"THE PLACARD ABOVE the taverne's door read THE PERFECT HUSBAND. The faded lettering was accompanied by a picture of a freshly dug grave. I hadn't yet set foot in the place, and I was already fond of it.
"The town had seen better nights, but twenty-four years after daysdeath, there were few places in the empire that wasn't true of. Truth told, it was lucky to have survived at all. Dhahaeth's streets were freezing mud, her buildings leaning on each other like drunkards at last call. Ancient cloves of garlic or braids of virgins' hair were nailed to every door, churlsilver or salt scattered at every window—for all the good it would do. The whole place stank of shite and mushrooms, the streets crawled with rats, and the folk I passed took one look at me and hurried on through the freezing rain, making the sign of the wheel.
"The town got enough traffic to still have a stable, though. The groom caught the ha-royale I flipped him, pocketing the coin as I dismounted. 'Give her your best fare and a good rubdown,' I told him, patting Jez's neck. 'This dame's well and truly earned it.'
"The lad stared at the sevenstar on my palm, awed. 'Yer a silversaint. Do you—'
"'Just mind the fucking horse, boy.'
"My hands were shaking as I handed over the reins, and the ache in my broken arm and empty belly made it easy to ignore his wounded look. Without another word, I stomped across the mud, under a wreath of withered silverbell, and pushed my way through the doors of the Perfect Husband.
"Despite the grim signage, the pub was comfortable as an old rocking chair. The walls were plastered with playbills from one of the bigger cities up in Elidaen—Isabeau, or maybe even Augustin. Bordello shows mostly, and burlesque. The framed watercolors about the commonroom were of scantily clad femmes in lace and corsetry, and a full-length portrait above the bar was of a beautiful green-eyed lass with deep-brown skin, wearing naught but a feather boa. The commonroom was softly lit, jammed full of patrons, and I could see why. Every taverne I've ever visited has the impression of its owner soaked into the walls. And this one's was as warm and fond as an old lover's arms.
"Conversation stilled as I entered. All eyes turned to me as I unbuckled my swordbelt, sloughed off my greatcoat with a wince. I was soaked underneath, deathly cold, leathers and tunic clinging to my skin. I'd have boxed my own grandmama in the baps for a hot bath, but I needed food first. And a smoke, Almighty God, a fucking smoke.
"I hung up my coat and tricorn, stomped across the commonroom. The table closest to the fire was occupied by three youngbloods in militia kit. In front of them sat a few empty plates, and more important, a candle burning in a dusty wine bottle.
"'… Do you wish to join us, adii?' one asked.
"'No. And I'm not your friend.'
"Uncomfortable silence hung in the room. I simply stood and stared. And finally getting the hint, the lads excused themselves and vacated the table."
Jean-François chuckled, pen scratching. "You were quite the bastard, de León."
"Now you're catching on, coldblood."
Gabriel scratched at his stubble, dragged a hand through his hair as he continued.
"Tugging off my boots, I put them near the fire. I was reaching for my pipe when a taverne lass materialized beside me.
"'Your pleasure, adii?' she asked in a gentle Sūdhaemi accent.
"Glancing up, I saw dark tresses. Green eyes. I blinked at the portrait over the bar.
"'My mama,' she explained, with the wounded air of someone who had to do it often. She nodded to a woman behind the counter, generously proportioned and twenty years older, but definitely the painting's subject. I idly wondered if she'd kept the boa.
"'Food,' I told the girl, fumbling with my pipe. 'And a room for the night.'
"'As you like it. Drink?'
"'Whiskey?' I asked, hopefully.
"She scoffed, rolling her eyes. 'Does this look a laerd's keep to you?'
"Now, a tiny part of me had to admire this maid giving me cheek while those militia boys had folded like a bad hand of cards. But most of me was just getting shittier by the breath. 'It looks far from a laerd's keep indeed. And you, far from a lady. So keep the lip on your face, mademoiselle, and just tell me what you have.'
"Her voice grew colder then. 'We have what everyone has, adii.'
"'Fucking vodka.'
"'Aye.'
"I scowled. 'A bottle, then. The decent stuff. No pigswill.'
"She dropped into the laziest sort of curtsey, turned away. I should've known better than to ask. Grain liquor was as hard to find as an honest man in a confessional by then. Since daysdeath, farmers had been reduced to growing crops that could sprout in what little light the bastard sun still gave us. Cabbage. Mushrooms. And of course, the dreaded potato."
The Last Silversaint sighed.
"I fucking hate potatoes."
"Why?"
"Eat the same thing every day of your life, coldblood, see how bored you get."
Jean-François studied his long fingernails. "A finer argument against the sacrament of matrimony I have never heard, Silversaint."
