As Havec retreated gratefully to his chair, their host reached for his own seat, adding, “And pour me another fucking drink.”
***
They passed an uneasy night in the headman’s spare room, and neither of them got much sleep. The bed was so narrow Qanath wouldn’t have wanted to share it with someone she was actually sleeping with, and having room to stretch out was the least of her concerns. Havec sat down on the floor with his back against the door as they got settled, as if he expected an invasion; while she struggled out of her pants beneath the covers, he related his conversation with the headman. He hadn’t been kidding about Xar anKebbal not letting him drink, because he was still fiery over the fight, righteous about revealing himself. His eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, words slightly slurred. He must weigh at least half again as much as her, and Qanath was only mildly buzzed.
About the time he finished talking, he passed out sitting up against the door, leaving her to toss and turn and ruminate uneasily. Havec was still convinced the plot to remove him from the picture before he could take the throne originated in his homeland; he had been scornful of the idea, both that anyone in Tabbaqera would give a toss about a barbarian king, and that anyone in Tabbaqera would think giving him to a bonding-broker would actually work. Qanath was inclined to agree with him, but she was worried about the fact that his people thought it was her people’s fault.
Havec had told her that, so far as he remembered, his people took as little interest in the Empire as the Empire took in them. Tabbaqera was too big and too foreign to be either a rival or an ally, and Moritians had ignored it accordingly. Their host, though, had been openly hostile toward her.
Maybe his uncle had told their people that their prince’s disappearance was the result of Tabbaqeran politics as a means of covering his own involvement. Maybe that was the source of their newfound animus. If that was true, it wasn’t comforting. She knew Havec wouldn’t want to let anyone hurt her, but there were limits to what he could do.
People had been warning them all the way north that there were troubles on the border, and now she found herself wondering if they had just walked into a nascent war. If Havec’s countrymen let their anger drive them across the border to raid farms or attack a merchant’s caravan, well. Her people hadn’t built this empire or held onto it by letting provocations like that pass. And here she and Havec were on the wrong side of the border, if her people chose to send those troops they’d been massing over that border to retaliate.
She dozed off but woke with a start when the wind shook the house violently. When she glanced at Havec, she saw the faint, vitreous shimmer of light glinting off his eyes. He seemed to have woken from his brief, drunken stupor. He must be freezing. “You might as well come over here. I don’t think you can make me more uncomfortable than I already am.”
He rose and crossed the room. Qanath rolled onto her side to make space for him, although the bed was too small for that to really work. When he climbed in, his weight depressed the mattress, trying to tip her into him.
“It’s funny how safe you make me feel,” she pointed out. “Considering.”
He was silent for a minute. “Is this some Tabbi thing? I don’t get it…”
“Well, you have a spirit of primal vengeance inside you!”
Havec grunted. “It’s been so long since your people locked them away, I think you forgot why you did it.”
She twisted her neck to glance at him, although he was nothing more than shadows in the dark. “Oh?”
“Did you notice how fast my blisters healed? That sunburn was gone in two days, that is not how sunburns work.”
“You’re young and healthy.”
“I have nightmares. Had nightmares. For years. It doesn’t make sense it was that last night at the academy that made them go away.”
Qaanth frowned as she considered. “You think Kebbal is taking care of you.”
“It has to be.”
“Why lock them away, if they’re benevolent?”
“I feel… I feel incredible. Like I could do anything I set my mind to. And I’m pretty sure I could. Imagine a time before the Archetypes were caged within a single host. That wouldn’t have marked a change if it had always been that way. Then imagine a room full of people, as filled with petty grievances and undirected greed as all of us are.”
“Imagine those people as strong as you say you feel, filled with that kind of confidence, suddenly convinced that their vengeance or love deserved to be acted on,” she suggested.
“That’s my theory.”
