin had given me.
Strovi laughed. “What magic! I’ve half a mind to ask what else you hide in there.” He waved to one of the boys, and they brought over a hot iron from the fire. Strovi held it to the tip of the pipe and sucked at it until its end flared hot. Then he drew deeply and savored the smoke, letting it leak out of his nostrils. “I haven’t tasted such a fine bit of weed in ages. Where did you get this?”
“From Miljin,” I said. Then: “Or, really, from a Signum Vartas, who happily volunteered his pipe after Miljin, ah, threatened castration and disembowelment.”
Strovi laughed dully. “The old man hasn’t changed, then. The iron fist in the iron glove, about as subtle as six blows from a hammer.”
“You might say that, sir.”
“Don’t have to be so formal, Kol. I mean—I’m following your lead here, a bit, aren’t I?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. The idea of such a veteran officer following me was baffling.
He held out the pipe to me. “Go on. It’s yours, I shouldn’t take it.”
I took the pipe from him and drew deeply, my lips touching where his had been. I had never smoked before—I couldn’t afford such a habit—but I found myself reveling in the taste of the smoke, the way it seemed to twirl in my belly like a dancer.