Page 103 of Throwing Fire

“Kez,” I call to my kitten before she gets too far ahead of us. I don’t want her out of my sight. She stops, glances over her shoulder, takes in my expression, and waits. I look back at Acker, “Good surprise or bad surprise?”

“Surprise-surprise. I do not recommend you let Lightfoot open the box.”

“Okay. Anythin’ else?”

“Not unless you need another hug.”

“Less’n you need your spine.” I grunt.

Acker grins, baring those long, white teeth, and gestures down the tunnel to where Kez waits.

We crunch through rubble from the attack, through a white haze that hangs in the air, smelling of rock dust, to the pool in the middle of the rats’ big cavern. A space has been roughly cleared in the debris.Two tables have been pushed together in that space, and cushions strewn on the floor around them, only slightly dusty. The tables are loaded with plaz containers. Acker hasn’t skimped on the food. There’s enough to feed a platoon.

As we near the tables, three people rise from the far end. Two men and a boy. As they stand, I realizemenmight not be the right term, at least for one of them.

One of them’s a Horse-Man.

On all four – hooves – he’s a little taller than me. Whatever transition his body makes from man to horse is hidden under a pieced and tooled leather tunic, but his muscular shoulders and arms look normal enough. It’s below the tunic’s hem that he goes equine, strong brown horse legs and a tail as black as his hair that he swishes as he stares at me. He rests his hands on the pommels of two sheathed swords bound into the tunic’s crimson belt. The heavy muscles in his arms flex and his glossy black hoof digs at the sandy floor.

Whether or not he knows how to use those swords, he doesn’t look like someone to fuck with.

“Snow, Lightfoot, let me introduce Drogan Tessanta,” Acker says.

The older man to the left of the Horse-Man bows. My eyes track to him. So focused on the Horse-Man, I barely noticed him. He’s wearing a loose, striped robe over wrapped leggings that show how skinny his legs are. Any hair is hidden by a soft white skullcap. His skin’s the same deep bronze as the Horse-Man’s. No visible weapons.

“You’re Drogan Tessanta?” I ask. He doesn’t fit with my image of a local strong man, but maybe E.C.ers have different standards.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Snow, Lightfoot,” the old man says in a reedy voice.

Beside me, Kezhumphslow in her throat. She’s letting me know this doesn’t track for her, either.

I bow to the old man but keep my eyes on the Horse-Man. Kez does an abbreviated curtsey.

The Horse-Man neatly folds his four legs under him and sits withhis palms resting on his horse-thighs. The teenaged boy helps the old man onto one of the cushions.

Acker circles the table to sit on one side of the E.C.ers, while I lead Kez to a seat near the Horse-Man.

My thighs and knees protest when I sit, but once I get myself settled on a cushion, it’s comfortable, and I could relax, except I’m sitting a meter from someone who might have put a hundred CeeBee bounty on my kitten’s head.

Kez reaches into the pile of food containers, tears off the top of one container, scoops noodles and rice onto it, then passes it to me with a nod toward the E.C.ers. As I hand it to the Horse-Man, I hear Acker sigh, “I am not suited for entertaining. My Wisdom would not have forgotten plates.”

“It’ll taste the same,” Kez says, passing out more container tops.

There’s a quiet minute as the makeshift plates are distributed, followed by chopsticks that Kez unearths. Then there’s an awkward moment as the Horse-Man and I both reach for the same container of what looks like eel in a dark sauce. I give way to him with a nod. He nods back and once he’s poured some of the eel over his rice, pours some over mine, too.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome, Mister Snow,” the Horse-Man says. His voice is deep, not a whinny or a neigh at all, and it carries a lot of authority.

I take a bite of my eel, which is delicious, flavored withthetgrass, garlic and ginger. “Not to spoil the party,” I say to the Horse-Man. “But why are you tryin’ to pass off granddad here as you?”

The Horse-Man chuckles and pats the old man’s arm when he starts to protest. “The revered gentleman is my uncle, Flagg Tessanta.”

I nod to the old man but keep my eyes on Drogan. “So why the show?”

“To see if you are as perceptive as Acker claims.” Drogan nods to Acker, who scratches under his chin with his claws.

“Did I pass?” I growl. Midnight tests don’t amuse me.