Free Scourge of the Betrayer by Jeff Salyards

long after it was dark.

    ⊕

    The next morning, I woke up to find myself alone in the room, Braylar and his gear gone. I felt like I’d been subjected to the press—my head pounded fiercely, and the room tilted as if I were on the deck of a ship on a rough sea. I promised myself I would never try to match the drinking pace of a Syldoon again.
    Gathering my supplies, I headed downstairs. Many who’d been sleeping in the common room were already gone, no doubt at first light, perhaps before, given the sequence of events in the night, and the inn was surprisingly empty. The Syldoon were seated around a table.
    Vendurro saw me and waved me over, which elicited a groan from Mulldoos. Most of the bowls in front of them were nearly empty, clotted with the remains of whatever Hobbins had thrown together on such short notice.
    I passed the table the prisoner had been killed on, and while Syrie had done what she could to clean it, there was no disguising the bloodstain, and the entire contents of my stomach nearly came rushing up.
    I sat down next to Vendurro. He whistled, which seemed to be the most piercing noise ever made by man. When Syrie showed, he said, “We’re about through here, but the scribe could use a bowl and some bread, I’m thinking.”
    She looked at me quickly and nodded, her cheeks flushed, and then headed to the kitchen without a word.
    Glesswik said, “Touchy little bird, ain’t she? Think she’d never seen a man’s throat cut before.”
    I wondered at the conversations they must have had that morning. Had they seen Syrie creep into Braylar’s room? If so, had they pressed Braylar for details of his conquest? Had he lied about what a wild minx she was? Or admitted that some belated modesty got the better of her?
    In retrospect, I’m glad I wasn’t privy. The whole episode would have only mortified me further.
    The Syldoon pushed their chairs back and rose from the table. Braylar turned to me and said, “Eat something. But don’t dawdle.”
    I nodded and watched them walk out the open front door. Syrie arrived a few moments later her tray laden with a bowl of steaming slop with a heel of bread half-submerged on one side and a spoon on the other, and a mug of watery-looking ale. My stomach wrenched and I took a deep breath.
    She set the bowl and mug down in front of me and asked, “Anything else you be needing, just now?” This seemed more perfunctory than pleasant.
    I looked up at her and immediately regretted it. Had she known I was awake while Braylar slid inside her? Was she repulsed? Or perhaps ashamed? My cheeks were inflamed, and hers no less so.
    “No,” I mumbled. “Thank you, Syrie. No.”
    She looked away quickly. “Safe journeys then.” A moment later she was back in the kitchen. I felt as if I should have said something, but had absolutely no idea what.
    I was sure I’d been born after my mother tumbled into a patron’s bed, just as Syrie had. Though I couldn’t possibly imagine she was overcome with any sudden bout of modesty. Where Syrie struggled to smile in the face of circumstances designed to prevent it, I remembered my mother as a tough, calculating woman possessing some low cunning and little enough else. She was intent on changing her lot in life but grew increasing bitter as it failed to happen.
    Perhaps she’d given herself over to those men in the hopes of winning a heart attached to a loose purse string. Had she imagined someone might rescue her? Sweep her out of the Jackal and into some better life? Or had she simply been trying to distract herself from just how few real options she actually possessed by slipping into as many different men’s arms as possible?
    I stared at my food for some time before taking a bite, until I remembered Braylar’s warning about dallying. I forced myself to eat what I could and made my way to the stables.
    Lloi appeared to be in the final stages of packing Braylar’s new wagon. The wood was painted a faded green, and the canvas