“If it weren’t for you?” Krita prompted, challenge in her tone.
“If it weren’t for Shill,” Hansen said. “And Malcolm. But yeah, I was there too. And your father wasn’t.”
Her body shifted. “Here,” she said. “Lie beside me for a moment. Is there enough room?”
There was, so long as Hansen watched his head. The bed was almost as broad as the cubicle itself, but the sweep of the thatch lowered the ceiling on the outer edge.
She ran a hand down his chest to his groin. Hansen’s belly muscles twitched. He was always ticklish, but particularly at times like these.
He was as relaxed as he’d ever been in his life. He began to play with the woman’s groin.
“I’ve heard what happened during the battle,” she said. Her vaginal muscles sucked greedily at his finger. “The real stories—oh—not just the boasting around the table tonight. Oh. Oh. Why do you. Blame yourself. For Shill dying?”
Hansen concentrated on what he was doing. Discipline had gotten him through a lot of bad moments, out of a lot of situations that he’d rather not have been in.
“Because he was my man,” he said quietly. “Because he did what I ordered him to do and taught him to do, and doing that got him killed.”
“And so he died cursing you?” the woman said. “That’s not what I heard.”
“He didn’t know what he was saying at the end,” Hansen said.
“Don’t believe it!” Krita said harshly. She pulled his face down to her breasts again. “Yes,” she murmured, “yessss. . . . Bite them—please, bite.”
Her fingers were like oaken dowels on the back of his head and neck.
“Shill was sixty years old,” she whispered into Hansen’s ear. “He’d never been anything. He wouldn’t even have had a job here if it weren’t for Malcolm, and Taddeusz wanting to keep Malcolm happy even though he doesn’t like him.”
She’d been manipulating his prick as she spoke. Now she threw her legs over his. The ceiling was in the way. Hansen slid sideways, to where the thatch gave her enough room to mount him.
“You made Shill a warrior, Hansen,” she said as she inserted him into herself. “You made him a man. If you were a god, you couldn’t have served him better.”
A fist pounded on the barred door. “Krita?” Taddeusz shouted. “Krita! Come out of there, you little bitch!”
Hansen’s hand gripped the end of his pry-bar. “Your idea?” he asked softly.
“Gods no!” the woman gasped as she fumbled for her robe. “No, no. Oh, gods, I’m . . .”
“Hansen, open this door or I’ll break it down!” Taddeusz demanded. His fist slammed the panel hard enough to spring the boards. A trickle of yellow lamplight entered the cubicle.
Hansen explored the ceiling with his hand. The thatch was on stringers at half-meter intervals, plenty of room to slip a body through—but there was a mesh of withies above the stringers, and that wouldn’t pass anything larger than a clenched fist.
“Didn’t I say open?” bellowed Taddeusz as the door slammed repeatedly. The bar held but the panel itself began to split.
“Into the suit!” Hansen whispered as he tucked his pry-bar under one of the stringers and lifted, putting his full strength into the motion.
The mass of thatch shifted, but only a few strands of the tough willow-wand netting popped despite his effort. Hansen moved the bar and tried again. Night air gushed through the temporary gaps.
Half a board smashed in from the door. Taddeusz’ big hand reached through the rectangle of lamplight and raised the latch.
The woman was out of sight.
Hansen swung to his feet and pulled the door open. He wished he’d had time to dress, but he wished a lot of things right about now. He held the pry-bar loosely at his side.
“What’s all this about?” he demanded as Taddeusz pushed him backward and Hansen slammed the heel of his foot down on Taddeusz’ instep.
The warchief yelped and halted. The hall behind him was full of people. Nobody in the building could’ve been drunk enough to sleep through that hammering.
Taddeusz carried one of the freemen’s lances, gripping it well ahead of the balance. An awkward weapon.