She not only needed his help, she wanted it.
“The PFLS,” she said at last, drawing a deep, calming breath. “They started out murdering Rankans and Beysibs in cold blood. Men, women, children-armed or unarmed, it didn’t matter. They began a reign of terror that ended up carving
Sanctuary into sections like a big pie, and their terrorist activities have earned them the animosity of nearly every citizen in town.” She paused, thinking suddenly of Zip. “Their leader still harbors dreams of Ilsig liberation, but the rest kill and kill simply for the feeling of power it gives them when they grind someone else into the dirt.”
Dismas came back bearing the sectarius of wine, the parchment, and the inkpot.
“Keep those,” she told him, taking the leather vessel. She unstoppered it, swallowed a mouthful, wiped her lips, and passed it to Walegrin who followed her example. “How goes it in there?” she asked Dismas, nodding toward the stables.
The gladiator looked askance and grinned. “Such a mating as I’ve never seen.
Hear for yourself how the mare enjoys her pleasure. I thought they were going to tear the stalls down, but they’ve taken more than a liking to each other.”
“I thought I heard Gestus cursing.” She took the wine from Walegrin, offered it to her man. Though her gladiators called her mistress, she treated them fully as equals.
Dismas lifted the bottle and swallowed. “He got kicked in the hand,” he explained. “He tried to unsaddle the Tros, but the mare already had her tail in the air.”
“I’ve met men who similarly couldn’t wait to undress,” she quipped. “I guess you’re all part horse.” She hesitated purposefully, then added, “or some part of a horse.” She slapped her rump and winked.