Kin shook his head.
“Never known a powder mage who smoked mala myself,” Taniel said. “We all take the powder. Never need more to feel alive.”
“Why the mala?” Kin busied himself sweeping the center of the den.
Taniel took a deep breath. “Powder doesn’t make you forget.”
“Ah. Forget. Every man takes mala to forget.” Kin nodded knowingly.
Taniel stared at the ceiling of his niche, counting the hammock swings.
“Going to bed,” Kin said, setting his broom in one corner.
“Wait,” Taniel reached out with one hand, only to draw it back when he realized how pathetic he must look. “Give me enough to get through the night.”
“Night?” Kin shook his head. “It’s morning now. I work through the night. Most smokers come then.”
“Give me enough for that, then.”
Kin seemed to consider this, looking at the ball he just gave Taniel. From what he said, a ball like that should have lasted four or five days.
“Give me the powder keg, and I’ll give you as much you can smoke for three weeks.”
Taniel clenched the powder-keg pin in his fist. “No. What else?”
“I’ll give you my daughter for the whole three weeks, too.”
Taniel’s stomach turned at the thought of the Gurlish mala man pimping his daughter to his customers.
“No.”
“You like art?” Kin picked up the sketchbook and pencil Ka-poel had brought for Taniel.
“Put those down.”
Kin dropped the sketchbook with a sigh. “You no have value. No money.”
Taniel checked the pockets of his coat. Nothing. He ran his fingers over the silver embroidery.
“How much for my coat?”
Kin sniffed and touched the fabric. “Tiny bit.”
“Give me that.” Taniel set his mala pipe on the table and wriggled out of the coat, handing it over to Kin.
“You’ll die of cold, and I won’t pay for funeral.”
“It’s the middle of summer. Give me the damned mala.”
Kin handed him a disappointingly small ball of the sticky black mala before disappearing up the stairs with Taniel’s coat. Taniel heard the creak of feet on the floorboards above him, and Kin’s voice speaking in Gurlish.
He settled back into his hammock and took a long draw at his mala pipe.
It was said that mala would make a man forget for hours at a time. Taniel tried to think back on the hours he’d lost. How long had he been down here? Days? Weeks? It didn’t seem like a long time.
He took the pipe out of his mouth and examined it in the dim light of the den’s candles. “Damned stuff doesn’t work,” he said to himself. He could still see Kresimir stepping out of that cloud after descending from the sky. A god! A real, live god. Taniel wondered what his childhood priest would have done had he known Taniel would one day grow up to shoot the god of the Nine.
Time hadn’t stopped when the ensorcelled bullet went through Kresimir’s eye, so it seemed the world could live without its god. But how many people had died trying to keep Kresimir from returning to the world? Hundreds of Adran. Friends. Allies. Thousands of Kez – hundreds by Taniel’s own hand.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a new face. Sometimes it was a man or a woman he’d killed. Sometimes it was Tamas, or Vlora. And sometimes it was Ka-poel. Maybe it was the mala, but, by the pit, it made his heart beat faster when he saw the savage girl’s face.
The steps creaked. Taniel looked up. Through the haze he could see Ka-poel come down the stairs. She crossed the room to his side, frowned at him.
“What?” he said.
She tugged on his shirt, then pinched her own long duster. Jacket. Damn. First thing she noticed.
He wrapped his hand around his ball of mala protectively.
Quicker than he could see, her hand darted forward and snatched the mala pipe from between his teeth.
“You little bitch,” he hissed. “Give it back.”
She danced away from his grasping hands to stand in the middle of the room, grinning.
“Ka-poel, bring me that pipe.”
She shook her head.
His breathing came harder. He blinked against a sudden cloud in his vision, unable to tell if it was the mala or his own fury. After a moment of struggle, he sat up in the hammock.
“Give it back to me now.” He swung his legs over the edge of the hammock, but when he tried to stand up, a wave of nausea struck him harder than it ever had when he opened his third eye to see into the Else. He sank back into the hammock, his heart hammering in his ears.
“Pit,” he whispered, clutching at his temples. “I’m all sorts of buggered.”
Ka-poel set the mala pipe on a stool on the other side of the room.
“Don’t put that there,” Taniel said, his own voice now weak. “Bring it to me.”
She just shook her head and shrugged out of her duster. Before he could protest, she crossed to him and swept it up over his hammock and up to his shoulders.
He pushed it away. “You’ll get cold,” he said.
She pointed at him.
“It’s summer, damn it. I’m fine.”
She drew the duster back up over his chest.
Again, he gave it back to her. “I’m not a child.”
Something seemed to light in her eyes at that. She pulled the duster off him and threw it to the ground.
“Pole, what the…” His next words were lost in his own strangled cry as she lifted one leg over the hammock and straddled him, sitting directly on his lap. His heart beat a little faster as she wiggled her ass to get comfortable. In the closeness of the niche, their faces were almost touching. “Pole…,” he said, suddenly breathless. The mala pipe, and even the little ball of mala in his hands, were suddenly forgotten.
Her tongue darted out and wet her lips. She seemed poised, watchful – like an animal.
Taniel almost didn’t hear the sound of the door to the house upstairs being thrown open. Feet thumped on the floorboards. A woman began shouting in Gurlish.
Ka-poel lowered her head. Taniel’s shoulders flexed, pushing him toward her.
“Captain Taniel Two-Shot!” The stairs rattled under a pair of determined boots. A woman in a dress suit, hat in hand, entered the room. “Captain!” she said. “Captain, I…”
She froze when she saw Taniel with Ka-poel in his lap. Taniel felt the color rise in his cheeks. A quick glance at Ka-poel. She gave him a small, knowing smile, but annoyance flashed in her eyes. She rolled off of him and swept her duster off the floor and over her shoulders in one quick movement.
The woman turned to one side, staring at the far wall. “Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were indisposed.”
“She’s not undressed,” Taniel retorted. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Who the pit are you?”
The woman gave a slight bow. “I am Fell Baker, undersecretary for the Holy Warriors of Labor.” Despite having found them in a compromising situation, she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed.
“The union? How the pit did you find me?” Taniel pulled himself to a sitting position in the hammock, though it made his stomach turn something fierce. He wondered how long it had been since he ate.
“I’m Ricard Tumblar’s aide, sir. He sent me to find you. He would very much like to meet with you.”
“Tumblar? Don’t know the name.” He settled back into the hammock and eyed Ka-poel. She’d sat on the stool on the far side of the mala den, tapping his pipe against her palm as she studied the undersecretary.
Fell raised an eyebrow. “He’s the head of the union, sir.”
“I don’t care.”
“He’s asked me to extend to you an invitation to lunch.”
“Go away.”
“He says there’s a great deal of money at stake.”
“I don’t care.”
Fell examined him for a few moments before turning and heading up the creaking stairs just as abruptly as she’d arrived. The hushed sound of voices came down through the floor. They were speaking in Gurlish. Taniel glanced at Ka-poel. She returned his stare for a moment, then winked.