Plated Arms and Lion Paws

October 29, 2023

That man was looking at her again, the short Cathriskan guard across the tavern. Sure, she was pretty -- nineteen with her whole life ahead of her, her dark hair pulled back and out of the way as was her custom -- but a little privacy would also be appreciated, and she was in no mood to be flirted at. There was no flirting with to be done here. She wouldn’t be a part of it. Tirza shifted where she sat at the table and turned her face to look straight at him, knitting her eyebrows and glaring. He smiled back, and she realized the man was illiterate when it came to reading faces.

“Look. Forward,” she snapped through clenched teeth. If the boy didn’t understand subtleties, she was also fluent in direct command. Years with a drunk father had taught her that. She was an expert at telling drooling men to shut up and leave. The guard didn’t seem much brighter than an old drunk anyway. She rolled her eyes as the blushing young man turned his back to face the other guards at his table. They laughed at him. Tirza had spoken loud enough for the whole room to hear. He hadn’t fought back. She shrugged. That would have made things interesting for the other three tables of guests.

The room blurred for a second but then came back. She was beginning to realize why they used the word tipsy. She was certain that tipping out of her chair was this night’s inevitable conclusion. Nothing really mattered past that. She wouldn’t remember. She scoffed ironically to herself as she realized she was becoming what she most hated about her father. It didn’t really matter now. Nothing mattered. Her whole life was ahead of her, and yet she saw no life ahead. She had finally run out of options.

She pulled her hood up on her thick green cloak, hiding herself from the rest of the room as she continued to eat alone and hopefully undisturbed. A silver pin in the shape of a laurel leaf held the cloak in place, the same type of pin her father wore, the same type of pin her brother had died wearing. The laurel was a sign of the Prophet, and the Abijan bay laurel plants growing in from of the Prophet’s house were said to be sacred. It was the only pin she had. Otherwise, she would have discarded it or sold it already. She felt a certain rejection for this man, the Abijan Prophet, because the Prophet and her drunken father were one in the same.

A baked wedge of potato sat in the camaricus, a sauce made from honey, wine and ground mustard. Her father, besides being a prophet and a drunkard, had also been a doctor for a time. He was a medic during Rhentarri’s war, and Tirza had hoped to apply what he had taught her about anatomy and remedies to get a job here in the city of Cathriska. The smell of honey reminded her of the times he had given her herbal teas with the golden goop mixed in. The wine color reminded her of watching her father dress wounds. He would quiz her on the remedial properties of each substance as he applied them. The alcohol in wine kept infection away. Mustard was used in the poultices that he lathered on patients for muscle pain or chest congestion. He was such a tender man by day. Everyone trusted him. He was considered a holy man by the town. The urge would strike him, and he would set to his prophecy. He prophesized in steel.

Funny how drink brought back the memories. She took another swig. The room reeled as she tipped her head back. She chuckled at herself again. “Prophet’s daughter” to “homeless and drunk”, she thought to herself. The idea was twice as painful just a few mugs ago. The ale was having the desired effect. She caught a concerned look from a different guard as she lowered the mug. She had drained a quarter of it in a single go.

“Mind your own business,” she slurred, setting it back down. The slurring – she didn’t like the slurring. That was too much like the Prophet’s sorrowful mutterings. She thought she even understood him now that she was here in his position. She put the cold side of the metal mug to her forehead, trying to remember what her father used to blabber about.

“Oh, Kawwi,” she whispered to herself through a mouthful of potato. The name sent a few blobs of chewed food onto the table beside her plate. She wiped it up with her finger and stuck it back in her mouth. It took her brain a few long seconds to register why that was a gross thing to do. She wanted to spit the blob back out but had already swallowed. Inebriation was confusing, it seemed. Kawwi, her brother, was a young boy during the war. He had accompanied their father to the famous duel between Farathon and Ghosmolath. In the mayhem that followed, he fell from his father’s horse and was trampled to death. That, along with the death of his wife when Tirza’s birth caused complications, was what pushed the Prophet to the bottle. Tirza hadn’t known either of them, and tried her best not to resent them for breaking her father.

She felt the table rock slightly as a man sat himself down in front of her. He was middle-aged, bony and decidedly ugly. His apparel -- tattered work pants and stained cloak -- gave him away as one of the grunts that loaded the carts, not the salesmen or accountants that ran the corrupt Cathriskan trade circus. Not that it made any difference. The gutter men and deep pockets were equally manipulative from what she had been able to pick up after a few weeks in the city.

