Chapter 6: Chapter 6: The Battlemaster

Chapter 6: The Battlemaster

This was a bad idea. Quentin didn’t go out for drinks. He bought alcohol and brought it home to drink himself into blissful oblivion in private, but going out? Where there were people to stare and judge and try to start fights? No. The last time he’d tried it had been with Demetrius, and that had ended in a huge chaotic brawl and an apologetic “never again”.

He should’ve known better, and yet here he was following Razia down the Boulevard in search of a place to share a drink. The petite Islander knew none of Quentin’s misgivings. After nudging him into it, all of her focus turned to the task at hand: finding the proper place to get drunk.

“The Oasis has great drinks, but it’s always a bit crowded. I think we’ll avoid that one,” said Razia, gently dragging Quentin along by the hand. They didn’t move faster than what Quentin could manage, but she was a woman on a mission. “I once found a bug in my drink,” she pointed at a filthy clay structure. “So, never again.”

It was astounding, Quentin thought, how many pubs, taverns, bars, and other dens of relaxation and vice were on that wide street that he never noticed. Even now, had Razia not been pointing them out as they went, he would have missed them. All Quentin could focus on were the people still out and walking close by, and making sure his cloak was properly concealing his face.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. No one was watching them, and if they were, they were likely looking at Razia. Like the two Watchmen who let out a low whistle as they passed.

“Maybe,” she replied, “but I’ve gotten used to it. Ooh, here!” Her eyes lit up.

They stopped in front of a squat building sandwiched between two closed shops. Lanterns hung in front, illuminating the sign, “Maggie’s Den”. Beneath it, in much smaller letters were the words, “No Magic Allowed”. The smell of tobacco and some savory meat wafted out, making Quentin’s stomach suddenly growl. Soft music could be heard, inviting them in.

“I’m not sure about this,” Quenin said. “I appreciate you wanting to be nice, but I should g --”

Razia tugged on his hand and in they went.

Quentin braced himself for a wall of cacophonous chatter, trouble, something, but it never came. Maggie’s Den was the kind of comfortably worn down place that drew regulars like shit brought flies. Inside were a couple dozen people in it, including the heavy-set matronly woman behind the bar and the stocky teenage girl plucking at a lyre. None of them even looked up. Razia led him to one of two open tables and made him sit on the bench.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Maggie brews her own beer and it’s pretty decent.”

“Uh. Sure.”

Razia beamed at him again. She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed, and then she was off. Quentin watched her glide around the tables, weaving around the other patrons without ever breaking her stride. Razia wasn’t the only woman or even Islander in there, but the contrast of her bright yellow dress and dark skin made her stand out.

She seemed to prefer it that way. Quentin’s eyes weren’t the only ones on her. As Razia passed people by, they looked up and watched her for a second or two. The burly woman behind the bar (Maggie, Quentin assumed) smiled at seeing her. Razia held up two fingers. Maggie nodded, and the two spoke.

“What the hell am I doing here?” Quentin groaned, burying his face in his hands.

It still hurt sometimes, knowing that he didn’t fit in. Not as much as it did years and years ago, but he dealt with it now. He buried it deep down until it was only a mild ache, one more scar among hundreds. Now that Quentin was out, he was painfully reminded that he didn’t remember the last night he’d spent with other people.

Quentin looked around the room. No one else seemed to have this issue. One table over, a young man was telling a story while his date listened with an exasperated smile. One big guy let out a sudden booming, harsh laugh that made Quentin jump. There were one or two people who weren’t speaking or interacting with anyone, but they looked comfortable enjoying their drinks and the ambiance. What was their secret?

More people entered. Two men made for Quentin's table. He froze as a bulky man sat right next to him. He slid a bit further down. The other man, slim, middle aged, and grizzled, sat across. He nodded towards Quentin and grunted. Quentin grunted back and was once more, to his relief, forgotten.

He turned to face the stocky girl playing the music. She sat on a stool, leaned up against the wall. The song she played was slow, light, and relaxing. No one else seemed to be paying her much mind as she played. When she saw Quentin watching her, she perked up and grinned at him. She plucked a few strings and added a short burst of playful, lilting notes to her song.

“That’s Andrea,” said Razia, setting down two mugs and a bowl of nuts. “She’s Maggie’s daughter. Not bad, huh?” She sat down opposite Quentin and raised her mug.

“Yeah...” Quentin raised his as well. Razia clinked their mugs together, and they drank. Quentin finished half of it in one go, glad for anything to calm his nerves. He set it down on the table and stared at it in silence, unsure of what to say or do now.

