In Which I Think
Unwise Thoughts
and Say Some Farewells
The course of true love never did run smooth.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Nothing is more annoying than somebody who has a keen eye for the obvious.
—WALTER SLOVOTSKY
I managed to say goodbye to all my family, starting with the youngest one.
Doria Andrea takes after her father—she's a late-night kind of Slovotsky, like me and Stash, unlike Emma and Steve and her mother and sister—but when you're that age, staying up late means making it through a long dinner, and that's about all.
"Sleep well, little prosecutor," I said as I tucked her in, in a private joke that only the originals among us would have gotten, and nobody but me found even mildly funny.
D.A. wrapped her little arms tight around my neck as I leaned over. "Come back soon, Daddy. Please."
"Will do," I said, gently prying myself away. I rested my hand on her head for a moment, on the soft baby-hair that was getting more golden each day, like her mother's. "G'night, Sweetheart."
Janie was waiting for me out in the hall, leaning against the wall. She started to say something, but cut off when I put a finger to my lips. I shut the door gently and followed her over to the landing.
"Trouble is, Daddy dearest," she said, ignoring my grimace, "you're getting too tricky in your old age."
"Oh?" I asked, trying to sound casual. I hate it when she calls me "Daddy dearest."
"You've managed to teach my boyfriend not to push you around—to not try to push you around. But it looks to me like you gave up a cheap little dry run that would have been good for the lot of you. Doesn't sound like a good trade to me." She shrugged. "If my opinion counts for anything."
Since that had been bothering the hell out of me anyway, I found it as hard to disagree with her as it would have been to admit that it was wrong, so I didn't do either.
"It counts, kid," I said, hugging her for only a moment.
She smiled. Why is it that my daughters' smiles brighten the whole world?
"Be good," I said.
Kirah was sitting in the overstuffed armchair, a lamp at her left elbow, her sewing set aside as she worked on some knitting or tatting or whatever; I don't know the difference and I don't much care.
"You're going," she said, her voice flat, as though to say, I won't ask you not to go.
"So it seems." I smiled. "Hey, not to worry. I know how to duck."
She forced a smile. Either that, or her real smile and her forced smile had started to look the same to me. I should have been able to tell, after all these years. I really should.
"That's good," she said.
It was getting chilly out, and it was already chilly in. I shrugged out of my finery and padded over to the closet, dressing quickly in undershorts, black leather trousers, blousy black cotton shirt, and—lest I look like Johnny Cash—a long brown cloak, fastened loosely at the breastbone by a blackened brass clasp. I took a rose from the vase on our nightstand, sniffed at it once, and stuck it in the clasp, examining myself in the dressing mirror.
I'm not entirely sure I liked the sharp-eyed fellow who looked back at me, although he was good-looking enough.
Pretty darned handsome, in fact, the features regular, and there was kind of a pleasant Eastern cast to his eyes. Nice firm jawline, and clever mouth under the Fu Manchu-style mustache. He was well into his forties, but there were only hints of lines at the edges of his eyes, although the touches of gray at the temple were pretty nice—too bad that the gray was as lopsided as the smile.
It was clear from that far-too-easy smile that he spent too much time being entirely too pleased with himself, but it wasn't clear to me that there was enough character in his face for that to be at all reasonable.
It was entirely possible that he was thinking about how he was going out on the road with a particularly attractive old friend of his, and how—what with her son having cleverly been talked out of joining him—he might arrange to get his ashes properly hauled.
It was also possible that he was thinking about how wrong it was to be thinking about that in front of his wife. I doubt it, though. Like I say, I'm not entirely sure I liked the guy.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, as though we were a normal husband and wife, the kind who could ask each other that kind of question and expect an honest answer.
Kirah, I thought, what happened to us? "Well," I said, putting on my reassuring smile, "I'm thinking I'm practically naked." Close enough.
I went to the dresser and put on my weapons: throwing knives properly stowed, pistols in their holsters, master belt holding both shortsword and my long, pointed dagger. I know that a bowie is a better weapon, but I like the dagger better. Tradition, and all that.
Besides, I'm used to it.
I rolled up my hunting vest and stuck it under an arm. The Therranji garrottes were in two of the pockets.
She put down her knitting or tatting or whatever it was and walked to the chifforobe in the corner.
"Here," she said, handing me a full leather rucksack. "Clothes, some dried beef, a few candies, everything you need." She smiled up at me. "Almost."
I stuffed the vest inside, then slung it over a shoulder. "Thanks." I kissed the tips of my fingers and touched the air in front of her.
She leaned toward my hand and swallowed once, twice, hard. "You'll be back soon?"
Of course, I should have said. Don't worry. "Do you want me to?"
"Yes." She nodded. "Oh, yes. I do."
"Then why not—good."
She waited expectantly, her face upturned. No matter how many times it went wrong, I always thought that if I moved slowly enough, gently enough, she would be okay. This time it would be okay.