It was interesting to consider, and lost in thought, she didn’t respond. For the remains of the night, they tossed side-by-side, one of them dozing briefly only to wake when the other moved. Uncomfortable though it was, Qanath wouldn’t have traded it for commodious solitude. Chopping vegetables under the hostile eyes of their host while Havec was outside had been tense, and that was before their fight. Before he revealed his identity.
The instant the sounds of the world waking arose beyond the walls, both of them sat up. While Havec opened the shutters, Qanath slipped into her pants. They could hear their host stirring, eager to greet the day or maybe just eager to be rid of them. When Qanath glanced out the window, she froze: a thin dusting of white covered the streets of town. She had seen snow fall from the sky on two separate occasions, but never seen it linger on the ground.
Her companion had seen it too and muttered, “Just our luck, eh?”
“Does it snow all year ‘round?”
“No, and it feels late for it. But what do I know? I seem to have forgotten more about this place than I remember anymore.”
It was on her lips to point at that this was because he was Tabbaqeran now and both of them ought to go back where they belonged. He would do what he would do, though. If his mother was nearby, they might finally know what they were facing soon.
They found their host moving about on the ground floor, preparing breakfast. He seemed to be in surprisingly good cheer, voice raised in song. The song was haunting, set in a melancholy minor key, and the boisterous way he hollered the words was incongruous.
He said something in greeting when he saw Havec, and the wry way he said it made her companion scowl. It surprised her when Havec led the way over to the table and sat down. She had expected them to go straight out the door, possibly with their host pitching household items at them. He had tried to kick them out last night before Havec faced him down.
He served them drinks while breakfast was still cooking over the hearth, and Qanath looked into another cup of cider, this one hot. Havec took a sip of his, then stood back up, said something to their host, and vanished through the door in the back that let onto the water closet. Qanath had ventured the toilet once last night and decided she would rather go out of doors; it was every bit as cold and wouldn’t stink.
She watched the massive man moving around his kitchen-area while they were alone, but he only glanced at her a few times. His gaze was wary and definitely not friendly, but he seemed more positively-disposed toward them than he had been last night. She had no idea what had changed. It was like he’d been impressed that Havec punched him in the face.
A minute later, Havec reemerged from the rear of the house, and when Qanath got a look at him, her mouth opened around a protest she chose not to voice. He had scrubbed his face until his cheeks turned pink, the damp hair silvery around the margin of his brow. The eyeliner was almost completely gone, save the shadows where it lingered amongst his lashes. Without it, he looked… Well, he just didn’t look like himself.
When their host saw him, he said something that made Havec’s upper lip twist. He was still wearing both the swords he took from Xar anKebbal’s household; he hadn’t taken them off last night until they were closeted in their room. With only a word of warning, their host turned to the counter, then turned back and threw an onion at Havec, followed by a turnip. So fast she didn’t see the action but only the result, he drew both swords and slashed, and there were parts of vegetables flying everywhere. Lazily, making a show, he spun one of the swords in a circle around his hand, then the other. Then he raised both of them in front of him, indicating his readiness to go on.
The big Moritian shook his head like he couldn’t decide what to make of this. He turned away from them, turning back a minute later with a bowl in each hand. While they addressed their unappetizing breakfasts of leaden glop, their host went to retrieve the vegetable parts from his floor. She wanted to ask Havec what was happening, but their host’s suspicion was palpable and she didn’t like to converse in a language he didn’t know. At best, he might think they were plotting against him; at worst, that she was casting spells.
He didn’t share the meal with them, and as soon as they were done, they rose. Havec handed over the bow he was still carrying, in payment or thanks, then the two of them shook hands. The man’s eyes did flick onto her briefly, but he made no move to acknowledge her as he showed them out the door.
The town was already waking, smoke streaming from every chimney to join the low ceiling of clouds. A sharp wind whistled down the streets, stirring up eerie curtains of fallen snow. The sun hadn’t cleared the horizon and her breath gusted about her face in icy shards. Havec shivered and Qanath tried to pass him the hat.
“Keep it, it is yours,” he said as he set off north.
“I have hair growing over my neck and ears.”
