Page 67 of The Salt King

She ignored him and waited to one side as Ras led him through the gate, then to the left, into a locker room hewn into the bedrock. It was lined with hooks, all full of gleaming silver harnesses, and open boxes of what anyone else would probably have called treasure. Silver gauntlets. Silver cuirasses.

Those horrible silver masks.

Ras closed the door. “Those things weren’t made in Hreodwater, were they?” He was looking at Avelyn’s clothes.

“No. Ras, what is all this?”

Ras brushed Avelyn’s shoulder, where the cotton was already managing to gather salt grains. He did it as though someone at the market had just tried to sell him something rotten. “These will salt-tarnish.”

“Salt-tarnish . . . well, they will, but we’re only going down for an hour, no?”

“They’ll tarnish in an hour,” Ras told him, taking clothes from the bag. All Hreod leather. Then he started to gather up silver equipment. Harness, gauntlets, cuirass; mask.

“Are you serious?”

Ras nodded wearily. “Let’s say there have been some embarrassing incidents with people who like to buy their clothes on the Outside. What’s this made of?” he added, pointing to Avelyn’s rosary.

“Cherrywood.”

Ras shook his head. “Leave it here. And . . .” He was looking right into Avelyn’s eyes, troubled. “Caer Halen, are those coloured contact lenses?”

“Yes?”

“Take them out, please.” Ras pushed one fist against his own chest. Avelyn was annoyed that he was being so dramatic. “Unless you want them to fall apart in your eyes.”

Avelyn had been looking at the leather shirt and feeling uncomfortably Hreod about it, but the lenses were different. He had worn them every day since he’d found out they existed. He had a stupid urge to ask if Ras would wait while he ran back to An El and put them in their solution. But he knew Ras wouldn’t wait. He looked away and pinched them out, and then found he didn’t want to look up properly again.

He turned away to get changed. Jericho was right. He was just being precious about it. It was probably as well to be forced to admit to the colour of his own eyes, for Christ’s sake.

“Oh, by the King . . .”

Avelyn swung around. Ras sounded as though he had just seen something hideous climbing up the wall. He had backed right away.

“What?” said Avelyn.

“What happened?” Ras rasped. His eyes were fixed on Avelyn’s arms, on the broken lines of his old tattoos.

Avelyn was lost. “I serve the god of Rome. I can’t have the King sprawled all over me, can I?”

“Who did that to you?” His voice was strained, on the point of tearing.

It was the way he would have spoken if he’d found someone with their arms cut off.

“I did,” Avelyn said, and pulled the Hreod shirt on to stop Ras staring.

“They made you do it to yourself,” Ras said.

“Nobody made me do anything.”

“The witches of the nailed god are . . . clearly very devoted.” Ras might have been standing in front of a suicide bomber who was explaining to him the great benefits of martyrdom.

Avelyn didn’t know what to say.

Silent now, Ras helped him into the silver cuirass. It was heavy, and exquisite. Figures of miners toiled down the chest in vertical shafts, and around the collar, tiny gems of deep-blue halite glowed enough that, somewhere dark, they would uplight the face of whoever wore it.

“What’s this for?” Avelyn asked quietly. “You didn’t say.”

“Just a precaution,” Ras murmured, busy with the buckles. He didn’t look up. Avelyn had a feeling he was trying to pretend he was dressing a mannequin.