The Last Courtesy was quiet when Bueralan returned. He made his way, still bloodstained and dirty, up to his room. He pushed the door open, stepped inside and had his shirt off, before he realized that he was not alone.
‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Vach Sala said from his bed, her voice muffled. ‘But if you could light the lamp first, that would let me admire the view more.’
The moonlight filled the room weakly. Sala, he saw, had pushed herself into the furthest corner of his bed. ‘There should really be locks on these doors,’ Bueralan said, reaching for the lamp on the floor.
The faint light revealed her bruised face, her blackened eyes and swollen lips.
‘Gertz did that?’ he asked. ‘When you took that gold back?’
‘He was angry.’ She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. On the bottom of the bed was her dress, stained with blood. ‘He said you were using me.’
There was a jug of water by the bed with a cloth over it and he carried it to the edge of the bed. Gently, he lifted her chin and gazed at the damage around her left eye. ‘Did you give him as good as you got?’ Bueralan asked, wetting the cloth to wipe away the blood.
She held still for him. ‘He’s my captain. He’s—’
‘Not much of one,’ he finished. ‘He’s saying you have to fuck another, to keep tabs on an innkeeper. It’s ridiculous. Our job is not one of bedrooms. Being a mercenary is about holding a sword and doing a job. You’re supposed to focus on fighting other paid soldiers, not worry about ones you’re paid to sleep with.’ He tilted her head to the light. ‘That’s going to bruise real ugly.’
‘You say the sweetest things.’ She pulled her head out of his grasp and leant back against the wall. ‘He hit me because I asked about Fia. I asked if she had been a real mercenary.’
Bueralan stood. ‘I don’t have to ask if you’re being used, do I?’
Sala drew her legs towards her chest and watched him, instead of answering. ‘Where do the scars on your back come from?’ she asked, after he turned away from her.
‘After I was exiled, I was sold into slavery.’ He wet the cloth again and ran it over his own face and arms, over the blood-splashed white of his tattoos. The tattoos that ran up to the scars on his back. ‘I was just one in a line – one at the end of a long line of men who had risen up against the First Queen of Ooila. In part, I did it so that my brother would have a future, but I can see now that not a lot of those involved in the revolution cared for what I did. Regardless, we were all there when the First Queen sold us.’ Bueralan kicked off his boots and blew out the lamp. In the dark, he climbed onto the bed and took part of the blanket. ‘Make some space, will you?’
Sala slid over for him, but the bed was narrow. When it was clear they would have to share the space, she slid her arm around him and pressed close. ‘Why did you come here then, if you hate slavers?’
His arm ran beneath her naked shoulders. ‘The slave trade is alive and well in Ooila,’ he said. ‘Nothing I did changed that. Nothing I do will change it in Zajce.’
‘You sound angry.’
‘Everyone should be angry.’
‘I guess I never thought about it.’ Sala laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Do you think about it every day you are here, when you see the slaves in the town?’
He didn’t reply. Instead he lay in the bed, with the girl next to him. After a while he thought she had fallen asleep, but then she said, ‘Bueralan.’ Her voice was almost muffled, pressed against his skin. ‘Bueralan, are you using me?’
‘Go to sleep,’ he told her softly. ‘Tomorrow is going to be busy.’