Razia had that taken care of. Just before the silence between them grew louder than the clamor of the pub, she spoke. “I was asking about what you do, earlier. You know, before we got mugged. Which do you like better, working in the infirmary or training yard?” She sipped at her drink.

“The training yard.” There was no hesitation. “I like setting broken bones and stitching people up, but…” Quentin shrugged, and took a sip.

“But I bet you like a good fight. I saw how you dropped that jackass. Ged dem!” she mimicked, pinching her nose shut.

Quentin found himself chuckling. “Yeah. When I only worked in the infirmary, they all gave me a hard time. Later, when I got used for sparring, I got to give them that hard time right back.”

“Is that how you got the cut on your leg?” Razia leaned in close. “Accident during training?”

“I...Yeah.” Quentin chugged the rest of his beer. He had to buy some time. She was supposed to forget about it. No one asked him about his work. He set the mug down, panting.

“Oh damn,” Razia laughed, delighted. “I guess you did want a drink, didn’t you? Gimme a sec.” She got up and went back to the bar. Quentin willed his heart to stop pounding and his brain to start working.

The man beside him nudged him in the ribs. “You got her good and trained, eh? Nice.”

Heat flooded Quentin’s face. He looked at the man, keeping his head and hood down. “No, it’s not like that. She’s trying to -- “

“Get you drunk to take advantage of you?” The man let out a brash guffaw and slapped his back hard enough to shake him.

“I know her,” the man across from them said, scratching at his short blonde beard. “You’ll be broke by morning. You should run while you can. Me an’ Adrian can keep her company.”

Quentin eyeballed the door. There was still time. He could slip away and not have to answer any more questions or deal with the lovely people of Orchrisus at night, or their loud, braying laughter.

Razia came back with another two mugs and stopped short. She looked between the two men near them, still laughing and very obviously ogling her. Her eyes slid over to Quentin, who was trying his best to shrink in his seat. Her grin grew slowly until her entire face lit up and made his stomach drop. She set the two mugs down in front of him and herself in his lap.

Her arm went around his shoulders to support herself, and she very carefully balanced on his good leg. The laughing stopped. Quentin stiffened but put his arm around her back, steadying her. He kept his hand at her waist. He had a feeling she wouldn’t have been opposed had it wandered, but this was already pushing his comfort.

“What are you doing?” He whispered. This was twice in one night that she’d pressed up against him, even after he’d said no. It was difficult to mind too much.

“Trust me,” she whispered back. Louder, she said, “So you got injured fighting against some gladiators. You won, right?”

Quentin swallowed hard. He didn’t want to answer, but now there were three people watching him intently. “Yeah.” His voice cracked. “Yeah, I won. I don’t tend to lose too often. He got me good once, but I walked away and he needed help leaving.” That wasn’t a lie, technically.

Beside him, the man scoffed loudly. “You fought some gladiators and won? You? Is that why you’re wearin’ a cloak inside? Afraid of them wanting a rematch?”

“Naw Adrian,” the slim man said. “It’s ‘coz he’s a gladiator himself. Doesn’t wanna be swarmed by his adoring fans, right?” He burst out laughing, and Adrian joined him. Quentin took a deep breath and let it out. It was better than them being afraid of him, but not by much. He could ignore it.

Razia, as it turned out, couldn’t. “Good catch! I don’t want the competition. Not after the fight he had tonight.” She turned to face him. There was mischief in her eyes now, something wicked that seemed to thrive when he wanted nothing more than to run.

“What are you doing?” Quentin whispered.

“Bullshit!” The man laughed again. He elbowed Quentin in the ribs again. “Who’re you supposed to be, then? Gael the Great? Crazy Carlin?”

“No,” Quentin said, sighing, “I’m --”

“Show some respect, Adrian! We’re obviously in the presence of Fisherman Frank. You don’t want to get skewered, do you?” The slim man tried to keep a straight face, but he cracked, spraying Quentin and Razia with spittle.

“Oh fuck off,” said Quentin. His fists clenched tight enough to feel his already sore knuckles crack. He willed himself to calm down, to not squeeze Razia too hard. He looked up at her, but she was surprisingly silent. Her eyes widened. His hood was pulled back.

Quentin’s head shot around at Adrian, who was no longer laughing. “Oh shit, Cassius…” he said.

