Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Back by the tray, he puts the leg between his teeth, and the way he transfers bread, greens, and meat, it’s like he’s stabbing something with the fork. When the tower starts to lean, his boots grind into the floorboards as he takes two steps over to me, and while the plate is shoved forward, I look up at him.
“Talk to me.”
“I have nothing to say,” he counters.
When I merely stare at him, he shrugs and takes what he’s gathered over to the window seat. He lowers himself down facing away from me, his knees bending so the length of his legs can be accommodated as he braces his boots on the opposite side. The orange lightning flashes. Thunder comes and goes.
“Days,” he mutters as he works his way through the meat. “No rain lasts that long.”
I want to remind him that he can leave anytime. But I’m afraid he’ll take it as an invitation.
“Are you all right then.” He doesn’t look over, and his tone is matter-of-fact. “Was that collapse really just about hunger and thirst? Or was it something else.”
I get up and go over to the tray on a surge. Serving myself, I murmur, “What else could it be?”
“You were looking at that girl. Right before … whatever that was happened.”
Abruptly, there’s no hunger anymore for me, but I put things in my mouth, chew and swallow, because he has a point. This interlude has to be about recuperation and planning for me, and I’ve never seen rain last days, either. I’m not going to feel as safe as I do with him, so I might as well take advantage of his presence while I have it.
“She reminds me of myself, back at the Gauntlet.” I’m back where I was again, and the food is good, even if the meat is greasy compared to the lean balas. “Trying to survive in a hard place, all alone.”
“You’re still in that situation.”
“Thank you for the reminder.”
We eat in silence, him sitting by the whistling shutters, me at the bed—thinking that we’re going to have to extinguish the lantern at some point to conserve oil. When my stomach absolutely can’t fit another morsel, I excuse myself to the water closet.
Merc grunts from his perch and puts the plate down under his knees. He’s avoided the bread and greens, no doubt because he views them as sustenance for the weaker sex. I’m surprised he didn’t bring mead back, but then again, the Outpost is not like my little village. Even a man such as himself should keep his wits here.
I mostly close the door, needing some light to find my way around. What I see is … unlike anything I’ve ever found in a loo before. The little room is dominated by a porcelain basin big enough to recline in. There’s some kind of piping system above it … that appears to offer a raining upon the head? There’s also a chamber pot–like setup with a similar network on a smaller scale behind it, and a sink, as well.
I test out the former, finding a handle that rushes a quantity of fresh water into the bowl. After a quick swirl, things all disappear into a hole in the bottom.
“Genius,” I murmur as it refills. And so much better than the latrines of my village.
At the sink, I turn on the faucet, and the effort requires both hands due to corrosion. Though I expect what comes out to be cold and foul, as I test the stream with my fingertips, the rush is warm and sweet-smelling. No dirt or minerals taint the supply, just like the river out in the flats.
There are no cloths to dry off with, so I wipe my palm on my hip, and then I must inspect the big basin. The water release is a tiny wagon wheel on a vertical pipe, and there’s a squeak as I turn it to the left. A spray of warm droplets falls into the tub, and gets me right on the head with the same clean rush as the sink.
“I’m having a washing?” I call out.
I think I get a grunt in return. I can’t tell with the water coming down.
After I use the chamber pot and try out its fancy processing system for real this time, I pause and look to the crack in the door.
“Merc?” I go over and peer out through the aperture. “I said, I’m going to…”
My voice drifts as I push things open.
Across the way in the window seat, Merc has crossed his arms over his chest, like he’s activated his own latching system, and his chin is down on his sternum. With his pack still on his back, his surcoat, too, and his weapons all holstered, he’s ready to respond to any threat, and I wonder if he ever truly rests. Those black and white eyes of his may be closed, his lashes down on the summits of his cheeks, and his breathing may be slow and steady … but I have no doubt that if I so much as whisper something, he’ll be on his feet with that broadsword in his hand.