Brimstone Angels (9 page)

“Those sound like very clever plans,” Rohini said. “I only wish Brother Anthus were still with us, that he could assure us of their brilliance.”

Brother Anthus, Vartan’s predecessor, had been well ensconced in the Sovereignty’s good graces when Rohini first came to Neverwinter. Anthus never pressed Sovereignty’s proxy past his limits. Unfortunately, he’d made the mistake of pushing Rohini past
her
limits, which wasn’t a mistake anyone made twice.

She smiled sweetly at Brother Vartan. “I have to return to the acolytes.”

“Oh, of course,” he said. “But … we must have evenfeast later to discuss things. I shall be in the chapel in contemplation. Would you meet me there?”

Rohini smiled because she could not shudder. It might have been old and without a dedicated cleric, but the chapel was still hallowed ground. It would still be colder than a sword in a snowdrift in the heart of the Fifth Layer. It would still force her away.

“Certainly,” she said. “Until then.”

She watched Vartan walk away. She would simply have to find some task to engross herself in—caught up laboring over some poor spellscarred fool, perhaps. Or listening to an acolyte’s private heartbreak. She would pin her curls up, soft and loose, and find someplace where the sun’s low light would paint her in heartbreaking colors. That was the sort of follower Vartan wanted in her, romantic and feminine, traipsing after him with doting eyes and all the right, breathy questions. He would never think to ask why she hadn’t come to the chapel.

Rohini was so distracted by her planning that she walked into the wardroom without noticing the acolytes, and the succubus had only a moment to register that the young man who’d spoken earlier was disregarding her instructions and casting a healing spell.

Before she could stop him, his prayer was answered and traces of divine magic burst out in a scattered wind that bit into the succubus’s flesh like tiny icy needles.

The succubus flinched. Broken planes, but she hated acolytes.

The day had dragged on for so long, and the waybread Havilar had eaten a few hours before was nothing but a memory and an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but as the caravansary edged into sight, Havilar perked right up. A bed would be nice, dinner would be excellent, but most of all, Havilar was craving company. They were close enough now
to hear the shouts of a wagon master and the whinny of horses. The sharp laughter of a woman rose above it and for a moment, Havilar imagined herself that woman—wild and carefree and striking to any eye—

“Havi!” Mehen barked. She looked over her shoulder to see Mehen watching her pointedly, and Farideh shaking out a wrinkled, hooded cloak. Havilar stopped cold.

“Tell me you’re joking,” she said.

“Put on your cloak,” Mehen said.

“It’s hotter than a campfire!”

“Put. On. Your. Cloak. You can take it off when we know what we’re dealing with.”

Farideh was wrestling her hood over her horns. Havilar gave her a pointed look. Mehen worried too much.

Farideh returned the look with a stern, wordless glare of her own, as if telling Havilar to put her damned cloak on.

Havilar scowled. Farideh worried too much too. At least between those two, Havilar figured, she didn’t need to worry much at all. But she knew if she didn’t follow suit, they’d never get to the caravansary—the two worrywarts would insist they sleep in the woods for “safety’s sake.” Away from anyone interesting.

“I think,” Havilar said as they crossed the mostly empty courtyard, “we should spend some of the bounty on new cloaks. Pretty cloaks. Ones that don’t look like tents. Or itch.”

“Havi, put your hood up,” Farideh said, “please?”

“No one’s here,” Havilar said. “They make them with ribbons and things, you know?”

Her sister’s frown twitched into a smile. “Which would go so well with your glaive.”

“It would if I put a ribbon on Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers.”

Farideh laughed, and Mehen scowled back at them as they reached the inn. “Havi, put your hood up.”

The taproom of the inn wasn’t terribly crowded, but it was early yet, hardly sundown. Havilar surveyed the occupants—a handful of men, each sitting alone and wrapped around their ales; a raucous group playing cards and not paying attention to anyone else; a couple old wagon masters leaning against the bar. More than a few were staring at the trio. None of them looked remotely worth talking to.

