The Ritual by H. Anthe Davis, Erica Dakin Read Free Book Online Page A

across his face. “Milarev has been near blind for the past three years, but still took credit for all the jobs I’ve been doing for him,” he muttered.
    “But not anymore?”
    “No, he died a few months ago. This is the first job we’re doing on our own.” Then he changed the subject, clearly unwilling to discuss Milarev any further. “So, last night I established that you’re worth teaching. Today we need to work out just how much your education is worth to you.”
    I hid a grin, certain that he expected me to bargain. “Whatever I steal is yours, bar enough to keep us in clothes, food and a little extra for unexpected eventualities,” I said before he could state his own offer.
    “What?”
    I could see he was truly startled, and allowed myself a chuckle. “I already told you, we have no goals, no aim in life. We have nothing to save for, nowhere to go. What use do we have for bags full of gold? They’d just encumber us.”
    He narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re a thief. Why steal, other than for the money?”
    “It’s all I know how to do. It supports us, pays for what we need. It means we don’t have to earn our keep in one of the whorehouses.”
    “You’d probably earn more if you did, with faces like yours,” he sneered, then ran his eyes over my body with such cold calculation in his eyes that it chilled me. “In fact, I’d say that you could earn a fortune on your back. Men would be queueing up for a piece of your–”
    He reeled back, and with a sense of shock I realised I had slapped him. My hand stung, and I could see its outline forming on his cheek in red as he raised his fingers to it, staring at me in astonishment.
    “Shut. Up!” I hissed, clenching my fists at my side to stop myself from hitting him again. “I already explained to you how I feel about that, and I don’t see why I should need to again, nor should I have to listen to your innuendos! You talk about people not understanding, imply the same hatred of slavery that we have, and then you come out with a comment like that? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
    He took a breath, then seemed to reconsider, turned and walked on. “It won’t happen again,” he mumbled, barely loud enough for me to hear it, and looked away when his brother fell into step with him.
    “You deserved that,” I heard Mior say, and the barely concealed amusement in his voice almost made up for the lack of an apology from Zashter – an apology I knew would remain lacking.
    Well, fine, I don’t need an apology from you anyway, you selfish bastard, I thought, staring daggers at his back.
    Until we stopped to make camp that night, none of us spoke again.
    Setting up camp was an easy routine, finessed quickly. It had proven easy to adapt our existing task divisions to accommodate four people rather than two, and within half a measure we had built a roaring fire with our sleeping rolls surrounding it, a teakettle on the go and a large carp baking on a bed of coals, sending fishy scents of promise to my hungry stomach. Whilst we were waiting for it to cook Mior started the practical assessment of my sister’s skills, and I lay back on my sleeping roll to watch them, glad of the opportunity to divert my attention away from Zashter.
    Mior started with illusions, creating intricate tableaus out of scintillating colours, which he then expected Shani to copy. She did well, though her images lacked some of the finer detail, and I could see that Mior was pleased. He was far easier to read than his brother, and generous with his praise, and Shani glowed with pride as she worked her magic for him.
    Pride, and something else. As I watched her I began to realise tha t she was as attracted to Mior as I was to Zashter, that she wasn’t just responding to his flirtatious attention, but I wasn’t sure whether it reassured me or worried me. Still, at least her attraction had a little more rationale to it, given Mior’s obvious interest, and I could do little more