She nodded slowly. “I could look. Could.”
I was about to nod myself, and stopped. “Is there danger? Could you… damage me?”
Skeelana shook her head. “Soffjian would peel you like an orange and break you into segments, but I have a delicate enough touch-I could flit around without causing any harm.” But she stopped herself. “And still, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Why… why is that?”
“Well, when I searched Captain Killcoin for those stolen foreign memories, they were easy enough to find, really, and I could generally ignore his own. Generally. But what you are asking… it is too intimate, Arki. I would be sifting through yours, looking for this thing. And while I am as crafty at this as anyone, and have a talent for finding what I’m looking for, you would be exposing yourself. Without intending to, I might see things I shouldn’t. Things you don’t want seen. Embarrassing memories. The time you roped the unicorn thinking about your sister, or-”
“I don’t have a sister, but if I did, I wouldn’t!”
She stood up, walked toward me. “Well, be that as it may, we all have shameful memories. Horrible ones, sometimes. Painful ones. People don’t invite me in voluntarily, after all. There is a reason for that. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing it. I’m sorry.”
Skeelana was right. And I was a selfish fool for even thinking about it-I knew things about the captain that he would kill me for revealing to a Memoridon, even inadvertently. Still, she must have seen my face drop, even for a moment, and felt some pity.
Bending over, she ran her fingers across my cheek, and then her face was moving toward me, the dark skin closer and closer, and I felt my eyes lock on the stud on her round upturned nose, just before she placed her plump lips on mine.
My breath hitched in my chest, and I finally closed my eyes, turning my head slightly, kissing her back, her fingers moving across my cheek to the back of my head, and she pulled me in tight. She parted her lips a little, and I followed her lead-the only time I remember my heart racing faster was when the Brunesman stabbed me. Her tongue darted out, flicking across my teeth, teasing, curling, inviting me to let her in. I reached up and ran my fingers through her hair, jabbing my thumb on a pin, and she laughed and kissed me harder, placing her hand on my chest.
Skeelana smelled of valerian musk, and tasted like almonds, and I wanted to devour her, take her all in at once, feel her skin, her curves, her heat. I’d kissed a few girls before, but only truly been with one girl, and that was a fumbling, ridiculous encounter, elbows and heads knocking together, apologies aplenty, rushed and graceless and gawky. But here, now, I felt an arousal I had never experienced before, potent and fierce and primal. I desperately wanted to explore Skeelana, to please her.
And abruptly, it was done. She was moving away. I kept my eyes closed for a moment, not wanting to show the frustration, and when I opened them again, she was gone. Which was impossible-she hadn’t had time to leave or hide. And then I remembered the Hornman in Alespell she had beguiled and looked closer.
I saw a shimmer along one wall, made out the shape of her, part of the outline, a faint rippling where I should have seen only stone and wood.
Skeelana laughed as the illusion rippled toward the door. “I was waiting for you to be clean. About time.”
And then she was truly gone, leaving me breathing so heavily I was nearly panting, my head swimming, still tasting her, and hungering.
After Skeelana left, I lay back on the bed, waiting to cool down, revisiting what had happened over and over in my mind. And while it was completely unexpected, I fell into a deep slumber the dead would be jealous of.
Hours later, I woke, my pillow covered in sweat, the room dark, and saw a faint glow coming from Braylar’s quarters. I climbed out of bed, body still feeling twice as heavy as it was, eyes weighted, and yet my stomach grumbling. I would have thought Skeelana’s visit a dream, except I could still smell the valerian on my tunic.
I walked into his chambers, wondering what hour it was.
Braylar was sitting at the mosaic table near the window and the fireplace that must have rarely been used, a tallow candle burning low in front of him, his shadow dancing along the wall. His hair was disheveled, not nearly as slicked back as usual, and he was hunched over parchment sheets, most scattered on the table. There was a wooden plate in front of him, some small bones, a pool of congealed grease, a hunk of bread, and some olive pits.
And as ever, a pitcher of ale and a tall horn cup next to it.
I wondered if he was fighting off the effects of stolen memories, but it seemed he was just in the mood for drink.
My stomach rumbled so loudly he heard it. He must have known I was there already, as he didn’t glance up from what he was reading, but indicated I should sit next to him.
I did, my stomach again protesting, unabashed.
Braylar looked over at me. “I was wondering when your basic needs would rouse you from your slumber. I heard you stirring and summoned another plate for you. Ale?” He picked up the pitcher, filling his own cup and stopping just short of doing the same with the other.
I had a bad head for drink even on a full stomach, but just then it did sound good, and it would at least fill my belly a bit before the food arrived.
Almost before I could nod he had filled the horn cup to the brim. After accepting it and taking a swallow-it was quite good, rich and heavy-I remembered Skeelana’s words and said, “I would have guessed you’d be catching up with your Towermates below or in an alehouse somewhere?”
“I allowed myself a little of that, and there will be time enough for more. Or not, as it happens. But for now, there are a good many things I need to tend to first.” He took several swallows of his own. “Still, one shouldn’t be wanting.”
There was a knock on the door, and Braylar said, “There, you see. Timing is everything.” Then he shouted, “Enter!”
A young Syldoon, or Syldoon slave more likely, as the boy had not been hung or inked, came in carrying a tray with food. I clamped my hands on my stomach to try to stymie any more embarrassing grumbling from below.
The boy walked over, set the tray on the table and bowed low, avoiding eye contact with either of us. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“Captain is fine. Captain Killcoin, if you insist on formalities. And what shall we call you, boy?”
The youth, brown curly head still bowed low, thought about his answer before replying, “Whatever it please you, my lor-uh, Captain.”
“And what did it please your parents to call you, my obsequious little man?”
He did look up then, but only for an instant before lowering his eyes again. “My parents? Captain?”
“Yes. I will insist on calling you Drizzleshit if you do not provide a suitable alternate.”
The boy stammered but didn’t provide an answer.
“Do you like ‘Drizzleshit,’ boy?”
The boy started to shake his head, stopped himself, and then shook it anyway. “No, Captain. Not especially.”
“Then you best get out of my room and pull your head out of your ass before you set foot in here again. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my-yes, Captain. Captain Killcrown.”
“Killcoin, you dolt. Get out of here, Drizzleshit.”
The boy backed away, still bowing, than turned and nearly ran into the door, fumbling with the tray as he shut it behind him.
Braylar shook his head. “And this is what we have to work with. If your raw material is shit, you can be sure the finished product will be little improved.” He gestured at my plate. “Eat.”
I picked up a large hunk of dark bread that was surprisingly dense and heavy. “I would think the raw material is always, well, raw.”