‘“Hold,” a voice with a thick Sūdhaemi accent cried. “Who goes?”
‘“A thirsty man with no time for bullshit,” I called back.
‘“There’s a dozen crossbows pointed at your chest right now, fuckarse. I’d be speaking more polite if I were you.”
‘“Fuckarse, that’s a clever one,” I nodded. “I’ll remember it next time I’m climbing aboard your wife.”
‘I heard a soft guffaw from one of the other figures, and the voice spoke again. “Good luck on the road, stranger. You’ll ’ave need of it.”
‘I sighed softly, pulled off my glove with my teeth, and held my left hand aloft. The sevenstar inked in my palm glinted dully in the firelight. And I heard a whisper then, running through the figures like red fever.
‘“Silversaint.”
‘“Silversaint!”
‘“Open the bloody gate!” someone cried.
‘I heard the heavy clunk of wood, and the palisade doors yawned wide. I gave Jez a nudge, my eyes narrowed against the torchlight. A cadre of guards waited in a muddy bailey beyond, nervous as spring lambs. I could tell at a glance they were pressganged militia – most had seen too few winters, the others, far too many. They wore old, boiled leather and carried crossbows, burning torches, ashwood spears – all pointed in my vicinity.
‘I climbed off Jezebel, gave her a grateful pat. Then I turned to the stone font to the right of the gate. It was crafted in the likeness of Sanael, Angel of Blood, his outstretched hands holding a bowl of clear water. The militiamen tensed, weapons ready. And looking them in the eye, I dipped my fingers inside and wiggled.’
Jean-Fran?ois blinked in silent question.
‘Holy water,’ Gabriel explained.
‘Quaint,’ the vampire replied. ‘But tell me, why insult the gatekeeper? When you could simply have proffered your palm and entered without fuss?’
‘I’d just murdered my best friend. Almost lost my life to a pack of mongrel corpses. My arm was throbbing like a virgin’s pecker on his first trip into the woods, I was tired and hungry and fiending for a smoke, and I’m something of a bastard on the best of days. And that day was hardly my best.’
Jean-Fran?ois’s gaze roamed Gabriel, toe to crown. ‘Nor this one, I fear?’
Gabriel tapped an empty leather pouch at his belt. ‘Behold the purse in which I keep my fucks for what you think of me.’
The vampire tilted his head and waited.
‘The militiamen stepped aside,’ Gabriel continued. ‘Most had never seen a silversaint, I’d guess, but the wars had been raging for years by then, and all had heard tales of the Ordo Argent. I could see wonder in the youngers, quiet respect among the older men. I knew what they saw when they looked at me. A bastard halfbreed. A Godsent lunatic. The silver flame burning between what was left of civilization, and the dark set to swallow it whole.
‘“I don’t ’ave a wife,” one said to me.
‘I blinked at him. A buck-toothed young Sūdhaemi scrap he was: dark skin, tight cropped hair, barely old enough for fuzz on his taddysack.
‘“You said you’d be climbing onto my wife later,” he said, defiant. “I don’t ’ave one.”
‘“Count yourself blessed, boy. Now, which way to the fucking pub?”’
IV
ON THE PERILS OF MATRIMONY
‘THE PLACARD ABOVE the taverne’s door read THE PERFECT HUSBAND. The faded lettering was accompanied by a picture of a freshly dug grave. I hadn’t yet set foot in the place, and I was already fond of it.
‘The town had seen better nights, but twenty-four years after daysdeath, there were few places in the empire that wasn’t true of. Truth told, it was lucky to have survived at all. Dhahaeth’s streets were freezing mud, her buildings leaning on each other like drunkards at last call. Ancient cloves of garlic or braids of virgins’ hair were nailed to every door, churlsilver or salt scattered at every window – for all the good it would do. The whole place stank of shite and mushrooms, the streets crawled with rats, and the folk I passed took one look at me and hurried on through the freezing rain, making the sign of the wheel.
‘The town got enough traffic to still have a stable, though. The groom caught the ha-royale I flipped him, pocketing the coin as I dismounted. “Give her your best fare and a good rubdown,” I told him, patting Jez’s neck. “This dame’s well and truly earned it.”
‘The lad stared at the sevenstar on my palm, awed. “Yer a silversaint. Do you—”
‘“Just mind the fucking horse, boy.”
‘My hands were shaking as I handed over the reins, and the ache in my broken arm and empty belly made it easy to ignore his wounded look. Without another word, I stomped across the mud, under a wreath of withered silverbell, and pushed my way through the doors of the Perfect Husband.
‘Despite the grim signage, the pub was comfortable as an old rocking chair. The walls were plastered with playbills from one of the bigger cities up in Elidaen – Isabeau, or maybe even Augustin. Bordello shows mostly, and burlesque. The framed watercolours about the commonroom were of scantily clad femmes in lace and corsetry, and a full-length portrait above the bar was of a beautiful green-eyed lass with deep-brown skin, wearing naught but a feather boa. The commonroom was softly lit, jammed full of patrons, and I could see why. Every taverne I’ve ever visited has the impression of its owner soaked into the walls. And this one’s was as warm and fond as an old lover’s arms.
‘Conversation stilled as I entered. All eyes turned to me as I unbuckled my swordbelt, sloughed off my greatcoat with a wince. I was soaked underneath, deathly cold, leathers and tunic clinging to my skin. I’d have boxed my own grandmama in the baps for a hot bath, but I needed food first. And a smoke, Almighty God, a fucking smoke.
‘I hung up my coat and tricorn, stomped across the commonroom. The table closest to the fire was occupied by three youngbloods in militia kit. In front of them sat a few empty plates, and more important, a candle burning in a dusty wine bottle.
‘“… Do you wish to join us, adii?” one asked.
‘“No. And I’m not your friend.”
‘Uncomfortable silence hung in the room. I simply stood and stared. And finally getting the hint, the lads excused themselves and vacated the table.’
Jean-Fran?ois chuckled, pen scratching. ‘You were quite the bastard, de León.’
‘Now you’re catching on, coldblood.’
Gabriel scratched at his stubble, dragged a hand through his hair as he continued.
‘Tugging off my boots, I put them near the fire. I was reaching for my pipe when a taverne lass materialized beside me.
‘“Your pleasure, adii?” she asked in a gentle Sūdhaemi accent.
‘Glancing up, I saw dark tresses. Green eyes. I blinked at the portrait over the bar.
‘“My mama,” she explained, with the wounded air of someone who had to do it often. She nodded to a woman behind the counter, generously proportioned and twenty years older, but definitely the painting’s subject. I idly wondered if she’d kept the boa.
‘“Food,” I told the girl, fumbling with my pipe. “And a room for the night.”