"I nodded thanks as the lass delivered my liquor. The patrons returned to their small talk, pretending not to watch me. The taverne was crowded, and among the Sūdhaemi locals, I noted other folk with pale skin, grubby kilts, and a desperate look—refugees from the Ossway, fleeing the northern wars mostlike. But the distraction of my arrival seemed over at least. And so, I reached to a glass phial in my bandolier.
"I didn't usually take to the smoke in company, but the need was weighing on me, heavy as lead. I measured a healthy dose, then took the wine bottle with its blood-red candle and held my pipe near the flame.
"There's an art to smoking sanctus. Hold the flame too close, the blood will burn. Hold it too far, it'll melt too slow, liquefying rather than vaporizing. But get it right…" Gabriel shook his head, grey eyes twinkling. "God Almighty, get it right, and it's magik. A bright red bliss, filling every inch of your sky. I leaned into the pipe's stem, conscious of the stares aimed my way, but caring not a drop. It was the poorest kind of blood I was smoking. Thin as dishwater. But still, as soon as it hit my tongue, I was home."
"What is it like?" Jean-François asked. "San Michon's beloved sacrament?"
"Words can't describe it. You might as well try to explain a rainbow to a blind man. Imagine the moment, that first second you slip between a lover's thighs. After an hour or more of worship at the altar, when everything else has run its course and there's naught but want for you in her eyes and finally she whispers that magic word … please." The silversaint shook his head, glancing at the pipe on the table between them. "Take that heaven and multiply it a hundredfold. You might be close."
"You speak of sanctus as we kith speak of blood."
"The former was a sacrament for the Silver Order. The latter, mortal sin."
"Do you not find it hypocritical that your Order of monster hunters was just as reliant upon blood as the so-called monsters you hunted?"
Gabriel leaned forward, elbows to knees. The long sleeves of his tunic slipped up over his wrists, exposing the ornate tattoos on his forearms. Mahné, the Angel of Death. Eirene, Angel of Hope. The artistry was beautiful, ink glinting silver in the lantern's light.
"We were our father's sons, coldblood. We inherited their strength. Their speed. We shrugged off wounds that would put ordinary men in their graves. But you know the horror of the thirst we were cursed with. Sanctus was a way for us to sate it without succumbing to it, or to the madness we'd fall into by denying it completely. We needed something."
"Need," Jean-François said. "That was your Order's weakness, Silversaint."
"Everyone has an empty place inside," Gabriel sighed. "You can try to fill it with whatever you like. Wine. Women. Work. In the end, a hole is still a hole."
"And sooner or later, you all crawl back into your favorite one," the vampire said.
"Charming," Gabriel murmured.
Jean-François bowed.
"As that smoke reached my lungs," Gabriel continued, "the room came into sharpest focus. I could feel the patrons' eyes on me. Hear their every whispered word. Flames singing in the hearth and rain drumming on the roof. The weariness slipped off my bones like a rain-soaked greatcoat. My arm stopped aching. All of me—taste, touch, smell, sight—alive.
"And then, like always, it started. The sharpening of my mind along with my senses. The weight of the day hit me like a hammer. I could see my poor Justice again, hear his screams in my head. The faces of those soldiers I'd left for dead, the inquisitor I'd shot. The ruins in my wake, and the shadow following. Fear. Pain. All of it amplified. Crystalized.
"And so, I reached for the vodka. My beast had been fed, and I wanted to be numb. I drank a quarter of the bottle in a single draught. Another a few minutes later. I slumped beside the fire, closing my eyes as the liquor fought the bloodhymn, black drowning the red, welcoming the onset of sweet, silent grey.
"I drank to forget.
"I drank to feel, see, hear nothing.
"And then, I heard someone speak my name.
"'Gabriel?'
"It was a voice I hadn't heard in years. A voice that put me in mind of younger days. Glory days. Days when my name was a hymn, when I could do nothing close to wrong, when the Dead spoke of me with fear, and the commonfolk with awe.
"'Gabe?' the voice asked again.
"They called me the Black Lion back then. The men I led. The leeches we slew. Mothers named their children for me. The Empress herself knighted me with her own blade. For a few years there, I honestly thought we were winning.
"'Seven Martyrs, it is you…'
"I opened my eyes then, and knew I was dreaming. A woman stood before me, tiny and sodden, big green eyes brimming with question.
"Her shape was blurred by the drink, but still, I'd have known her anywhere. And I wondered why my mind had conjured her, of all people. Of all the faces I might have seen when I closed my eyes at night, I'd have picked hers for last.
"But then she stepped to my side and threw her arms around me. And I could smell leather and parchment, horse on her skin and old blood in her hair. And as she whispered 'God be praised' and crushed me to her breast, the part of my brain least numbed by the drink finally realized this was no dream.
"'Chloe?'"