Thrush turned around, exposing the wound to the torchlight. Everyone in the
courtyard who carried a sword felt a twinge. The skin on Kama’s palm lay in
twisted spikes cross-hatched with black splinters from the cistern walls; not a
wound that killed but one that stole reflexes and precision, which was just as
bad. Kama shed a fraction of her composure.
“Lady,” Thrush stared up into Kama’s eyes, “you got a good doctor in there?” He
shrugged a shoulder Mazeward and pointed the wineskin at her palm.
“Are you any better?”
Thrusher bared all his teeth.
“He’s not bad,” Walegrin confirmed, “but the demon’s piss he keeps in that sack
of his is guaranteed.” , “Given to me by my one-eyed grandmother….” Thrusher
explained as a stream of colorless liquid spurted toward Kama’s hand.
“It’ll hurt like hell,” a faceless voice warned from beyond the torchlight.
But Kama already knew that. Her face went white and rigid and stayed that way
until Thrusher put the cork back in the wineskin. Strat offered a strip of his
tunic as a bandage as her own clothing was as filthy as the wound had been. She
seemed relieved when Strat put his hand under her arm.
“Why?” Strat asked in a voice Walegrin saw rather than heard.
“Go on back to the barracks,” Walegrin ordered quickly but made no move to leave
the courtyard himself. “We’ll see the lady to her lodgings.” He met Strat’s
glower and outlasted it. “You and I have a jug of wine to split,” he explained
when his men had vanished.
“Why, Kama?” Strat repeated. “Didn’t he think Crit would carry out his orders?”