“
M’henish,
” Havilar muttered. Farideh squeezed her arm, and despite herself, Havilar’s tail flicked nervously.

Mehen surveyed the room as well, looking for the bounty, no doubt. Havilar didn’t bother to look—she was sure Farideh was right. They had passed the dark-haired woman.

Mehen steered them to an empty table in the corner of the room and then went to the bar to pay for supper and lodging. Perhaps half those staring found something else to look at, until Havilar pulled her hood back a little—and a dozen pairs of eyes honed in on her.

“Havi—”

Havilar waved her off. “It’s too hot for that nonsense.”

In the shadow of her hood, Farideh flushed, but she said nothing. Good, Havilar thought. Maybe she was calming herself a little bit. Maybe she was worrying less about what a lot of boring old men thought. Havilar was sure Farideh would crave some company, too, if only she stopped worrying so much. Being driven out of Arush Vayem was the best thing that had ever happened to them—or it would be if she and Farideh would start taking advantage of it.

Mehen came back with two full bowls of greasy dumplings and a thin stew of greens and gravy. “Havi, put your hood up.”

“She’s right,” Farideh said. “It’s ungodly hot.” She looked down at the steaming bowls. “Especially if that’s supper.”

Mehen glowered down his snout at both of them. “The innkeeper says no food in the rooms. You have to eat down here, and that means you keep your cloaks on.”

“No one cares,” Havilar said, even though they were still getting a few curious looks.

“Stay here,” Mehen said. “Finish your suppers and go up to the room. Second room left of the stairwell. Then you may take off the cloaks.”

“Where are you going?” Farideh asked.

“To ask after our missing bounty,” he said as he walked away.

“
Karshoj,
” Farideh spat once Mehen was out of hearing. Havilar giggled—Farideh almost never swore—and got a dark look for it. “He’s being impossible lately,” Farideh said.

Havilar shrugged. “He’s being Mehen.” The doors opened and more people came in—more than a few caught sight of Havilar and stared. “I thought you two liked worrying together.”

Farideh picked up her spoon. “There’s a difference between being careful and not listening to reason.”

The dumplings were oily and heavily seasoned with onions, but they were hot and worlds better than old bread and dried meat. Havilar ate with one eye on the door and the people trickling in. These were a broader mix of sorts—younger, not-so-armed, looking around the taproom as if it were a novelty and not a fact of life.

Havilar elbowed Farideh. “Look. It’s that fellow you saved.”

The dark-haired boy lingered near the door, letting families and wagoneers go ahead. He looked tired, Havilar thought. Maybe that was why he didn’t look around or notice her and Farideh.

Farideh looked up and made a noncommittal noise. Havilar frowned at her, wondering not for the first time if there were something fundamentally wrong with her twin.

“What was his name again?” Havilar asked.

“Brin.”

Havilar nudged Farideh again with her elbow. “Go see if he wants to say thank you by eating with us.”

Farideh turned completely scarlet. “No.”

“Come on!”

“No!” She scraped the last of the gravy from her bowl. “Anyway, he seemed pretty happy to have us on our way.”

Now the boy was talking to the innkeeper who was shaking his head. The boy was getting flustered and arguing, but over the low din of the taproom, Havilar couldn’t hear about what. Maybe he didn’t want the dumplings.

“Let’s go,” Farideh said, standing. Much as she’d protested Mehen’s orders, she was still wearing the awful cloak.

Havilar stood. Finally, they were going to have some fun. “Where?”

Farideh pointed up the stairs. “Second door on the left, right?”

“Oh Fari, really?”

Farideh gave her another dark look, and headed upstairs. Havilar sighed heavily, picked up Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers, and followed. She looked sadly over at Brin as she passed—

And saw him pulling a half-empty bottle of liquor over the counter and shoving it inside his jerkin. He glanced around and spotted her
watching. Havilar smiled, but he turned away and sped out through the door.

“
M’henish,
” she muttered and headed upstairs.