One by one, other heads in the pub turned around towards him. Quentin grimaced. He knew that his expression wasn’t doing him any favors. Soon, someone would start something, and he’d have to fight or run.

“Gods,” Cassius said. “You’re a fucking…”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Quentin snarled. He looked around the room. Most people were looking at him now. He felt a sharp, sudden spike of white hot anger at all of them, at himself, and at Razia. He turned towards her, wordlessly blaming her for everything. She winced.

“Maggie!” she called out.

From behind the bar, the owner looked up from the mug she was cleaning. She looked right at the table. “Behave,” she shouted. “If I have to come out from behind this bar, your families will have to collect the pieces!”

One by one, people turned away from Quentin and back to their drinks and conversations. He could feel their muttering more than he could hear it. It was nothing new. There was a reason why he stayed in. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“You’re no gladiator,” Cassius said, still staring at him.

“No, he’s not,” Razia said. She handed Quentin his mug. Grateful, he took it and downed most of it in one angry, frustrated guzzle. “He’s better than that. He’s the Colosseum Battlemaster! No one gets a fight without first being tested by him!”

“What?” Adrian gaped.

“What?” Cassius stared.

“What?” Quentin too, was puzzled.

Razia nudged him with her elbow. She slid off of his lap and poked Adrian in his broad chest. “He’s the head trainer! Every single day, he pushes them to their breaking point and keeps going. How do you think they decide the matches? They have to compete to see who’s worthy.”

“They do?” Adrian asked. He and his friend looked at Quentin. Razia turned to him as well. She wore a pleased smirk.

What was the point of that? He didn’t want the attention, and Razia had to know that. This was fun for her. Quentin swallowed hard. What was he going to do, say that it was a lie and run away? It was too late for that.

“Yeah,” Quentin said after a pause. Razia’s loud proclamation was attracting attention again. “Yeah. If they want a slot in the night’s fights, they have to prove it to me first.” He fought against the flush that threatened to spoil the story.

His eyes darted between the two of them, wondering if they would buy it or laugh it off. More than that, Quentin wondered why he was going along with it. He had nothing to prove to random Orchrisan scum. After a second, Adrian scoffed again. “Prove it.”

Quentin looked to Razia. Without hesitating, she moved behind him and pulled his cloak off of him. He shot up straight in his seat. He spent a few nights of the week with thousands of eyes on him, but this was like being naked. Razia put her tiny hand on one of his biceps and squeezed. “You see these muscles?” she demanded.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Oh gods,” Quentin groaned. There was no way he could run now. His eyes found a spot on the table to focus on. He let Razia lift his arm up and put it on display. He even flexed, and felt a little thrill when she turned her head and her eyes widened appreciatively.

“...So what?” Cassius said. He pointed over to Adrian. “He’s got big arms too. That doesn’t prove a damned thing.” Adrian lifted his arm and flexed helpfully.

Quentin looked at Razia, who was already working on it. “Big, sure, but impressive?” she shook her head. “My man here could best any of you!”

From the bar, Maggie leaned over and shouted, “I said no fighting!”

“...in a contest of strength!” Razia amended.

The majority of the pub were staring at them. At him. Razia had a funny way of trying to help him. Quentin wanted nothing more than to hide behind his cloak, shrink from view, and maybe slink off and never see any of these people ever again. She made that impossible. So Quentin did the only thing he could do. He set his jaw and sat perfectly still.

Adrian looked from his arm to Quentin’s. “What, like arm wrestling? I don’t wanna touch him. What if his curse rubs off on me?”

Razia rolled her eyes. “I’ve been touching him all night with no problem. You won’t get cursed.”

“Yeah, but you’re a whore,” Cassius said. “You’ll touch anyone if the price is right. Even a fucking moonkissed.”

Blood rushed through Quentin’s head. The world flickered, and he found himself pulling out his purse and slamming it onto the table hard enough to make people jump. Taking deep breaths, he opened it and pulled out ten polished, triangular wedges of yellow glass.

“I’ve got five qala that says you’ll lose. Beat me and I won’t pass the curse onto you. Lose, you give me your money and you apologize to her.”

“No curses either!” Maggie shouted. “By the gods, if I have to come over there...”

Most of the patrons, Razia included, winced and kept their heads down. Quentin kept his glare locked on the lanky bastard across the table from him. Cassius was no longer smiling. The longer Quentin stared at him, the more he withered. Razia put her hand on Quentin’s shoulder and squeezed.

“You’re on,” Cassius said. He finished his drink to cheers and cleared his side of the table.