“It’s late, missy,” he said. His voice fell out like pebbles. “Need someone to take you home?”

It took her a moment to capture and process what he was saying. It took even longer for her to understand his alternative motives. “Leave me,” she said. “I’m drinking myself to the hospitals. They don’t want me as a nurse. They’ll take an invalid.”

“I’ll take you there, missy.” He touched her arm.

She frowned, looking down at his hand. When she didn’t react immediately, the man took it as some form of hesitant consent and stood up, pulling her up toward himself. The world really spun now. She felt like she was freefalling, but she knew her feet were on the ground. She could see them planted there.

“I know you’re dizzy. Jus’ lean on in.”

“Leave me,” she said again, placing her hand to her forehead. She had stood up far too quickly.

He began to pull her toward the door, but a heavy figure stood in their path.

A deep voice spoke. “Didn’t you hear her?”

Tirza looked forward and saw a breastplate like a metal wall in front of her. One of the guards had stopped them. She looked up and saw the face of the one who had given her the concerned look.

The guard continued. “I don’t think ‘leave me’ means quite the same as ‘take me’.” He placed a gloved hand on the man’s thin shoulder. “Perhaps I’m mistaken?”

The man sneered and released his grip on her arm. Now she was certain she would fall. The armed man caught her and eased her back down to her chair. His eyes were on the bony figure before him, not sparing so much as a brief glance in her direction.

“You want her for yourself? Fine! I’ll find another drunk,” his voice rasped as he left the tavern.

“Leave me,” Tirza slurred again.

“Happily,” the guard replied. She heard him walk back to his corner.

There was still food on her plate, but she was stuffed. She had ordered too much. That was the plan. Her money had run out. Her plan to work in the city had fallen through. She had nothing left and had asked for a big meal of steamed beef and camaricus potatoes. She reached for her mug. Two metal cups sat on the table, they gave little resistance when she touched them and they made hollow metallic sounds. Where had the third gone? Had she bumped it off when she was pulled from the table? The man who tried to carry her off left empty-handed. She turned to see the guard sitting down at his table and setting a half-empty mug down.

“That wretch,” she muttered to herself. She stood to walk to him, soon realizing that it would be much more of a challenge than she thought. The guards pointed her out as she approached. The one who had taken her drink turned in his seat and watched her. She couldn’t decide if his expression was bored, annoyed or amused. His thin, bearded lips pulled to the side like that were uncannily ambiguous. Now she was the one illiterate in faces. Regardless, she didn’t like it.

She opened her mouth, but he spoke first. “Hey, Nannu!”

An old man at the counter grunted, indicating that he was paying attention.

“The woman is ready to pay for her dinner.”

She gaped at him. How dare he?

“She’d like to pay for her dinner… and leave.”

“I would not,” she countered.

The round and white-haired man paid her no attention. He hobbled out from around the counter and began to inspect the table she had left, counting on his fingers and muttering to himself.

“It’s a healthy sum,” he said as he neared Tirza and the guards. “You’re sure you wouldn’t rather hear it in private, miss?”

“Yes, private would be fine.” She had gotten used to standing now, and the dizziness subsided somewhat. She found herself holding onto the back of the taller guard’s chair. He raised an eyebrow but allowed it, pushing her mug further out of reach. It seemed he had no intention of drinking it.

Nannu whispered the price in Tirza’s ear. She nodded as if she understood, but she didn’t care and quite frankly wasn’t listening. She had no money and no intention of paying. She continued to look back and forth between them.

“This is the part where you pay, miss,” prompted Nannu.

“I don’t have any money,” she said.

The guard frowned, shocked and a little confused. “You don’t have… any money?”

“None.” She shrugged. “Take me away.” She held out her wrists to them, but soon had to return her hand to the chair for balance.

“An arrest?” Nannu sighed. “That’s unfortunate, but probably necessary.”

The taller guard still frowned. He turned to look at her. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” she replied.

Now was his turn to roll his eyes. “Lies.”

“Fine. Nineteen. What difference does it make?” She didn’t know why she admitted it to him. Her filters seemed to be disengaged. She wanted the ale back so she could finish her job in that blissful buzz, so she could fall asleep until she ended up in the city prison. He pushed it further away as if he could read her thoughts.

