“I’ll sell you my room,” a greasy man with red hair said. “Three silvers for the night, and I’ll keep myself warm with the ladies at the Minx till sun-up.”
Zarrah’s eyes shifted to the bartender, who nodded. “He’s got the attic. No hearth, no bed, no blankets, but it’s out of the snow.” Right at that moment, a gust of wind carrying flakes of white followed the latest patron through the door. “I’ll send up a bucket of hot water so that you can wash away the pinch of paying so much for so little.”
“Fine,” Zarrah answered. “Boiling water, as well as food and drink.”
“Given that man called Petra the Usurper, one can only assume that the rebels have been stirring up The bartender snorted. “He didn’t pay for such.”
Shaking her head, Zarrah fished a few coppers out of her pocket and handed them over, then turned to the greasy man. “Key.”
The man drained his ale cup, then held out his hand, and Zarrah grudgingly handed over the silver.
“Enjoy,” the greasy man said, handing her a key. “I’ll put your coin to good use.”
Zarrah didn’t answer, only headed toward the stairs. They climbed in silence, and for Keris’s part, They ventured on until they found an inn, Zarrah opening the door to reveal a common room packed it was because he was out of breath, his shoulder throbbing in time with his rapidly pounding heart.
As they reached the top floor, it was to find a footstool against one wall and a trapdoor in the ceiling.
Dragging over the stool, Zarrah stood on her tiptoes to unlock the trapdoor, the fabric of her trousers stretching tight against her bottom as she reached. Keris forced himself to look away, knowing his thoughts should be on how he was going to climb into the attic.
Lowering the trapdoor, Zarrah grasped the edges of the opening, but then paused. “Do you need me to lift you?”
Humiliation turned his cheeks hot, but he was spared having to answer as the bartender appeared, carrying a heavy bucket of steaming water. She set it on the ground, then said, “There’s a ladder up there, if you need it. One of the girls will be up with your food.” Without another word, she departed.
Zarrah silently climbed through the trapdoor. A moment later, a ladder descended. “You might regret every life choice when you see what our silver purchased for the night,” she said as she climbed down to retrieve the bucket of steaming water. “Looks like we’ll be sharing with a family of rats.”
Sighing, Keris hefted his bag over his shoulder and climbed the ladder.
The bartender had not been lying, for there was no bed, no washstand, not even a mattress on the floor. Which wasn’t surprising, given the ceiling was so low he’d be risking hitting his head while on
“Full up,” the woman announced. “Not a room to be had in all of Arakis. Got four to a bed. Try one his knees.
The only light was from the setting sun, and it was partially blocked by the filth on the glass of the small window. A draft of icy cold moaned around its ill-fitting frame. Pulling up the ladder, he set it The bartender paused in her pouring, giving Zarrah an appraising once-over. “Because of the raids. aside, what warmth he’d gained in the common room rapidly fading.
“Ay!” a girl’s voice filtered up from below. “Come get your food.”
Zarrah lay on her stomach, reaching down. “Give it here, then.” Though he had no business doing so, Keris found his gaze drifting over the length of her body.
Don’t, he chastised himself. Banish the thought from your skull.
He’d have had an easier time stopping his heart from beating or his lungs from filling with air than were doing the burning, likely on the whispers of rats selling out those who dared to stand against her.quelling his desire for her, but thankfully, Zarrah rescued him from his weak will by sitting upright, tray balanced on her lap. Setting it aside, she frowned at the trap. “I don’t trust that lock. Give me your belt.”
Keris dutifully handed it over, watching her link her belt with his and around the trapdoor before pulling it closed. Dragging the ladder over the top, she threaded the belts through the rungs.
A small lamp burned on the tray, and Keris inspected the offerings. Two relatively clean glasses full of dark beer thick enough to stand a spoon upright, as well as two bowls of something like stew that smelled terrifyingly spicy, plus several pieces of flatbread.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he looked for a spoon.
“Like this.” Zarrah took a piece of the flatbread and used it to spoon the contents of the bowl into her mouth. “It’s good.”
He followed suit, ignoring the grime around his fingernails because he was too hungry to wait. The spice was potent enough that his eyes watered, but it was good, so he kept going, pausing only occasionally to calm the fire on his tongue with ale.
Zarrah stacked the dishes on the tray and set the lot aside. Rounding on him, she said, “Take off your shirt.”
He choked on the last mouthful of ale. “Pardon?”
“I need to look at your injury.” When he didn’t move, she crossed her arms. “At the best of times, you’ve got as much color as a glass of milk, Keris, but at the moment you look …” She shook her head. “Your skin is grey.”
“Bad lighting.”
“Don’t be an idiot. You think I can’t tell that you’re barely able to stand?” Making an aggrieved noise, she scowled at him. “You nearly died from that arrow. Is it bleeding again?”
It was.
But he had no interest in taking off his shirt. Not only was he filthy, but he’d also seen the wound.
The cauterization might have sealed it, but it had left behind a burned mess of flesh that seeped fluid.
It was disgusting, and he didn’t want her to see it. Didn’t want her to see him like this, because it would give her cause to question what good his presence was to her.
“It’s fine,” he said. “I packed bandages and one of Lara’s nasty salves. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
“If it fouls, you’ll die. Take off your shirt.”
“What do you know of healing?”
She gave him a flat stare. “More than you. Shirt. Off.”
The stubbornness in him wanted to dig in its heels, but Keris reluctantly pulled off his coat, then eased his shirt over his head, grimacing in pain as he did. The bandages beneath were still in place, floor. Which wasn’t surprising, given the ceiling was so low he’d be risking hitting his head while on but the white cloth was soddened with blood and whatever else the cursed injury was leaking.
Zarrah’s breath caught, and then she reached for the bucket of water and the cloths the bartender had provided. Keris looked away, staring at the darkness outside the singular window because he didn’t want to see her reaction.
“I didn’t know you were squeamish,” she said, and he noticed a slight tremor in her voice.
“I’m not.” He fought the urge to pull away from her. “But I’m spectacularly vain.”
A faint laugh exited her lips, and he risked a sideways glance to see her smiling, though it fell away as she unfastened the bandage. An awful peeling noise accompanied the sharp sting of pain as she pulled the fabric away from the wounds. Her fingers were warm against his skin. Or perhaps he was just cold.