It all happened very fast. From Cassius fishing out shards of his own to their table being surrounded by looming onlookers, Quentin wasn’t sure even half a minute passed before they were ready and people were calling out bets of their own and goading them into getting on with it.

“So, uh,” Razia whispered into Quentin’s ear, “I know you’re probably not happy with me…”

“Yeah.” A dozen people pressing in around him made him want to run away screaming, in fact.

“But this is going to work out in your favor. Just trust me.”

“Do I have a choice?” he scoffed. Quentin planted his elbow on the table, and extended his forearm. Cassius hesitated, but took it and squeezed Quentin’s hand hard enough to sting. He squeezed back and smiled when Cassius let out a surprised squeak.

There was no signal, no call for them to start. One second they were staring each other down, the next Cassius put everything he had into slamming Quentin’s hand against the table. Quentin braced himself. His arm went nowhere. Cassius pushed until he was grunting and his eyes bulged and managed to move Quentin’s arm an entire three inches. Quentin smiled. He pushed back, and slammed Cassius’ hand against the table.

The roar of cheers and laughter was unexpected, but familiar. Quentin looked around to see people smiling at him, even as they jeered and shoved at Cassius. Razia threw her arm around his shoulders and laughed. He reached forward and scooped up his winnings while Cassius rubbed at his wrist, glaring balefully.

“And the apology?”

“Fuck your apology,” Cassius scowled. “I’m not apologizing to a whore.”

Quentin nodded to himself. “Great Tsaba, Darkstar. I call on you. Bring your touch, your sweet kiss of --”

“I’m sorry!” Cassius cried.

Razia burst out laughing. She wasn’t alone. Around him, Cassius had people playfully shoving him and teasing him. Even Quentin couldn’t help but grin.

“Double or nothing,” Adrian growled from beside him. “Anyone could beat that skinny bitch.” He jerked a thumb towards Cassius. “I have a castura on beating you. How about it, ‘battlemaster’?”

A chorus of “ooooohs” followed. A castura would feed any of them for a week, and they would be eating well. Quentin slide his pile of qala shards to the center of the table. The “ooooohs” grew even higher in pitch. Adrian got up and went around to the other side, shoving Cassius out of the way.

His grip was much stronger than Cassius’. Quentin matched it with enthusiasm. The crowd was on his side now, and it was him versus someone else. This was familiar. This was even comfortable if he didn’t think about it too hard. He nodded to Adrian, who returned it. They started.

Adrian was much stronger. Quentin couldn’t just anchor his arm and let his opponent tire himself out before he pushed back. He put his strength into it until Adrian’s hand sank with all of the inevitability of the setting sun. Dimly, Quentin heard the assembled crowd’s chatter get louder and louder. Adrian’s teeth were clenched. Their hands hovered inches above the table. Quentin growled and finished it.

The pub went nuts. Quentin threw his hands into the air as they roared their approval and he drank it all in. Razia handed him his drink, and he downed it in one go. He slammed it on the table as Razia scooped the shards back towards them.

“Having fun yet?” Razia shouted in his ear to be heard over the clamor. She had a small, knowing smile on her face and her hand on his shoulder.

Quentin nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “This isn’t so bad. Hey, good match,” he said to Adrian.

Adrian rubbed his wrist, glaring at Quentin. The stocky man looked like he was barely avoiding giving in to the temptation of decking him. Whether it was knowing that it would get him kicked out or because of the possibility of being cursed, Quentin didn’t know, but it satisfied him more than the victory.

“Double or nothing,” Quentin said. He slid the pile of shards back into the center. “The two of you against me. If you’ve got any money left.”

All sound died around them. Cassius froze as he was getting up off the bench. For a torturous eternity lasting all of ten seconds, the only sound that could be heard was Maggie at the bar, yelling for someone to bring another keg out from the back. Then all at once, the sound returned as everyone began talking at once.

“You serious?” “Four castura?”

“Wait, two on one?”

“Quentin, are you sure about this?” Razia whispered in his ear. “You won already. Quitting while you’re ahead might be a good idea.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “Oh, now you’re suggesting restraint?” Razia smiled sheepishly, shrugging.

Cassius and Adrian whispered to each other. Then Adrian nodded. “How would we even do this? One of us on each arm?” Cassius asked.

“What? No, like…” Quentin faltered. He gestured to the two of them. “Like the two of you working together to...One hand on the others’, you know?”

They looked at each other. “That’s stupid,” said Adrian.

