Free Brimstone Angels by Erin M. Evans

tents. Or itch.”
    “Havi, put your hood up,” Farideh said, “please?”
    “No one’s here,” Havilar said. “They make them with ribbons and things, you know?”
    Her sister’s frown twitched into a smile. “Which would go so well with your glaive.”
    “It would if I put a ribbon on Eater of Her Enemies’ Livers.”
    Farideh laughed, and Mehen scowled back at them as they reached the inn. “Havi, put your hood up.”
    The taproom of the inn wasn’t terribly crowded, but it was early yet, hardly sundown. Havilar surveyed the occupants—a handful of men, each sitting alone and wrapped around their ales; a raucous group playing cards and not paying attention to anyone else; a couple old wagon masters leaning against the bar. More than a few were staring at the trio. None of them looked remotely worth talking to.
    “
M’henish,
” Havilar muttered. Farideh squeezed her arm, and despite herself, Havilar’s tail flicked nervously.
    Mehen surveyed the room as well, looking for the bounty, no doubt. Havilar didn’t bother to look—she was sure Farideh was right. They had passed the dark-haired woman.
    Mehen steered them to an empty table in the corner of the room and then went to the bar to pay for supper and lodging. Perhaps half those staring found something else to look at, until Havilar pulled her hood back a little—and a dozen pairs of eyes honed in on her.
    “Havi—”
    Havilar waved her off. “It’s too hot for that nonsense.”
    In the shadow of her hood, Farideh flushed, but she said nothing. Good, Havilar thought. Maybe she was calming herself a little bit. Maybe she was worrying less about what a lot of boring old men thought. Havilar was sure Farideh would crave some company, too, if only she stopped worrying so much. Being driven out of Arush Vayem was the best thing that had ever happened to them—or it would be if she and Farideh would start taking advantage of it.
    Mehen came back with two full bowls of greasy dumplings and a thin stew of greens and gravy. “Havi, put your hood up.”
    “She’s right,” Farideh said. “It’s ungodly hot.” She looked down at the steaming bowls. “Especially if that’s supper.”
    Mehen glowered down his snout at both of them. “The innkeeper says no food in the rooms. You have to eat down here, and that means you keep your cloaks on.”
    “No one cares,” Havilar said, even though they were still getting a few curious looks.
    “Stay here,” Mehen said. “Finish your suppers and go up to the room. Second room left of the stairwell. Then you may take off the cloaks.”
    “Where are you going?” Farideh asked.
    “To ask after our missing bounty,” he said as he walked away.
    “
Karshoj,
” Farideh spat once Mehen was out of hearing. Havilar giggled—Farideh almost never swore—and got a dark look for it. “He’s being impossible lately,” Farideh said.
    Havilar shrugged. “He’s being Mehen.” The doors opened and more people came in—more than a few caught sight of Havilar and stared. “I thought you two liked worrying together.”
    Farideh picked up her spoon. “There’s a difference between being careful and not listening to reason.”
    The dumplings were oily and heavily seasoned with onions, but they were hot and worlds better than old bread and dried meat. Havilar ate with one eye on the door and the people trickling in. These were a broader mix of sorts—younger, not-so-armed, looking around the taproom as if it were a novelty and not a fact of life.
    Havilar elbowed Farideh. “Look. It’s that fellow you saved.”
    The dark-haired boy lingered near the door, letting families and wagoneers go ahead. He looked tired, Havilar thought. Maybe that was why he didn’t look around or notice her and Farideh.
    Farideh looked up and made a noncommittal noise. Havilar frowned at her, wondering not for the first time if there were something fundamentally wrong with her twin.
    “What was his name again?” Havilar