Asshole.
"It's okay, Kirah," I said, putting my arms around her. For a moment, just a moment, I thought it would be okay, now that she could let me touch her again.
But she shook her head once, emphatically, and then again, violently, and then she set her hands on my chest and pushed me away. "No."
I walked out of the room, ignoring the whimper behind me.
Dammit, it's not my fault.
There was a farewell committee waiting for us down in the stables: Doria, Aeia, Durine, Kethol, and Pirojil. Bren Adahan had been left to keep the village wardens company.
The riding horses had already been saddled, and the two-horse team hitched to the wagon.
I settled for just checking my cinch straps and finding a carrot for the dappled mare that Tennetty had picked out for me before hitching the horse to the back of the flatbed wagon. I was going to drive the flatbed, but I wanted a riding horse, too. You never know when you're going to need to get away quickly, or across country. Flatbeds and fields don't get along.
Ahira was already on the back of his small gray mare, and as I walked through the wide doors, Tennetty swung up to the saddle of a nervous black gelding with a white blaze across his face, and kicked him into a clomp past the lanterns and out into the dark of the courtyard.
Andrea folded a blanket neatly across, twice, and set it down on the flatbed's seat before climbing on. "Let's go," she said, patting the seat next to her.
Doria, still in her purple evening dress, looked at me, pursed her lips and shrugged. "Take care of yourself, Walter," she said. Her fingers kneaded my shoulders for just a moment, and then she kissed me gently on the lips. "Watch out, eh?"
"For who?" I shot her a prizewinning smile she didn't return.
"All of you," she said. "Particularly Andrea."
I didn't know how things were going to break with Aeia—hell, I didn't know how I wanted them to break—until I heard myself saying, "Walk me to the gate—the rest of them will catch up in a moment."
I caught the dwarf's eye; I spread the fingers of one hand wide for a moment. Give me five minutes, okay?
He repeated the gesture and nodded. Not six, that meant.
Aeia and I walked out of the stables and into the dark. I could almost feel hostile eyes on my back, and wondered what window Bren Adahan was looking down from. Torches ringing the keep crackled in the still air, sending clouds of dark smoke into the dark sky. Above, a gazillion stars stared back at us, hanging intently on our every motion, every word. Or maybe not.
She was still wearing the Melawei-inspired outfit she had worn to dinner; I mentally worked at the complicated knot at her left hip.
"You're scared about this," Aeia said.
"Always am." And that was true enough. "Wake up scared in the morning, go to bed scared at night."
She laughed, a warm, coppery sound like a carefully bowed cello. "You couldn't have persuaded me of that when I was a little girl. My Uncle Walter scared? Nothing could scare my Uncle Walter, any more than . . ." she grasped at the air, looking for the right analogy, ". . . it could scare my father."
I chuckled. "Well, half right. Karl was too dumb to be scared."
She took my hand and we walked in silence, holding hands like a couple of schoolkids. "Just a couple of days?"
I shrugged. "Probably. Could be a few more. Or things could really heat up and we might be gone for awhile. You never know." It was like in the old raiding days, when a team would head out on the road, looking for trouble, usually finding it in the form of a slaver caravan. Slavers have to move the property around, particularly new property. People have a tendency to form relationships with other people, even if they own them. Bad for their business.
I never really liked those days, back when I was seconding Karl. Yes, there was a certain something to them; the parts that Karl didn't participate in were often kind of nice. See, not all of the folks we freed over the years were men. Some of them, quite a few, were women, and some of those were more than a little attractive. It's amazing how grateful a woman can be when you've just freed her, and often spectacular how she'll show her gratitude. You could ask my wife about that.
Besides, the money was good.
But . . .
"Bren's asked me to go with him over to Little Pittsburgh," she said. "What do you think I should do?"
"Little Pittsburgh's an interesting place," I said. "A bit dirty and sooty, but interesting."
"That wasn't what I meant."
"I know." Her hand was warm in mine. "You meant that we're going to have to make a decision sometime," I said. "Bren won't wait forever. Kirah won't not-see forever. We're going to have to decide what we are."
She nodded. "You can add that I won't wait forever. But I wasn't asking for forever, I wasn't asking about eventually. I was asking for now. What are we to be now, Walter Slovotsky?"
I rubbed my thumb against the softness of her hands. "Friends, at least."
She stiffened and let go of my hand, and touched herself above the waist at the right side. The air between us chilled, and I remembered Aeia holding a rifle straight, cheek welded to stock, squeezing the trigger gently, ignoring the red wetness spreading across the right side of her waist.
"Comrades-in-arms," she said, her voice holding a trace of that Cullinane coldness. "At least."
"Of course." I gestured an apology. "Always," I said.
The coldness broke into a smile. "Better." She put her hands on my face and kissed me hard.
As we rode through the gate, Andy started to say something but caught herself. Just as well.