The guard sighed and looked to his comrades. “What do we have?” The other two armed men stared at him.

“Mobhi, don’t,” said Nannu. “The guards ensure justice. They don’t pay the tab.”

Tirza’s frown phased in while this Mobhi figure’s expression faded to something else. What was he doing?

“She’s nineteen. Give her a break. I pay. This doesn’t affect you. Besides, she’s a little thing. She couldn’t have eaten that much.”

“You’d be surprised,” Nannu said.

“Honestly, I don’t want to go through the process of locking her up. It’s late, and I’m tired.”

The short guard also threw a few coins onto the table. Mobhi smiled at him and patted his pauldron. Soon it was paid, and the old man returned to his counter. Tirza remained standing there, unable to speak. Her hand still rested on the back of Mobhi’s chair. He had just ruined her plan. Now she didn’t know where to go. Prison seemed to be off the table.

“You’re free to leave,” he said, turning his back on her.

He scooted his chair in, causing her to lose her balance for a second. It was inconsiderate and a little brusque, but she knew she had no right to complain. She cleared her throat and left the tavern, her cheeks crimson, and she hoped her face was just red because of the alcohol in her system.

The cool air felt nice against her warm cheeks. She paced away from the tavern and down the street, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. It was late summer in Cathriska. She wouldn’t freeze during the night, but the streets at those hours weren’t exactly considered safe either. She checked repeatedly over her shoulders for signs of the bony grunt that had left minutes earlier. The streets were empty, however -- empty and dark. Lights flickered in a few windows and in a lamp at the street corner. The rest was illumined only by the white-blue drifting down from an overcast sky. The moon didn’t bother to cast any sharp shadows tonight.

A rush of dizziness struck again. She steadied herself against a locked shopfront and slid down to sit on the step, wincing as a cold sensation indicated she had sat in a small puddle. She just hoped it was water and didn’t bother to stand. Her head felt strangely heavy as she looked up and down the street once more. She rested her warm cheeks in her palms and wept through her fingers. The tears hadn’t asked her permission, and she hadn’t had time to assess any emotion before they broke out. It reminded her of her father’s drunken sobs, and she hated herself for it. At least her father cried for someone else. Tirza was crying for herself. The Cathriskan street wasn’t the only thing dark and empty that night.

Then her throat tightened and her stomach churned. It felt like someone was pressing two fingers up under her jaw. She knew that feeling well. She could even explain it medically. A minute later she was retching her dinner and the two and a half mugs of ale into the opposite corner of the shop front. She spat, wiped her mouth as best she could, and slumped back into her original side of her shallow niche, leaning her head back against the stonework. She wanted to sleep and forget.

Her eyes blinked open as clinking armor and loud voices passed by on the other side of the street. The voices passed on, taking no notice of her. Better, she thought. She had experience with recovering drunks and could care for herself. She could nurse herself and didn’t need anyone fussing over her. Part of her wondered when she had become so afraid of letting others care for her. She had made it thus far in life without having to be mothered, but glancing back at the lumpy puddle a few feet away made her wonder if she could go on like this indefinitely. At least the sharp acidic smell was fading, or perhaps she was just getting used to it.

Slow steps sounded from her side of the street now. She pulled her feet in, trying to hide herself in the shadow. The footsteps were heavy, and she thought she heard a metallic click. The form stopped intentionally before her and looked down with arms crossed over his plated chest. She remembered falling into those arms. The man was a wall.

“You think I’m blind?” he said.

She turned to the side, lifting her boots up onto the step. “I don’t need your help. You’ve done enough.”

Mobhi looked at the puddle a few feet away and could smell it was fresh. He sighed. “I paid for that.”

She felt the red creeping back into her cheeks. She didn’t need to be mothered or fathered. Who did he think he was?

He crouched down to her level. “Convince me to find you a place to stay.”

“Why should I humor you?” She spoke into the cloak she had pulled over her knees.

“You spewed my coin,” he said.

It was true, but was it a legitimate reason? One thing was for certain, this man wasn’t flirting. That was refreshing. He was attractive enough to try, but he didn’t. What did he have to gain from this, then? She cursed interiorly but kept her mouth shut. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“How long have you been on the street? You don’t look like a tramp.”

“First night,” she said. She glanced at him. He wasn’t even looking. “And I’m not a tramp. I was going to accept the consequences of what I did. I was going to accept the arrest.”

