“Oh Fari, really?”
Farideh gave her another dark look, and headed upstairs. Havilar sighed heavily, picked up Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers, and followed. She looked sadly over at Brin as she passed-
And saw him pulling a half-empty bottle of liquor over the counter and shoving it inside his jerkin. He glanced around and spotted her watching. Havilar smiled, but he turned away and sped out through the door.
“M’henish,” she muttered and headed upstairs.
The room wasn’t very big, but the bed was wide enough for the two of them, and there was space for Mehen on the floor and a table and chairs besides. A pitcher of water and a basin for washing rested on a stand and a small fireplace lay cold behind an iron screen. Farideh had pushed open the windows and sat in one of the chairs to catch the breeze. Havilar pulled off her cloak and tossed it across Farideh’s, already lying on the bed.
“I wish,” Farideh said after a moment of quiet, “you’d be a little less obvious. Don’t you think at all about what might happen? About what people might be thinking?”
Havilar sat in the other chair. “Why should I?”
“Do you know how long it takes for someone to make up their mind about you?” Farideh asked. “About anyone? Seconds. You don’t even have to open your mouth and they’ve already made their minds up. If you’re lucky you can change their minds, but … you’re a tiefling. It’s harder than it is for most.”
“Me?” Havilar said. “I’m delightful. Everyone knows that. Or everyone should.”
Farideh sighed. “I’m only saying be more careful-”
“You be more careful, you’re the responsible one.”
“Hardly,” Farideh said. “Mehen doesn’t trust me to do anything.”
“Because,” Havilar said, “you’re too careful. Anyway, who cares about Mehen? Careful doesn’t work with boys.”
“How would you know?”
“I’ve talked to boys.”
“When?”
“Before,” Havilar said. “At home.”
“There were four fellows within a dozen years of us,” Farideh said. “Which one did you prove your theory on?”
“Well you did with Iannis,” Havilar retorted. “Pretty clear careful doesn’t work with him.”
Farideh’s cheeks reddened and she looked away at the mention of the dairyman’s stupid son. Havilar rolled her eyes-her sister had been infatuated with one boy so far as she knew, and Farideh was still sulking over it. All the more reason to get her out of this boring room.
“Come on,” Havilar cajoled. “We’ll just slip out for a bit.”
“No. You don’t know who’s out there.”
“Aren’t you bored of having no one but Mehen to talk to?”
Farideh frowned and rubbed her arm. “I have you.”
“Of course you have me. That’s always going to be true. But when was the last time we spent any time with anybody who wasn’t a hundred years old? And don’t say Lorcan,” she added. “Lorcan doesn’t count.”
“Of course he doesn’t count,” Farideh said. “Lorcan could be a hundred years old for all I know.” She rubbed her arm again.
Havilar frowned. “That’s not what I mean.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re talking about boys. Not Lorcan,” she added.
“He doesn’t count because he only talks to you,” Havilar said. “You think he’d have two words to say to me, since I brought him here and everything, but no.”
“Havi, you don’t want to talk to Lorcan,” Farideh said. Her hand gripped her upper arm tightly now, and Havilar glared at it. “Trust me.”
“Of course you say that,” Havilar said. “What do you tell him about me?”
“I don’t,” Farideh said. “We don’t talk about you. Havi, it’s not personal. It’s Lorcan. You don’t want him to notice you-I promise.”
“You want him to notice you.”
Farideh’s cheeks flushed again. “No, I don’t!”
“Then why are you always going off to talk to him? What are you doing? Calling him down when you get sick of us? You don’t even know him.”
Judging by Farideh’s startled expression, she’d thought it was a secret-which only made Havilar more annoyed. “It’s not like that,” Farideh said tightly. Then, “Has Mehen noticed?”
“After today? Probably. Even he’s not that dense.”
Farideh was quiet. “Havi, please,” she finally said. “It’s not because I’m sick of you. He’s just … He agreed not to turn up when people were around. So I have to be somewhere else to talk to him. It’s not about you,” she added. “Only about … spells. And things.”
Things which she didn’t bother to include Havilar in. Havilar turned and studied the open window, churning with unpleasant feelings she didn’t want to think about. Fine. If Farideh wanted to stay hidden up in the room, staring at the empty fireplace instead of going on a little adventure with her sister, Havilar wasn’t about to sit around with her. If she got bored, she could talk to stupid Lorcan.
“I’m getting Brin,” she announced. “Or whatever his name was.”
“No,” Farideh said. “Mehen told us to stay here.
“And he told you to stop talking to Lorcan,” Havilar said. “Who cares what Mehen says? I’m going out the window anyway. He won’t see.”
“Havi, please. I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Farideh said. “Please. Stay. Don’t leave.”
“I’ll only be a moment,” Havilar said. She wasn’t going to be the careful one, the boring one. She threw one leg over the sill. “And if I’m not, you can tell me you were right. Until morning.”
“Havi, it’s not-” she started, but Havilar was out of earshot, sliding down the edge of the roof and off into the night.
Brin found a spot behind an empty wagon where some crates had been stacked, and made himself a little nook between two. He shook the bottle until the whiskey swirled around in a whirlpool that collapsed with a brief, frothy splash. What in the world was he going to do with half a bottle of whiskey? What had he thought the tavernmaster would do without half a bottle of whiskey?
He’d been so angry when the tavernmaster refused to rent him a space on the floor for anything less than three pieces of gold. And after giving a full room to the man in front of him for the same price. The tavernmaster hadn’t even the manners to be embarrassed at being caught in such a swindle-he only shrugged and turned away from Brin, as if he were no one important.
Which I’m not, Brin reminded himself glumly. In a fit of pique he’d snatched up the closest thing he could reach: the half-empty bottle of whiskey.
He put the bottle to his lips and wet his mouth. Sharp as broken glass on the tip of his tongue and bitter with the taste of a bad barrel. Not very good, but not likely to kill him. Human-style whiskey, but a strong, unwatered sort Brin could imagine being favored by the sort of people who lived along this rugged road, tolerable to the dwarves and orcs that passed through, and not bad for cleaning wounds. Or maybe spoons.
He was never going to finish half a bottle.
Not even by trying to slow his thoughts down enough to figure out what to do about Constancia. The tieflings and the dragonborn were here-the dragonborn was still asking around about Brin’s cousin in the courtyard. He shouldn’t have expected to dissuade them-this was their livelihood after all, and he was nobody. Even if he used every trick he knew, he might-might-be able to convince the twins not to go after Constancia. They might in turn be able to talk Mehen out of it. There was a chance slimmer than a silk strand that Constancia could be protected.
And then she would still be free to chase Brin to Returned Abeir and back again. He took another careful sip of the whiskey.
What was he trying to protect her from anyway? Being locked in a room and questioned for hours? That was likely to happen anyway, and it wasn’t much worse than he’d had things before. Her superiors weren’t monstrous. They knew he was troublesome. They couldn’t ultimately blame her, he decided, taking another sip of whiskey. They wouldn’t do anything worse than Constancia would if she caught Brin.