Others seemed to agree. A few people snickered, but more turned away, sure that their temporary entertainment was done for the night. Quentin’s stomach twisted. That probably meant he could go back to having some quiet, but there went the temporary respect he’d earned.

“Don’t worry about it, Quentin,” Razia said, loud enough to be heard. “You won, and they’re too scared to keep going. I’m honestly surprised that one challenged you in the first place.” She jerked her thumb towards Adrian. “My friend Mel says he’s not much of a man, if you know what I mean,” she stage whispered.

In a flash, Adrian had another handful of yellow glass shards out and slammed on the table. “The hell I’m not. Mel’s a fucking liar, and a dry, used up bag! When we win, hows about I prove it, whore?”

“Adrian…” Cassius warned, eyeballing Quentin warily. “Maybe we shouldn’t antagonize him.”

“No, we’re fucking doing this.” He grabbed Cassius by the front of his tunic and pulled him back down into his seat. “Get out your money. We’re doing this.”

Cassius reluctantly pulled out some shards of his own and slid them across the table. Quentin pulled out another castura piece and added it to the pile. He smiled at Razia, who rolled her eyes at him but squeezed his shoulder once more. Quentin planted his elbow on the table, hand out. Adrian nudged Cassius, who put his hand in Quentin’s. Adrian put his hand over Cassius’.

“Alright,” Razia called out, seizing the pub’s wavering audience. “This is it. For four full castura and the title of Maggie’s Strongest Drunk! Gentlemen...Begin!”

Razia’s announcement caught Quentin by surprise. His opponents started immediately on her cue and nearly beat him in an instant. He caught himself at the last second and pushed, stopping his hand just three inches shy of the table. The way his opponents were positioned close together may have looked stupid, but it worked. Their joined hands wavered there. He bought another three inches. They were almost back to their starting position when Quentin began to waver.

Quentin grunted, putting everything he had into it. His wrist ached. His arm ached. Alone, either of them weren’t much, but together they slowly forced his hand lower and lower. Quentin’s heart thundered in his head. They were two inches away now. He was going to lose. He had nothing left to give, and it wasn’t enough.

Their push faltered. Just for an instant, but it was all Quentin needed to push back and slam their hands down against the table with a triumphant roar. His arm throbbed, but he still punched the air. To his surprise, rather than the cheers from before, the bar erupted with laughter and sharp whistles. Everyone except his opponents were laughing hard enough to need to hold each other up, while his opponents looked ready to kill.

“That’s cheap! That’s cheating, you filthy, no good, piece of shit…”

Quentin’s blood ran cold. He looked around. They couldn’t have been talking to him, could they? He turned to Razia in time to catch her pulling the front of her dress back up.

“What?” he gaped at her. “Did you just…?”

She shrugged, failing to stifle a wicked grin. “Congrats on the win! I’d say you owe me a drink.”

“No, this is a load of shit,” Adrian yelled, loud enough to silence everyone else. He jumped to his feet. His hand went to the knife on his belt, but he didn’t pull it just yet. “You’re not getting a godsdamned thing from me.”

The people crowding around the table backed away. Maggie stepped out from behind the bar, jaw set but not saying anything. Drunk patrons causing trouble was one thing, someone getting ready to pull out a weapon was another. Cassius put his hand on Adrian’s arm, but the stocky man shrugged him off.

“I, uh…” Quentin stared at that knife. If he went for his own, Adrian would jump him. If he got up or moved, that would be enough reason for the man to jump him. It would be just his luck, winning a fight to the death and escaping armed muggers only to die over a stupid argument in a bar. Razia stepped in.

“You’ve been such a good sport up until now,” she said, as chipper sounding as before. “You’re a worthy match for the battlemaster here. That’s why, in honor of his victory, a bottle of Maggie’s finest to you and your friend. On your new friend’s tab, of course!”

Adrian stared her down, huffing with barely concealed rage. His dark eyes flitted between her and Quentin, as if trying to decide which of them was worth stabbing.

“Anything Maggie has,” said Razia. “Your choice. As a thank you for the great matches.”

He looked around at everyone else, watching him and waiting to see whether there’d be blood or not. He snorted, and sat back down. “Fine. Make it a bottle of Salucci’s. Two,” he added, after a nudge from Cassius.

Razia looked to Maggie, who nodded and disappeared behind the counter. “You got it. And you know what? A round of drinks for everyone else as well!” The pub erupted with cheers.