“Hell of a plan,” he mused. He stood and walked away. It seemed she hadn’t convinced him. He walked to the tavern they had just left and knocked. Nannu showed up with some cleaning rags hung over his shoulder. She saw the man nod and pull the door open further. Then Mobhi beckoned to Tirza. Perhaps she had convinced him? She rolled her eyes and stood. The alcohol was already wearing off. Its numbing effect would also fade.

The old man caught sight of her as she stood from the shadows. His eyes widened. “No, Mobhi!” he said. “You said it was a room for you!”

“What difference does it make?”

“She can’t pay.”

“How much?”

“You’re saving for Gzira Re. Everyone knows that. Don’t throw that away on a tramp.”

There was that word again. She understood the misconception, if it was in fact a misconception. Walking made her insides roil again, but there was nothing left to come up. She heard a few coins fall into Nannu’s hand as she arrived. Mobhi let his heavy hand fall on her shoulder to steady her. It felt like a lion’s paw. She didn’t want him to touch her, but she needed the support and reluctantly held on to his wrist. She thought she caught him smiling as she grabbed him. To hell with him.

“She’ll get the money back to me,” Mobhi said. “I’ll make sure of that.”

The old man sighed and stepped aside to let Tirza pass. Mobhi didn’t let her go, his heavy paw seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and yet somehow it held her up. She frowned up at him, and she hoped he would read more irritation than confusion in her look.

“One night, girl,” he said. “And you pay me back.”

“Yes, father,” she said. It was sarcastic but struck a chord deep within her as it came out. She immediately regretted the phrase but knew she could show no sign of that. He released her, and she passed inside, rubbing her red cheeks.

“Don’t let her put anything on my tab,” she heard as the guard closed the door behind him and walked off. Nannu locked the door.

The old man said nothing to her. He opened a room for her in the corner and retired for the night. She had no doubt it was the smallest and dirtiest of the tavern’s accommodations, but it beat the step outside. In a few minutes, she was lying on a straw mattress and dreaming of plated arms and firm hands. She saw her father during the war, armored and strong, father and husband. She was a baby in that dream, and her mother handed her to those strong arms, up on his horse. It was the first time she had ever imagined her mother’s eyes.

*

As morning light glowed in the burlap curtains, Tirza realized once again that her plans had failed. Not only had she failed to support herself in the city, she had even failed to throw her life away. She had been delayed a full day on her quest for rock bottom. Her irritating benefactor has spoiled the whole of it. She hadn’t finished the night as drunk as she intended; she wasn’t on the street, in prison, nor dead. Now she would have to wander the city for one more day. And worst of all, it was a beautiful morning.

Her head throbbed, but she had expected worse. It was a pulsing ache, present and annoying, but manageable. After a lazy hour of stretching and rubbing her eyes, she finally forced herself out of bed and began her day. She avoided eye contact with Nannu and everyone else for that matter. A sense of aimlessness, similar to that of the night before, met her upon exiting the tavern. She had nowhere to go, and all day to go there. The aimlessness was an odd mix of stress and boredom. She turned to the right and began to walk. Walking would expend energy, making her hungrier faster, but it also allowed for chance encounters and opportunities for food or work to show themselves. She cringed as she considered letting the hope back in. Walking needed to be her focus. Just walk, Tirza. She decided to silence her thoughts and focus on finding her first meal.

A man to her left was trying to rinse dried vomit off his front step. She offered to help him scrub it off for a hunk of bread. He agreed, and she walked off nibbling on a dry crust. Was it really stealing? That could always be her fallback strategy, throwing up on people’s things and charging them for cleaning it up. Business is business.

The morning passed slowly. Few bothered her. No one asked questions. She began a full round of the city, not having anything better to do with her time. The tavern she had stayed at was near the south gate, the first inn on the right for travelers arriving from the Bartheldan side. She walked up around the east wall, rounded the north side by noon, and was arriving back by late afternoon. She asked a few shopkeepers where work was needed, but each ask only fractured her hope further. She had been at that before. Why would this day be any different?

Arriving back to the southern gate, she heard a commotion and caught sight of a tattered cloak running off. His arm dripped red, and something metal glinted in his hand, wet with blood. She stepped back into a corner, holding her breath and letting the man run by. She didn’t get a good look at his face, but couldn’t help imagining that it was the man who had pulled her by the wrist the night before.

A man’s cry for help continued from the direction of the gate.

