Gods, it's not even midday and I already hate this place.
Dust in my teeth. Sweat between my tits. My left knee's bruised. And I haven't seen my sandals since... sometime last night. Maybe traded for soup. Maybe flung at someone's face. Unclear.
Whatever. Barefoot again. Classic Saya.
And here I am, dragging a whole godsdamned coil of rope across this sad, cracked little square like a pack mule with low self-esteem.
The well is still there. Still dry. And—of course—so is he.
"O flame of dawn, hear my cry—"
I groan. Loud. Like theatrical-level groan. I slap both hands on the lip of the well and lean over.
Hair in my eyes. Probably hay in there too. I look like a drunk chambermaid mid-shift.
Down in the shadows: Oleander. Half-naked. Shirt askew. Covered in dust and bad decisions. Still somehow glowing like a fallen cherub who wandered off from a fresco.
He blinks up at me. Beams. "My radiant salvation—"
"Shut up!" I bark. "Gods. You're echoing."
He looks delighted.
"I brought a rope," I snap, holding it up. "So you can climb out, you absolute twat."
He clutches his chest like I've praised him.
"I'm going to tie it to this very unstable-looking pillar," I mutter. "And I tied knots in it. Big ones. Because I don't trust your wimpy little ass to make it halfway without fainting."
"I was pushed," he calls up, wounded.
"You tripped, Oleander. Into a well. While sober. Trying to duel a spice merchant."
"I was defending your honour," he says proudly.
I freeze. Just a second. Blink at the rope in my hands.
Then lean over again and squint down at him like he's grown a second lute.
"You what now?"
"That man," he says—eyes all noble and tragic—"last night. He touched you. Inappropriately."
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Count to three.
"Oleander. I'm a whore. That's the job."
"But he groped you!"
"He tipped me. Generously. I was working."
"I couldn't stand by and let him insult your sacred form."
I thump my forehead against the stone rim of the well.
"Gods above, I was trying to get him into bed. I needed information about his caravan. Because his caravan carries silks and spice and possibly jewelry. Which we—me and the Dragon you keep turning into an allegory—are going to rob."
Dead silence for a second.
Then: "Oh."
I exhale. Loud. "My harlot honour didn't need saving. It needed intelligence."
He's quiet for a beat. Then, in the softest, most ridiculous voice possible:
"Your eyes… are like coals glowing beneath ash. Smoldering with righteous fire."
I stare into the well.
I consider kicking in a pebble.
I consider throwing the whole rope down and walking away.
Instead, I tie the rope off with one hand and start walking.
"Next time," I call over my shoulder, "let me get paid before you go flinging yourself into holes over my virtue."
"Oh—and you still owe me five coppers from last time."
He says something poetic. I don't hear it.
But I do smile a little.
Stupid. Stupid twink.