out for thieves. It’s not in you. You want to go through life left-handed?’
‘Stay sober enough to do it yourself, why don’t you?’ Mradhon said.
The cup came down on the tabletop. Moria stood up; the wine spilled over the
scarred surface, dripping off the edge.
But Haught thrust himself into Mradhon’s way in his own temper. Something seized
up in him when he did; his gut knotted. Ex-slave that he was, his nerves did not
forget. Old reflexes. ‘Don’t talk to her that way.’
Mradhon stared at him, northron like himself, broad-shouldered, sullen. Friend,
sometimes. A moment ago, if not now. More, he suspected Mradhon Vis of pity, the
way Mradhon stared at him, and that was harder than the blow.
Mradhon Vis turned his shoulder and walked away across the room, leaving him
nothing.
He put his hand on Moria’s then, but she snatched it away, out of humour. So he
stood there.
‘Don’t be scattering that mud about,’ Moria said to Mradhon’s back. ‘You do it,
you clean it up.’
Mradhon sat down on the single bed, on the blankets, began pulling off his
boots, heedless of puddles forming, of their bed soaking and blanket muddied.
‘Get up from there,’ Haught said, pushing it further.
But Mradhon only fixed him with a stare. Come and do something, it said, and
Haught stood still.
‘You listen to me,’ Mradhon said. ‘It takes money keeping her in wine. And until
she comes across with some cash out of Jubal, what better have we got? Or maybe
-‘ a second boot joined the other on the floor. ‘Maybe we ought to go looking
for Jubal on our own. Or the Stepsons. They’re running short of men.’