Zachary Jernigan - No Return

“A little,” Churls allowed. “Where’s Berun?”

“He stayed outside.” Vedas shrugged. “I looked back, but he just waved me in.”

Churls hid a smile behind her hand.

A server arrived—a teenage girl with proportions Churls had once cursed herself for lacking. Now such women looked soft and ungainly to her. Fighting with breasts like that would be almost impossible. How did the girl know who she was without scars, tattoos to prove she had been to this place at this time? Very likely, she had never been anywhere but Danoor, traveled no farther than a nearby quarter to see her parents.

To be the daughter of this man, the wife of this man, etcetera and etcetera. Nothing more.

Churls thought of Fyra. She would be about the server’s age if she were alive. What would she have said about her family, her position in the world? Would she have been a warrior, a good lover to a faithful, boring man?

“What is your desire?” the girl asked. She looked only at Vedas and cocked her hip slightly, causing the fabric of her short robe to part, offering him a view of her shaved pudendum. In most whorehouses, this view alone cost money.

The drinks would be expensive, Churls reasoned.

Of course, the girl might have revealed herself on a whim, made a flirtatious gesture for the heroic Black Suit. Vedas had received enough shy looks in the streets, suffered enough awkward greetings. Due to the lack of other suited individuals, Churls gathered brothers and sisters of the Order were not allowed to stray from camp during the tournament. A smart move. Fighters became lax if pussy and cock were free for the taking.

“Tecas,” Churls answered. “Two. And glasses of water, iced if you have it.”

The server ignored her and lingered for a moment, as if she expected Vedas to speak. He glanced up, eyebrows raised, and then looked away. The girl’s exhalation was audible. Churls laughed out loud, breaking some of the tension constricting the muscles in her chest.

“What do you think they’ll charge for the water?” she asked.

‡

She watched his hands, which were thickly muscled and large enough to envelope her own. She hated stubby or tapering fingers, but his had grown to the perfect length and thickness. Though somewhat obscured by the fabric of his suit, even the veins on the backs of his hands crossed flesh and bone in graceful arcs.

She had long ago noticed the way he touched himself constantly, compulsively, running his hands over the hard contours of his body—testing the springiness of his ridged abdomen with his fingertips, caressing the inside of his thighs—laying a palm over his heart, rubbing his heavy pectoral muscles as though reassuring himself of his own existence. He did these things, and it did not seem to matter where he was. She assumed the actions were subconscious, automatic, an expression of the sensual he did not otherwise allow himself.

She could not blame him. The things she would do with his body if she inhabited it.

In truth, there was no end to his allure. Sometimes she hated his beauty, considering its existence an affront to her desire. A gross injustice, being subjected to it every day. It had been decades since she had felt so selfconscious about her own looks. Not so much the quality of her appearance, but the differences between her and Vedas.

Walking the streets of Danoor, she had been especially aware of the disparity. Reading judgment in the dark gazes around her was easy. Knosi, after all, were famed for their flawless complexions. Her freckles, a feature she had always been proud of, suddenly seemed like so many imperfections on her sun- and wind-burnt skin.

She ordered a second round, and he did not object or bring up the time.

“A plate of bread, as well,” he told the server, for which Churls was grateful. They had not eaten since noon, and the alcohol intensified her hunger.

They continued talking of inconsequential matters, lingering on details of their trip, avoiding any mention of the tournament. His gaze never drifted to the prostitutes, many of whom had situated themselves on couches closer to him. He looked at his drink, his hands. He met Churls’s eyes more often as they drank. In order to eat the highly spiced food, they both had to lean toward the table. Twice, they reached for bread at the same time. Once, his hand brushed hers and did not immediately pull away.

An hour stretched to two as business picked up. It became too loud to talk softly, but she did not mind holding her tongue. Apparently, neither did he. She ordered another round, another plate of food. He leaned back and she could not stop her eyes from drifting to the bulge of his genitals outlined by the fabric of his suit.

He folded his hands on his lower belly and sighed. She heard a signal within it, dreaded hearing the words it presaged: I have to go.

“I’ve rewritten the speech.”

She blinked, quickly reorganizing her thoughts and suffering a pang of guilt. She had managed to shuffle his speech to the back of her mind, had failed to make her opinion of the document more obvious. It was important. He had asked for her help. But the crash on Tan-Ten had turned her world upside-down. She had spent the last month flinching at every shadow, staying close to campfires for fear of encountering Fyra again.

And the claims the girl had made? Churls avoided thinking of these at all costs. Only the proximity of Danoor had been enough to tear her away from obsessive evasion.

“Oh, yes?” she finally said, hating the tremor in her voice. “You’re happy with it?”

He sat up and rested his forearms on his knees. He offered a wan smile. “Happy’s not really the word. I’m satisfied with it. I’ve said what I want to say, instead of what Abse wants me to say. I’ve...” He gestured vaguely. “I’ve come to terms with the things I’ve seen since leaving Golna. I’m not the same man. Abse won’t like what I have to say. Many people won’t like it. But it’s better than the alternative, which is more of the same violence on a larger scale.”

She leaned forward. “What about the Tomen?”

He grimaced. “They’ll still attack. I don’t see a way anyone can stop that. The longer I think about it, though, the more likely it seems that violence will erupt even without the Tomen threat. I can’t explain how, but I feel it in the streets, the nervousness. I felt it on the trail, too. Hopefully my message will at least sway the fighting in a different direction, away from innocent people.”

He licked his fingers clean, and then frowned. He looked toward the door, making her heart sink. “This talk reminds me, I have to get going. I have a little dust left. Not much, but I should help you pay.”

“You don’t have to go,” she said.

“Yes, I do. The first rounds are tomorrow. You...” He stood, shouldering his pack. His eyes eventually met hers. “You’ll be there? For the final fight on the eve?”

Her right hand twitched in her lap. Only a short reach to grab his hand.

Only two words: Don’t go.

“Tell me you will,” he insisted.

“Yes,” she answered, and watched him leave.

‡

Two hours later, she emerged from the whorehouse, drunk and lightened of nearly eight grams of dust. Berun was nowhere to be found, so she bought a packet of sempa resin from a street vendor and smeared it on her gums. After fifteen minutes of searching, she located a normal inn crowded with reveling travelers. She ordered a lager and sat down to survey the crowd. A number of nationalities were represented, though porcelain-skinned Ulomi men comprised the majority, and Tomen were absent altogether.

At a table in the center, a group sat playing kingsmader, a Stoli tile game at which Churls possessed no skill. She knew the rules, but nothing of the nuance.