SAMUEL Z JONES
Copyright Samuel Z Jones 2012
“Are you sure you want to go in there dressed like that?”
Sorcha considered DeSilva's question, glancing at her brief harem skirts and then to the unforgiving walls of Silveneir rising ahead of them along the highway. From where they stood on the brow of a hill overlooking the road, the city of Silveneir stood out against the twilight in the gleams of a thousand streetlamps and warm hearths.
“It's somewhere to go,” she said. “Do you have any money?”
“Quite a lot, actually,” DeSilva said, brightly, only to add with a darker note, “your relatives were too goddess-fearing and honest to go through my gear when they left me out to die with the enemy wounded.”
Sorcha put her hand on his arm and he managed a wry smile.
“It was bloody traumatic, I'll tell you that, waking up in a mass grave.”