“Get a doctor!” the voice cried.

Another man called back, “His sister works at the hospital. I’m going!”

She ran toward the sound, catching sight of a small crowd beginning to gather around a short Cathriskan guard who lay in a puddle of his own blood. The cry for help had sparked something in her, something she didn’t know she still had.

“Get his breastplate off!” she yelled as she ran. “Cut off the plates!”

The crowd of ten or so made room for her as she knelt next to the bleeding man. A quick glance at his pleading expression confirmed that he was the man she has snapped at the previous night, the one who had dropped a few coins on the table for her.

“A knife! Someone get me a knife!” she screamed.

She worked at the buckles while she waited. Another guard, one she didn’t recognize, cut the straps on the other side, and they removed the plates. Blood was everywhere. She thought it likely that the man had been stabbed four to six times between the plates, all on his left side. She ripped the cloth away and used her cloak to wipe the blood back. The blood rushed out again to cover everything, red and pulsing. She removed her cloak entirely and pushed it against the man’s side.

“It’s an artery,” she said, “among other things.” She glanced about herself, assessing the situation and what she had at her disposition. She lifted a hand to snap her fingers at the guard who had helped cut off the plates. “Come here! Apply pressure!” The man scooted closer and pressed the cloth to the wounds. She checked that he was holding it right, explaining where the epigastric artery was and exactly in which direction he had to push. She corrected the position of his hands several times as she shot out commands. “We need a table, boiling water and several sizes of knives! Where can we carry him? I need to operate now!”

The wounded man was paling from blood loss and trembled violently. “My sister. Get my sister,” he susurrated.

“Mobhi ran off for her,” the other replied. “They’ll be here soon.” He turned to Tirza. “You’re a nurse?”

“I was trained by a war medic,” she replied. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Issek’s sister is a nurse from the hospital a few minutes away. I suggest we wait for her.”

“No,” she said. “If you want him to live, then no. The extra hand will be useful when she arrives, but we need to move him now. You three!” She pointed at those left who hadn’t gone for materials. “Carry him to the tavern. I’ll run ahead and clear off a table.”

They obeyed, and she sprinted back toward Nannu’s tavern. She burst through the door, startling all inside. The tables were full with early dinner customers. They looked on in astonishment as she paced toward the nearest table.

“A man’s been wounded!” she yelled. “We’re bringing him here!” She pushed four drinks and plates of food onto the floor. “I apologize,” she said. “We need your table. You have to leave.”

“What’s the meaning of this!” Nannu cried, entering the room. His tantrum was cut short by the three people carrying Issek. The guard still pressed Tirza’s cloak to the bleeding man’s side. Tirza frantically brushed crumbs, spills, and other filth off the surface and grabbed another table, tipping its contents onto the floor and onto the customers’ laps as she pulled it toward the center of the room. The two tables put together were barely big enough to hold the dripping body.

The old bartender turned on his heel and shuffled off for basins of water, cloths and whatever ingredients he knew had medicinal use. Many forgot that he was a veteran from the war as well. He hadn’t been much of a killer, but he had seen his share of blood, and he remembered the types of things the nurses yelled for while he worked in the camp’s kitchens.

“If he doesn’t faint from the shock, then we’ll need to sedate him,” Tirza said. “Get the cook working on something, poppy, valerian root, liquor, or whatever you can find. Even Talon if you have to.”

Luckily water had already been at a boil in the tavern’s kitchen. A steaming pot was brought in and set on another confiscated table. The other Cathriskan guard sent anyone who didn’t have a job out of the room. She washed a few of the knives in the scalding water and got to work opening and inspecting Issek’s side. He passed out after the first incision, and she told them to hold the sedative. She managed to pinch and tie off the artery and began patching up the stomach and the anterior abdomen.

Soon another woman crouched next to her. Tears glistened in her eyes, and Tirza immediately recognized her as the sister. She wore the hospital uniform, was pale with concern, and had perspiration showing on her brow. She had run all the way. Tirza put aside the fact that she had come directly from the very institution that had turned her away and landed her on the streets.

Tirza explained the damage and showed her what she had done so far. She left the sister to inspect and turned around to grab another cloth. The sudden turn caused her to bump into a man behind her. Her hands smeared blood onto his polished breastplate as she hit him. Two perfect crimson handprints were left on the Mobhi’s chest.