Razia sat back down next to Quentin, who was gaping at her openly. “What?” She asked, scooping his winnings back towards them.

“What happened to restraint?”

Razia shrugged. “Turns out I’m not so great at it. By the way, you may end up losing all your winnings after this.”

Quentin snorted. Of course he would.

After that, everyone was his friend. Andrea picked her lyre back up and struck up a lively tune. It wasn’t long before the first person came up to Quentin to ask him about the Colosseum and the gladiators themselves. They were followed by two more. Razia slipped away for more drinks, but Quentin hardly noticed.

It was, he reflected, the one thing he could probably talk about for hours. The other gladiators may have only tolerated him, but he loved everything about what they did and he was not shy about saying so. From the different fighters to matches of the past, Quentin forgot himself as he gushed and people eagerly listened. If anyone realized that winning at arm wrestling didn’t prove that he worked at the colosseum, his wealth of stories backed him up.

The alcohol helped. Whenever his drink was even close to empty, Razia set another one in front of him. Four or five drinks in, and the rest of the night blurred together. Quentin was dimly aware of people leaving the pub and new people sitting next to him, but there was no further trouble.

Before he knew it, most of the money he’d won was gone. When there was only a small handful of shards left, Razia helped him to his feet and out the door. Quentin’s heart soared with the calls of goodnight as he left. That was new.

The night air was blessedly cool on his skin, after a few hours of being in a hot, crowded pub. Quentin staggered forward, closing his eyes and breathing it in. “This was a good night,” he said, to no one in particular.

“I’m glad,” Razia said. She threw his cloak around his shoulders. “It was nice seeing you animated and, you know, not timid.” He took it from her and haltingly put his arms through the holes and the hood up. He fumbled with the clasp for a few seconds before giving up, swaying in place.

She fixed the clasp for him, and kept her hand on it. She looked up at his concealed face, looking amused. Razia had a nice face for smiling, Quentin thought with a sloppy grin.

“You know,” Razia said, “it doesn’t have to be over just yet.” The corners of her lips twitched, and Quentin was even dizzier than before.

He put his hands on her shoulders to steady himself. The rest of the world was spinning pleasantly, but Razia was steady. Razia was, he decided, fun. Even the trouble she seemed to bring was fun. Quentin thought back to the alleyway, and how she’d pulled him on top of her. How soft she was, how inviting. His throat tightened. “Yeah?” he asked, wetting his lips.

“Yeah,” Razia said. Her hands slid up his chest, around his shoulders and stayed there. She was practically hanging off of him, but not once did it strike Quentin, even through his drunk haze, like she was doing him a favor. “Just say the word and we’ll go back to your place.”

“Just like that?” Quentin asked.

“Just like that.”

It was tempting. Gods knew that she was the only woman who’d shown him even a hint of interest in the past eighteen years. She was lovely. He’d never seen a woman with a shaved head, but it suited her. It was exciting. She was exciting. He wanted it, he decided. Even if it meant that she would see all of him. He’d do it.

Quentin took his hands off of her shoulders. “I can’t,” he said, hating himself for it. “I’m sorry. You’re...You’re pretty, but,” he started.

“Just pretty?” she said, letting out a short, throaty laugh.

“Oh come on,” he sighed. “I...can’t. Okay?” He gently put his hands on hers and pulled them away from him.

“Okay,” Razia said evenly. “I won’t push. But if you see me around, you know the offer’s open, right?”

Quentin nodded, a crooked smile on his face. She made to leave. Quentin blurted out, “Seriously. Why me? I’m not complaining, but...why? Give me a real answer.”

Razia tilted her head to the side, considering him. She let out a deep breath. “I like what I do,” she said. “A lot. I came to Orchrisus for a reason. I wanted to be a priestess of the Pierced Heart. Sounds perfect, right? A whore, serving the deity of passion and art. I heard the priests and priestesses actually are respected for what they do.

“Anyway,” she shook her head. “I got turned away. That doesn’t change anything. I love what I do. I see lonely, hurt people and I have something I can offer them. I can give them companionship for a time. Everyone deserves warmth and affection.”

She tugged the front of his cloak. Quentin leaned forward. Razia’s lips brushed where his cheek met his ear.

“Even the Butcher.”

Quentin’s blood turned to ice. Razia planted a kiss on his cheek and walked away. Numb, he watched her walk down the Boulevard. Every instinct screamed for him to go after her, to demand how she knew, to find out what she was going to do with that info.

He stood there frozen until long after she was out of sight.