Tim Waggoner: Thieves of Blood

Makala laughed softly. “Indeed.”

“Actually, the favored weapon of my order is the bow.”

Makala frowned. “You’re not carrying one.”

Diran smiled sheepishly. “I left it back in the room Ghaji and I rented at one of the nearby inns. I’m… still working on achieving proficiency with it.”

“Which means you couldn’t hit the broad side of a cow if it were three feet away from you.”

“Precisely.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, I continue to practice.” A pause in the conversation came then, and both Diran and Makala took the opportunity to drink more of their ale.

When they’d put their mugs down, Diran said, “I assume you haven’t come to the Principalities to kill me. You had a perfect chance to send a crossbow bolt into my back during the fight with the changeling, but you didn’t. You could’ve simply let the creature claw me to death, but you didn’t do that either.”

“Perhaps I didn’t want to take advantage of you while you were distracted.”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it. You were never one to hesitate, Makala, no matter the reason, no matter the target.” Though he tried, Diran couldn’t keep bitterness he felt out of his voice.

Makala looked him in the eyes and softly said, “I’ve changed, Diran.”

“Have you? How much?”

Makala paused to take a drink of her ale, and Diran knew she was stalling for time so that she might frame her reply to her best advantage. He knew this because he would’ve done the same thing. It was how the two of them had been raised.

“I know what you’re asking, and the answer is I’m free, just as I assume you must be, unless the Order of the Silver Flame has taken to ordaining possessed priests.”

Despite himself, Diran smiled. “You always had a way of approaching the most serious of subjects with humor.”

She smiled back. “Is there any other way?”

“Your assumption is correct. The dark spirit that once shared my body was cast out some time ago.” He almost said, A spirit you enticed me into accepting, but he didn’t, though it took an effort to hold his tongue.

“As was mine,” Makala said.

“Then you’ll have no objection to my making certain.”

Makala continued to smile, but her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Diran? Don’t you trust me?”

“If our places were reversed, would you?”

Makala’s smile faded. “What must I do?”

“Give me your hand.”

Her smiled returned. “If you wanted to hold my hand, Diran Bastiaan, all you had to do was ask.” She reached across the table and Diran gently grasped her hand.

It was the first time that their flesh had come in contact in years, but Diran remembered the soft smoothness of her skin as if they’d touched only yesterday. For a moment he savored the sensation of her hand in his, and though he was tempted to look into her eyes and see if she felt the same, he didn’t. He had a task to perform.

He closed his eyes and concentrated, opening both his mind and his spirit, searching for some indication that Makala’s own spirit wasn’t the sole inhabitant of her body, but he sensed no other presence.

He opened his eyes, but didn’t let go of her hand right away. “It’s true; you are free.”

“Told you.” Makala allowed him to hold onto her hand a moment longer before she withdrew it.

“There must be a story there,” Diran said.

The tavern door opened and Ghaji came striding in, the unconscious form of Redbeard slung over his shoulder. Despite the man’s girth, Ghaji carried him easily across the common room to his table. The tavern fell silent as Ghaji pulled Redbeard off his shoulder and placed him in his chair. The man remained upright for a moment, eyes closed, face and lips swollen and already beginning to bruise. Then he slumped forward and his forehead hit the wooden tabletop with a loud smack.

Ghaji nodded to Redbeard’s two companions, then turned and started back toward his own table.

“Feel better?” Diran asked as the half-orc took his seat once more.

Ghaji nodded. “We had a nice, civilized discussion and came to a mutual understanding.”

Redbeard’s associates were glaring at them, faces contorted in expressions of murderous fury. The serving girl came by again, this time with a mug for Ghaji. She cooled the ale, gave Ghaji a wink, then departed. Ghaji watched her go, his gaze lingering on her swaying hips. Diran didn’t blame him; they were an impressive sight.

Makala took Diran’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “It’s getting stuffy in here. I think I’d like to go outside and cool off in the night air.”

Diran glanced around the tavern. More than a few of the patrons were scowling in their direction, and some had their hands on their weapons. Whoever Redbeard was, he was evidently well liked in Port Verge, or the other patrons were simply bored and looking for a fight to entertain themselves.

“Sounds good to me.” Diran tossed a few coins on the table as a tip for their server. “Coming, Ghaji?”

Ghaji looked around before replying. “I think I’ll stay here and finish my ale, if you don’t mind. That’ll give you two a chance to get reacquainted. Who knows? Maybe I’ll make some more new friends.” The half-orc grinned, baring his lower incisors.

“Very well, but if you do, try not to play rough,” Diran said. “I’d rather not return to discover that a justicar arrested you and shipped you off to Dreadhold.”

Ghaji chuckled. “I’ll play nice.” The half-orc glanced toward Redbeard’s table. The loud-mouthed sailor was still unconscious, but his two companions had their hands in easy reach of their weapons. “Well… nice enough, anyway.”

Once Diran and Makala were outside the tavern, Makala didn’t take her hand from his arm, and he made no move to pull away from her. Though it was full night, everbright lanterns mounted on iron poles illuminated the streets. The light was a soft yellow-green that gave off an eerie glow, especially when, as now, mist from the sea rolled in. There were others on the street-couples like themselves, drunken revelers who’d likely been thrown out of one tavern and were searching for another, beggars who sat against buildings, holding forth wooden bowls and asking for whatever small coins passersby could spare.

Though it was summer, the night air was cool, and Makala drew her cloak around herself and walked closer to Diran, her hip pressed against his. Diran tried not to think about how good her body felt next to his, but he failed dismally.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing in Port Verge,” Diran said.

“Neither have you,” she countered.

Diran smiled. “True enough.”

An awkward silence fell between them, and they continued to walk for several moments without saying anything. Finally, Makala said, “Port Verge is a pleasant town-not so large or modern as Regalport, perhaps, but it has its charms.”

“Prince Kolberkon wouldn’t agree with you, I’m afraid,” Diran said. “He’s somewhat jealous of Regalport’s standing as the jewel of the Principalities. Rumor has it that he desires to build the town up until it challenges Regalport’s claim to the title.”

“What a shame,” Makala said. “I rather like it the way it is.”

Diran stopped and pointed northward. “Do you see that manor high on the northwestern hill overlooking the sea?”

The land Port Verge proper was built on was flat for the most part, with a gradual slope down to the sea, but the nobles who lived there-Prince Kolberkon chief among them-lived in luxurious manors in the hills that lay just outside the town limits. While the manors themselves were little more than shadowy shapes at this distance, lights burned in their windows, dotting the hills with points of illumination.