“You?” Mobhi said, looking down at the nineteen-year-old tipsy girl from the night before. Her arms were entirely covered in blood. It was up to her elbows and seeping into her sleeves.

“No time.” She said, circling around him and jogging to the kitchen to see what strong, clear liquors Nannu had been able to find.

Mobhi watched in amazement as she came back with a large bottle of whiskey and a handful of garlic cloves. Two women came in through the doorway with marigolds they had found just outside the southern gate. She smashed the rinsed-off flowers together with the garlic and whiskey and presented the improvised poultice to the other nurse. Issek’s sister nodded with gratitude and set the bowl of paste down on the reddened table. She was almost done with the internal sewing and had come to the cleansing and closing phase.

Soon the wound was rinsed, dabbed with a sterile cloth, and shut. The poultice was slapped on and covered in clean bandages. They counted four separate stab wounds once they were sewn and lathered. All they could do now was wait. The nurse watched her brother. He had grown dangerously pale, his lips turning a shade of light purple. “Hold on,” she whispered to him. She planted a long, gentle kiss on his forehead.

Tirza couldn’t help thinking of her brother Kawwi. She wondered if she would have been able to save him after the fall and trampling of hooves had she been there. He died before she was born. It was a ridiculous question. But she found herself imagining the scene regardless; a long kiss on her brother’s head.

A man’s voice sounded from behind her. “You’re a surgeon?”

She turned to see the tall, broad Cathriskan guard staring at her. His hands were on his hips, and her bloody handprints were still on his chest. It was the first time she had seen authentic interest in his expression. The night before had been some display of dutiful mercy. He had done what was needed and had left her to her own devices. Perhaps he was just doing it to prove something to himself. Now he looked from her to Issek, and true gratitude showed in his eyes. She had saved a friend.

She considered him and forgot to speak.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Oh, surgeon? Yes. Well, no.” She wondered at herself. Speaking had never seemed so difficult. She assumed it was the adrenaline wearing off. Tiredness and intense hunger had set in all of a sudden.

Mobhi smiled and took a cloth from a clean basin of water. He handed it to her and pulled up a chair.

“Thank you,” she said. She sat and began to wipe the blood off her hands. She realized she wouldn’t have a place to rest and clean off the gore when this was over. Could she be so shameless as to ask those she had helped for the favor? Didn’t they have enough to worry about on their hands?

“I should be thanking you,” he said. “I’d like to have a name I can tag onto that, though.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Tirza. I’m Tirza from Abijah. And you’ve done enough for me.”

“Well, paying for a meal and a room doesn’t exactly compare to saving a life, Tirza.”

She glanced at Issek’s pale face and sunken eyes. “We’ll have to see if he pulls through.”

Mobhi pursed his lips and looked down at his hands. “He deserves to. He’s a good man.”

She wondered what kind of fairytale world he lived in where he could believe that good men would always meet easy fates. On second thought, she felt she wouldn’t mind walking that world with him for a while. The landscape would probably be nice. The people there might actually make some sense. And Her stomach probably wouldn’t feel so empty there.

“I’m hungry,” she said, returning to reality. She was beginning to think it had sounded silly, perhaps too sharp of a turn in the conversation, but Mobhi’s expression brightened when she said it. Did he find it… funny? Charming? When had she forgotten how to read expressions? When had it ever mattered so much to her?

 “Me too,” he said. Something was shining just under that layer of worry. Their eyes met for a brief moment, but he looked back to his injured friend on the table, unable to hold her gaze. She studied him.

“I think the kitchen is free reign right now,” he said, pointing at Nannu where he snored in the corner. “Just no drinking,” he joked.

“I’m not actually a drunk,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “You weren’t as drunk as you wanted to be last night. Am I right? You were slurring but still cohesive. And puking after being just a little sloshed? I could tell you weren’t experienced.”

She frowned at her hands as she continued to scrub them. So, he had been paying attention. “You would be correct,” she surrendered.

“Care to join me for a bite?” He extended his hand to her. “I can give you back that half pint of ale now.”

She looked down at her red hands. The cloth was already dirty with the blood she had managed to get off. The stains were too deep to wash away completely in one night. She knew the filth would linger.

“I don’t care if you get blood on me, Tirza” he said. “Actually, you already did.” He gestured at the marks left on his armor. He wore her handprints like twin badges.

She smiled and realized she had forgotten what it felt like to smile. She smiled and allowed Mobhi her hand.