Silver Blades: Prize Fight

Part 3, Section 1 - The Mission

"Yeah," I said, not even bothering to hide my frustration. " 'swhy the audience." I jerked a thumb at the monks who were loitering nearby, trying not to be obvious about their strange idol worship.

The three maxevinian priests, on seeing the jig was up, smiled and raised their hands in congratulations. "Such devotion!" one exclaimed. "Total conquest of the vine!" another barmy sod said.

"Something's not right," Clasicant frowned into the remainder of his current cup.

"You're telling me," I griped. "Listen, Classy cu—"

"People who save my life call me Rip," he admonished, cutting me off for no good reason. Maybe he'd heard that one before.

"Right. Rip. So listen. Maybe you don't like tilwenna. Or maybe I'm not your type. 'Sfine. You kin say so..."

"Sorry?" he said, and his dumb expression made it seem genuine. "Ivy, I—"

"I just thought, you know, it's Flowering, and I don't celebrate, not really, but a good fight gets the blood boiling—"

"Ivy, I don't..."

"I know I'm not the perfect tilwenna, and I have some scars," I said, fighting to keep the tears threatening to make an appearance at bay. Damn, I shoulda been an actor.

Ha! Who's acting?

Shaddup.

"But I ain't the ugliest neither. And I know tricks that'll curl yer toes, you bastard."

"Ivy, you are beautiful." He said. And it sounded like he meant it, although I couldn't tell if he meant that 'beautiful on the inside' crap or the 'choice meat' beautiful that really mattered to men. He didn't know me.

"Ha! Liar," I laughed, my voice turning coat and sounding more soggy than I wanted. Because he wasn't lying. After ninety years of working the roads as everything from merc to con artist I could spot a liar a league away. And this cove wasn't made for it.

Ivy, you're getting conned. Don't fall for it.

Shut up, I told myself again. I'm trying to get laid, remember?

"You're a fighter, Ivy," he said, twisting the knife. "I knew from the first time I saw you in the cage that there was something special in you. That no matter how many times you were knocked down, bloodied, beaten or stepped on, you would find a way to get back up and bash life in the teeth. You are no one's victim."

Now tears really did feel like falling, but he couldn't know me... So I kept going.

"Yeah, well, I could be yours..." I slid closer, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him close. Kissed him. His mouth tasted like wine, and he smelled like blood, sweat and old leather.

And kissed like a dead fish. Nothing.

I pulled away, blanking my face and clearing my throat forcefully.

"Ivy, I'm sorry—"

"Forget it," I said, overriding him. I wanted to punch him but it wasn't his fault I was such a shrew. I never should have taken a finesse job.

I stood. Looked around for my gear. Blinked a lot because my damned eyes were blurred. Didn't matter. I was wearing everything I owned, as always.

"It's not you..." He said it in a strange, confessional voice. "It's just that I'm ... in love."

I froze. It was like a lute string had broken and the whole world had gone from sad little tragedy to shocked silence in one heartbeat.

"You're... what?"