She surveyed the assembled Shen and frowned.
“How many could there possibly be?”
“A hundred,” Dreadaeleon replied. “Probably about a hundred and a half by now.”
“A third of the longfaces’ numbers.” Asper’s frown deepened with every word muttered. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Have you honestly not been paying attention?” she asked, frustrated. “To how they’re all walking around, acting like it’s their last day alive?”
“It probably is.” Dreadaeleon’s cavalier attitude was not at all diminished through a mouthful of fish. “I mean, they’re going up against twice their number in berserker warrior women led by weird, magic-spewing males, with rocks and sticks.” He belched. “Sharp rocks and sticks, admittedly, but still.”
“We’ve gone up against the same and survived.”
“Not this many. And the times we’ve fought Sheraptus have not gone well for us.”
She wondered, idly, if she would ever stop shuddering at the mention of that name.
“Kataria’s plan. .” she began hesitantly.
“If it works, glorious,” Dreadaeleon replied sharply. “If not-and I have several solid reasons why it should not-then the Shen seem a little wiser.” He stared into the fire for a moment. “Personally, I admire their certainty.”
“So you’re saying they’re right to act like we’re all going to die?” she snapped. “We should all lie down and wait for the longfaces to come and-”
“I’m saying that some outcomes are more likely than others. Some things, no matter how. .” He caught himself, swallowing something. “No matter how much we might want them, just aren’t likely to occur.” His face twitched. “And sometimes, death is a more comforting thought than the alternative.”
And with that, the boy assumed the same silence as the Shen, as deep, as dark, as lamentable. To stare at him caused her to ache. Whatever words she might offer him he had rehearsed, repeated a thousand times to himself and found them not worth bothering with once again.
And so he sat.
And so she stared.
“Well, this looks a tad uncomfortable,” a voice said from nearby.
Denaos stood at the edge of the fire, a rucksack slung over one shoulder and a rather pained expression painted across his face.
“Where’ve you been?” Asper asked.
“Are you quite sure you want to ask me that? I’d really hate to get in the middle of you nurturing your philosophical erections.”
She looked and spoke flatly at him. “So, can you just not answer questions normally or. .”
“Fine, if you’re going to be that way,” Denaos muttered, hefting off the rucksack and emptying it onto the sand. “At my insistence, our scaly friends have seen fit to allow us to look at their stockpiles to see if there’s anything we can use.”
“They have stockpiles?” Dreadaeleon asked, looking surprised. “But not pants?”
“Well, the reef catches a lot of boats, some lost, some searching for the island,” Denaos said, sifting through the contents. “The Shen come, pick off the survivors, loot them for metal, food, that sort of thing.”
“Anything they can use to kill more people and sink other ships,” Asper said, voice souring.
Denaos plucked up a stout, curved blade from the stockpile. “Just so.”
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A sword, moron.”
He tossed the blade to Asper, who caught it with only miminal stumbling and bleeding. She winced at the cut, sucking her finger as she inspected the weapon. A short, ugly little thing, thin and curved like a cleaver instead of a proper sword.
“Why?”
“Look, if you keep asking stupid questions, you can’t really blame me for my answers,” Denaos said with a sigh. “Clearly, tomorrow, what with being fraught with danger and death-” he paused and cast a look at Dreadaeleon, “-certain death, anyway, you’ll need something to defend yourself.”
“Yeah, I get that, but-”
“That’s a handy one, see.” Denaos gestured as he spoke. “It’s short, meant for getting in close. You use it to strike at soft parts.” He pointed two fingers, pressed them beneath his chin. “Thrust that thing into their neck, like so, it’s near instant.”
“And this is supposed to help against. . what, three-hundred-odd females?”
“And males.”
The intent of his voice met with the intensity of his stare and she knew what he meant.
In his eyes was a dreadful promise that, if they should fall tomorrow, if the Shen should collapse and the netherlings overrun them, if they should come to her with chains and the intent of delivering her to their Master. .
The blade, indeed, would save her.
She understood. She swallowed that knowledge in a dry, queasy breath and nodded at him, understanding. A frown creased his face, like he had hoped she might not have.
“Is that. . a jar?” Dreadaeleon asked, leaning forward.
The rogue plucked up the small glass container. “Kataria wanted it. Had to dig through a mountain of crap to find it.”
“So her master plan to save us. . involves a jar,” Dreadaeleon said, rubbing his temples. “Why do we keep listening to her?”
“Because Lenk does,” Denaos replied. “For obvious reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“Obvious ones.”
“Which ones?”
The rogue quirked a brow. “You didn’t catch it?”
“Catch what?”
“The tension in her stomach? The bead of sweat running down his temple? The faint but unmistakable odor of fear, shame, and day-old fish?”
The boy shook his head, slack-jawed. Asper blanched. The rogue shrugged.
“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
“What? What?” The boy leaned forward. “What is it you’re getting at? What did they do? What-” Though it seemed as though to stop that line of questioning would break his neck, something else caught his attention. “Where did you get that?”
“That” turned out to be something out of place with the rest of the equipment: a single stone, fragmented and decayed, attached to a black iron necklace. Dreadaeleon let it dangle before him, inspecting it carefully.
“I took it from that netherling riding the. . thing.”
“Sikkhun.”
“Whatever.” Denaos reached out a hand to the boy. “Give it back.”
“Why do you want it?” Asper asked.
“Because throughout this whole damn episode, I haven’t gotten a single pretty thing. I took it, it’s mine.”
Dreadaeleon, without looking at him, tucked it away into a pocket of his coat. The rogue shot him a look of offense and shoved his various contents back into the rucksack.
“Fine, then. But if we find some kind of stupid book or something you want, I’m taking it.” He hefted it over his shoulder and sneered at the boy. “And I’m going to wipe with it.” He trudged away, pausing to lean obscenely close to the boy. “In front of you.”
The rogue left, presumably to dispense the rest of his deliveries. Asper cast a glance at him before turning to follow.
“I need to. . talk to him about something.”
“Of course,” Dreadaeleon muttered as she hurried away.
When he was certain she wouldn’t notice him, he turned and scowled at her.
He watched her as she walked away without looking back at him, so brazenly strutting up to Denaos, laying a hand upon his shoulder. He could see her silhouetted by the firelight, drawing closer to the tall man, looking up at him. Her eyes were flashing in the light, bright and wet and-
They’re doing it, you know.
The thought came suddenly and unpleasantly unbidden. And like an itch that grew into a rash that grew in leprosy, it festered there.
Right in front of you, like they don’t even care you’re here-because of you, I might add. You saved them-again-from the netherlings, from Bralston. You’re the one who knows magic and they haven’t even thought to ask your advice. No, instead they ask the shict because she smells like fish or something. That moron Denaos didn’t even think he might have something here.