There was a slight creak from the room to his left, and he frowned. His bedroom. Why would anyone be in there?
Inching towards the door, he moved as quietly and stealthily as he could. The door was slightly ajar. He tried to remember if he had closed it before leaving that morning, but the memory would not come. He thought he had.
He slowly reached out his hand and slid it open, keeping as far back as he could.
"About time," said a husky female voice.
Dexter stepped into the doorway.
Talia was lying on his bed, her shoes kicked off on to the floor, a half full bottle of whisky by her side. A half-full bottle of his whisky.
She threw it to him, and he caught it easily.
"Reunion drink?"
A strange feeling, and one that a soldier as experienced as Jorah Marrago knew well.
He was in a bad mood, and he knew it. His mercenaries knew it as well, and they were all taking care to stay away from him. Even Dasouri knew better than to trouble him at a time like this. He had been less than pleased with their close combat practice. He had even snapped at Senna following one of her sarcastic asides.
A new attack was in the offing. He could tell. Even his fellow 'captains' in the Brotherhood Without Banners could tell. The fruits of the raid on Gorash were long since consumed, and the Brotherhood had grown
since then with Marrago's own addition, to say nothing of certain lesser mercenary companies. There had to be new, fresh ground somewhere.
But where? They had been arguing non-stop for over a week. Worlds and stations and bases had all been suggested and discarded and suggested again. Marrago wondered just how they had managed to attack Gorash at all. They would have trouble just agreeing on a seating order, let alone a battle plan.
Which of course made them a perfect target for him to take over eventually. He was the most experienced general among them more experienced than most of them put together. He was also the newest, and the most distrusted, but still.... With time and luck and skill he would become their leader soon enough. A couple of good performances in a raid or two, and he would have them in the palm of his hand.
That had been his original plan, when he had followed up n'Grath's invitation and joined the Brotherhood. A couple of things had derailed it since then, but the basic plan held.
Well, three things in fact.
The first was the Narns. The captain, ostensibly, was G'Lorn, former aide to Warleader G'Sten, but it would have taken a much blinder man than Marrago not to recognise that it was the female who really wielded the power there. He had finally learned that her name was Mi'Ra, and that G'Lorn had brought her with him as his lover. He had not recognised her name, but he knew there was definitely more to her than appeared at first sight. Thenta Ma'Kur? The Narn assassin guild had come after him once or twice before, and their assassins had moved with the same easy grace she exhibited. He was determined to continue watching both of them.
The second was the Z'shailyl, the Shadowspawn. He held more power than any of the others, and he could have taken the leadership entirely if he had wanted to, if for no other reason than his Wykhheran monstrosities. That he had not done so suggested some deeper motive. Perhaps a simple strength-in-numbers philosophy. Perhaps he was testing the others just as Marrago was, biding his time, waiting for the moment.
The third was Senna, and he would not think about her. Not at the moment.
Sometimes he missed brivare. Or even jhala. He missed his old soldier friends. He missed Londo. He missed Urza. He missed Barrystan. Most especially, he missed Lyndisty.
You are getting old, he told himself bitterly.
But it was true. He was old. And bitter. And pained. Countless old wounds, countless old scars, countless dead friends.
He was thinking back to his encounter with Barrystan on the Day of the Dead more and more, and it was not helping.
He drifted around, angry and dark and bitter, dwelling on old melancholies, old loves, old friends, old things.
Waiting for something to happen, for the universe to let out its breath.
And most of it was John's fault.
He was speaking now, again. He had done that almost every night since his return from the mission. It was a language she did not know. A language she could not even begin to recognise.
She could speak more languages than she could count, and she knew of many more, including dialects and sub-dialects. This was nothing she had ever heard before.
She had always planned to investigate, but the mystery seemed so trivial in the light of day, and her hours were always so busy, and there had never been time. For the hundredth time, she resolved to speak to someone in the morning. G'Kar, he might know something.
John suddenly convulsed, his arm flying out and smacking her across the face. She rolled backwards across the bed, raising her arms to block his flailing limbs. He was struggling against something, crying out, almost shouting.