"WE FORDED THE Keff a while later. The river rose up to my horse's shoulders, but she was a strong one, and I suspect, glad to be rid of the inquisitors and their whips. I didn't know her name, and I supposed I'd not be keeping her long. So I just called her 'Jez' as we rode on through the dark."
Jean-François blinked. "Jez?"
"Short for 'Jezebel.' Since I'd only know her for a night and all."
"Ah. Prostitute humor."
"Don't fall down laughing, coldblood."
"I shall do my very best, Silversaint."
"My arm was slowly healing," Gabriel continued. "But I knew I'd need a dose of sanctus to really see it right. And without my flintbox, I'd no sensible way to light a pipe, let alone a lantern, so we ran blind to Dhahaeth, hoping against hope that the town was still standing. Whatever light the sun gave was long gone by the time I saw them in the distance, but my heart still surged at the sight: fires, burning like beacons in a black sea.
"Jez was just as uneasy as I in the dark, and she rode harder toward the light. From what little I'd heard of Dhahaeth, it was a one-chapel milltown on the banks of the Keff. But the place I drew up outside was like to a small fortress.
"They couldn't afford much stonework, but a heavy wooden palisade had been erected on the outskirts, twelve feet high, running all the way down to the riverbank. A deep trench skirted the palisade, filled with wooden spikes, and bonfires blazed atop it despite the rain. I could see corpses blackened by fire in the ditch as we halted outside the gate, and figures on a highwalk behind the palisade's spikes.
"'Hold,' a voice with a thick Sūdhaemi accent cried. 'Who goes?'
"'A thirsty man with no time for bullshit,' I called back.
"'There's a dozen crossbows pointed at your chest right now, fuckarse. I'd be speaking more polite if I were you.'
"'Fuckarse, that's a clever one,' I nodded. 'I'll remember it next time I'm climbing aboard your wife.'
"I heard a soft guffaw from one of the other figures, and the voice spoke again. 'Good luck on the road, stranger. You'll 'ave need of it.'
"I sighed softly, pulled off my glove with my teeth, and held my left hand aloft. The sevenstar inked in my palm glinted dully in the firelight. And I heard a whisper then, running through the figures like red fever.
"'Silversaint.'
"'Silversaint!'
"'Open the bloody gate!' someone cried.
"I heard the heavy clunk of wood, and the palisade doors yawned wide. I gave Jez a nudge, my eyes narrowed against the torchlight. A cadre of guards waited in a muddy bailey beyond, nervous as spring lambs. I could tell at a glance they were press-ganged militia—most had seen too few winters, the others, far too many. They wore old, boiled leather and carried crossbows, burning torches, ashwood spears—all pointed in my vicinity.
"I climbed off Jezebel, gave her a grateful pat. Then I turned to the stone font to the right of the gate. It was crafted in the likeness of Sanael, Angel of Blood, her outstretched hands holding a bowl of clear water. The militiamen tensed, weapons ready. And looking them in the eye, I dipped my fingers inside and wiggled."
Jean-François blinked in silent question.
"Holy water," Gabriel explained.
"Quaint," the vampire replied. "But tell me, why insult the gatekeeper? When you could simply have proffered your palm and entered without fuss?"
"I'd just murdered my best friend. Almost lost my life to a pack of mongrel corpses. My arm was throbbing like a virgin's pecker on his first trip into the woods, I was tired and hungry and fiending for a smoke, and I'm something of a bastard on the best of days. And that day was hardly my best."
Jean-François's gaze roamed Gabriel, toe to crown. "Nor this one, I fear?"
Gabriel tapped an empty leather pouch at his belt. "Behold the purse in which I keep my fucks for what you think of me."
The vampire tilted his head and waited.
"The militiamen stepped aside," Gabriel continued. "Most had never seen a silversaint, I'd guess, but the wars had been raging for years by then, and all had heard tales of the Ordo Argent. I could see wonder in the youngers, quiet respect among the older men. I knew what they saw when they looked at me. A bastard halfbreed. A Godsent lunatic. The silver flame burning between what was left of civilization, and the dark set to swallow it whole.
"'I don't 'ave a wife,' one said to me.
"I blinked at him. A bucktoothed young Sūdhaemi scrap he was: dark skin, tight cropped hair, barely old enough for fuzz on his taddysack.
"'You said you'd be climbing onto my wife later,' he said, defiant. 'I don't 'ave one.'
"'Count yourself blessed, boy. Now, which way to the fucking pub?'"