The room wasn’t very big, but the bed was wide enough for the two of them, and there was space for Mehen on the floor and a table and chairs besides. A pitcher of water and a basin for washing rested on a stand and a small fireplace lay cold behind an iron screen. Farideh had pushed open the windows and sat in one of the chairs to catch the breeze. Havilar pulled off her cloak and tossed it across Farideh’s, already lying on the bed.

“I wish,” Farideh said after a moment of quiet, “you’d be a little less obvious. Don’t you think at all about what might happen? About what people might be thinking?”

Havilar sat in the other chair. “Why should I?”

“Do you know how long it takes for someone to make up their mind about you?” Farideh asked. “About anyone? Seconds. You don’t even have to open your mouth and they’ve already made their minds up. If you’re lucky you can change their minds, but … you’re a tiefling. It’s harder than it is for most.”

“Me?” Havilar said. “I’m delightful. Everyone knows that. Or everyone should.”

Farideh sighed. “I’m only saying be more careful—”

“You be more careful, you’re the responsible one.”

“Hardly,” Farideh said. “Mehen doesn’t trust me to do anything.”

“Because,” Havilar said, “you’re too careful. Anyway, who cares about Mehen? Careful doesn’t work with boys.”

“How would you know?”

“I’ve talked to boys.”

“When?”

“Before,” Havilar said. “At home.”

“There were four fellows within a dozen years of us,” Farideh said. “Which one did you prove your theory on?”

“Well you did with Iannis,” Havilar retorted. “Pretty clear careful doesn’t work with him.”

Farideh’s cheeks reddened and she looked away at the mention of the dairyman’s stupid son. Havilar rolled her eyes—her sister had been infatuated with one boy so far as she knew, and Farideh
was still sulking over it. All the more reason to get her out of this boring room.

“Come on,” Havilar cajoled. “We’ll just slip out for a bit.”

“No. You don’t know who’s out there.”

“Aren’t you bored of having no one but Mehen to talk to?”

Farideh frowned and rubbed her arm. “I have you.”

“Of course you have me. That’s always going to be true. But when was the last time we spent
any
time with anybody who wasn’t a hundred years old? And don’t say Lorcan,” she added. “Lorcan doesn’t count.”

“Of course he doesn’t count,” Farideh said. “Lorcan could be a hundred years old for all I know.” She rubbed her arm again.

Havilar frowned. “That’s not what I mean.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re talking about boys. Not Lorcan,” she added.

“He doesn’t count because he only talks to you,” Havilar said. “You think he’d have two words to say to me, since I brought him here and everything, but no.”

“Havi, you don’t want to talk to Lorcan,” Farideh said. Her hand gripped her upper arm tightly now, and Havilar glared at it. “Trust me.”

“Of course you say that,” Havilar said. “What do you tell him about me?”

“I don’t,” Farideh said. “We don’t talk about you. Havi, it’s not personal. It’s Lorcan. You don’t want him to notice you—I promise.”

“You want him to notice you.”

Farideh’s cheeks flushed again. “No, I don’t!”

“Then why are you always going off to talk to him? What are you doing? Calling him down when you get sick of us? You don’t even know him.”

Judging by Farideh’s startled expression, she’d thought it was a secret—which only made Havilar more annoyed. “It’s not like that,” Farideh said tightly. Then, “Has Mehen noticed?”

“After today? Probably. Even he’s not that dense.”

Farideh was quiet. “Havi, please,” she finally said. “It’s not because I’m sick of you. He’s just … He agreed not to turn up when people were around. So I have to be somewhere else to talk to him. It’s not about you,” she added. “Only about … spells. And things.”

Things which she didn’t bother to include Havilar in. Havilar turned and studied the open window, churning with unpleasant feelings she didn’t want to think about. Fine. If Farideh wanted to stay hidden up in the room, staring at the empty fireplace instead of going on a little adventure with her sister, Havilar wasn’t about to sit around with her. If she got bored, she could talk to stupid Lorcan.

“I’m getting Brin,” she announced. “Or whatever his name was.”

“No,” Farideh said. “Mehen told us to stay here.