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the shabby bureau. Plus a tiny bar-fridge and microwave. It had padded rails,
and one section of the padding on each side flipped up like the armrests on a
first-class airline seat; inside were tray-tables. When he was really hurt or
sick, he didn't even have to leave The Bed except to hit the bathroom.
He'd found it (sans electronic gear, but wired with four power-strips and its
own pair of breaker-boxes) in a Goodwill store in Dallas. It had been made in
Germany, and he'd always figured its previous owner was one of the victims of
the slump in oil prices. Occasionally he looked at it, and wondered why he'd
hung onto it with such tenacity. It was a stone bitch to move, and holding
onto any piece of furniture was so completely unlike him that keeping this
monster was insane. But then he'd get hurt, or he'd have one of his days when
he'd wake up after a race or a fight hardly able to move, and he'd know why he
kept it. He'd never find another like it. And it at least gave him one
constant in all of his changes of address.
Too bad that he seldom had anyone to share it with.
He edged into the clear slot at the foot, and peeled off his shirt. Beneath it
was his body-armor; one of the other reasons he hadn't been overly worried
about an ambush by Vidal Dhu. It looked like a unitard, but it was composed of
thousands of tiny hexagonal scales, enameled in emerald green. As he slid his
pants off, the cool scales slipped smoothly, silkily, under his hands. It had
been a project he and Chinthliss had worked on for three months, to the
exclusion of everything else.
There were no seams. That was because every scale was joined magically to
every other scale, and it could be opened where and when he chose. Though if
he was ever unconscious, it would take someone like Keighvin to get it off
him. . . .
So he just wouldn't get in any accidents.
Right.
He crooked one finger, which was the only component of the set-spell to open
the suit, and ran the fingernail up the front. The armor opened and he
shrugged it off, exactly like a dancer squirming out of a costume.
Beneath the armor were the scars.
Starting from the first, a knife-scar on the forearm he got protecting a
potential mage, to the latest, teeth-marks that marked his leg from hip to
ankle, his body was criss-crossed with a network of lines. They ranged from
the thin white lines of old wounds, to the red of the newly healed.
I'm certainly not going to win any bikini contests.
Without the added support of the body-armor, his leg ached distantly, his
shoulders felt like knotted wire ropes, and The Bed looked more inviting than
ever.
But there was one more thing to do before he collapsed for the night.
He reached to the nearest shelf, and took out the tiny jar of Tiger Balm he
kept there. Actually, he kept more than one in there-there was nothing worse
than reaching for the only thing that could ease those constant aches only to
find the jar empty.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, on the padded rail. With habit that had
become ritualized, he applied the salve over every aching muscle. Before he
had finished rubbing it into his shoulders, the heat had begun to soothe his
aching leg.
He sighed, put the jar back, and crawled into the bed's embrace, fumbling for
the light-switch and dropping the room into total blackness, without even a
hint of outside light. The electronic clocks of the VCRs bothered him though,
enough that he briefly considered flinging a towel over them before deciding
he could just bury his head instead. His last conscious thought was to pull
the blankets up over himself and burrow into them, before the exhaustion he
had been holding off with both hands won the battle and flung him into sleep.
CHAPTER TEN
Sam glanced over at Keighvin as Tannim retreated. The young man had looked
tired and worried, and Sam knew the "why" of both. Tannim had put in several
after-hours sessions reinforcing the protections on Sam's house; that took a
lot more out of him than mere loss of sleep. And there was no doubt that he
was worried about the kids, Tania especially.
He has reason to be. She takes her health, if not her life, into her hands
every time she walks the streets.
Sam had more immediate worries on his mind, and so did Keighvin. There was
something Keighvin hadn't told Tannim. The Unseleighe Sidhe had shown up this
morning outside Sam's house with more than a personal warning. He'd delivered
a warning to Fairgrove as well, in the form of a challenge; time and place
specified for tonight, at the Fairgrove boundaries. And despite Donal's
attempts at reassurance, Sam trusted Keighvin's judgment, and Keighvin was
worried.
"It's traditional," Keighvin had said. "You always warn your opponent before
you attack-if they're of the Folk, that is." Then he'd smiled, but without
humor. "Of course, the warning can consist of sending back the pieces of
someone, appropriately gift-wrapped."
Sam had winced a little; it was one thing to hear about the bloodthirstiness
of the Sidhe in a tale, and another to feel it so close to home. "What about
mortals?" he'd asked. "Why did I rate a warning?"
Keighvin had pondered for a moment, as if the question hadn't occurred to him.
"Probably because you were protected too well to attack easily. Mortals-well,
mortals in general just don't rate any courtesy, Sam. I'm afraid the
Unseleighe Court deems mortals one short step above cockroaches."
At that Sam had grinned widely. "Could be they forget what good survivors
cockroaches are," he had offered. Keighvin had laughed and slapped him on the
back.
As soon as Tannim got out of earshot, he asked the question that he couldn't
voice while Tannim was around. "Why didn't you tell young Tannim about the
rest of the warning?" he asked the Sidhe. Keighvin shrugged.
"He's too tired to be of much use to us right now," Keighvin said with
resignation. "He plays hero too much for his own good, and he'd be right here
pitching levin-bolts, exhausted or no, if we'd told him. I'd rather not have
the lad at my back when he's this worn down." Sam looked at him quizzically,
and Keighvin coughed, embarrassed.
"Lately Tannim gets a little-erratic-when he's tired," the Sidhe said,
carefully.
Erratic, hmm? Just what's that supposed to mean?
"How so?" Sam probed. "Level with me, Keighvin. What are we talking about
here?"
Keighvin shook his head. "Truth to tell, Sam, I'd just as soon not have Tannim
anywhere nearby when he's exhausted. His intended targets are safer than his
allies. Lack of endurance, I fear."
Sam didn't know whether to be amused or alarmed. It was funny now, but it
might not be that funny later, if he found himself having to dodge-what?
"Is this bad aim just with his magic?" Sam asked. Keighvin sighed.
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