‘“You look like shit,” she whispered.
‘“We look n-nothing alike,” I managed.
‘Her smile was water-thin. “Can you last two more days?”
‘I curled over into a ball, arms around my belly. “Want a bet?”
‘The girl looked at her hand, running a thumb down her forearm. I could see the vein beneath her skin, light blue, pulsing with that maddening, beautiful life. “Maybe you c—”
‘“Don’t,” I snarled, my fingers snapping around her wrist.
‘“You’re hurting me,” she whispered.
‘I released my grip, ashamed and sickening. “I’m sorry, just … don’t ever offer me that again, aright? Don’t even think it.”
‘“Why? If it’s the choice between that and starv—”
‘“Because I’m not a fucking animal. So just promise me.”
‘She looked me over, her lips thin. “I promise.”
‘And so, it began. Two days of hell as we punted up the Volta at what seemed a snail’s pace. Carlisle came by to check on me after an hour or so, but I gave monosyllabic answers until he got the message and let me be. I was probably the first member of the Ordo Argent these folk had ever seen in the flesh, and I’m sure the good capitaine and crew were disappointed in the show I was putting on. But I was just struggling to hold myself together. I kept my head down, conscious of Dior sitting vigil beside me. The girl didn’t move an inch until the bell rang for dinner, and then she was gone only a moment.
‘“There’s a man dying back there.”
‘I blinked through the haze, looking up as she handed me a wooden bowl of – you fucking guessed it – potato stew. “What?”
‘“Back there.” She nodded. “At the arse of the boat.”
‘I lifted the bowl and forced a mouthful down. “A boat’s arse is called a s-stern.”
‘“He’s with his famille. Refugees from Dún Cuinn. All these people.” Dior brushed her hair down over her face. “The man got his leg broken on the journey. It’s turning black.”
‘I glanced down to the stern, saw the famille Dior was talking about among the mob. A snaggle-faced fellow with a slender wife, two young lasses with eyes of old sky blue. The poor bastard was laid out in his love’s lap, sheened with sweat despite winter’s chill.
‘“I can smell him from here,” I nodded. “Leg’s gone septic. He’s a d-dead man.”
‘“His name is Boyd. His wife is Brenna. Their eldest is—”
‘“You’re not contemplating what I think you’re contemplating …”
‘Dior looked down at those scars on her palm. Up into my eyes. “And what’s that?”
‘“Something that’ll get you killed,” I growled, low and deadly. “Look around. These are peasantfolk, girl. They don’t hold truck with magik, and they don’t believe in miracles. What they believe in is devilry, and dark sorcerie. You start opening veins and laying on bloody hands to heal folk their ills, they’ll burn you for a fucking witch.”
‘“I don’t need lectures from you, hero.”
‘“Then pull your head out your arse,” I hissed.
‘“Right, I know you’re in a state? But I’m going to need you to march all the way off my tits here.”
‘I glanced down at her thin chest. “You’ve got no tits.”
‘Dior gasped, gobsmacked with outrage. “You fucking—”
‘“Listen, you get to San Michon, you do whatever bullshit they need you to. ’Til then, keep your head all the way down. Because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but if we hit trouble, I’m going to be as useful as a taddysack on a priest.”
‘Dior scowled and started scoffing her dinner. Pouting. Sullen. She was a piece of work, this girl. A thin streak of seagull shite with scabs on her knuckles. Always ready for a scrap, to answer back, to spit. But, turns out there was a good soul under all that front. Eyes that saw the hurts of the world, and a heart that wanted to fix them. For a moment, she reminded me so much of my own Patience I had to catch my breath.
‘“Look.” I gritted my teeth. “Apologies. I’m shabby company when I’m thirsting.”
‘“I’ve news for you. You’re not a bucket of chuckles when you’re not thirsting either.” She glowered. “I’ve tits that’d make angels cheer, you grumpy shit.”
‘“I’ll take your word for it. But I’m not riding your scrawny arse for the fun of it. We’re in a world of enemies here, girl. Danton aside, there’s that masked bloodmage chasing you, and as far as we know, the Inquisition are still hounding your trail.” I scowled, gulping down a scalding mouthful. “Fucking Rafa. Why he and his brethren sent word to the Pontifex about you is beyond me. Augustin is a nest of vipers. Always has been.”
‘“Welllll.” Dior gave a sad sigh, chewing her lip. “The Inquisition isn’t really Rafa’s fault. Those two bitches who chased us out of Dhahaeth …”
‘“The ones I shot? You knew them?”
‘She looked at her wrist. That thin scrawl of blue, like cracks in pale marble. “Let’s just say I don’t need a lecture on what folk do to witches these nights.”
‘“All the more reason to keep your gift on the quiet.”
‘“… Maybe.”
‘“You can’t save the world one inch at a time, girl. Believe me, I’ve tr—”
‘The thirst surged again, blood-red and stabbing. I clenched my teeth, felt them growing long in my gums, doubling over so my hair might hide my twisting face.
‘“Maybe you should sleep?” Dior murmured.
‘“Maybe you could b-beat me unconscious?”
‘“God, gladly.”
‘“Just not the f-face, aright?”
‘She sighed. “Will this do?”
‘I glanced up, saw a beaten tin flask in her hand. “Is that …？”
‘“It smells like dog shit soaked in flaming hair, but I’m fairly sure it’s liquor.”
‘I unscrewed the lid, my nose burning at the scent. “Where’d you get it?”
‘“Six years on the streets of Lashaame, remember?” She shrugged thin shoulders. “Picked it from the capitaine’s pocket. So maybe you’d best down it quickly and …”
‘Her voice faded as I tipped back my head, guzzled the entire flask. The liquor burned like fire, but still, it helped douse the flame in my belly a little. I lay down and curled into a ball, aching and miserable, wanting only to be numb.
‘Dior sighed. “You’re a bloody mess, hero.”
‘“Don’t blame the blade. Blame the b-blacksmith.”
‘She sighed, drummed her fingers on her knees.
‘“I’ll keep watch. Sleep now.”
‘I closed my eyes, sinking into the black behind them. Searching for quiet. The Almighty hadn’t been doing me many favours lately. And as I’d told Rafa, it was only a self-entitled fool who fancied the bastard would listen.