Valentine's Exile Read Free Page A

faintly of oranges—God only knew how Narcisse came up with orange peel—and seemed to go to whatever part of the body most needed a fix. If you were constipated it loosened you, if you were squirting it plugged you. It took away headache and woke you up in the morning and calmed the jitters that came during a long spell of shellfire.
    Valentine had a room to himself down among the original plumbing fixtures and electrical junction boxes. In the distance a generator clattered, steadily supplying juice but sounding as though it were unhappy with the routine. Just along the hall Colonel Meadows occupied an old security office, but Valentine didn’t see light creeping out from under the door so he turned and moved aside the bedsheet curtaining off his quarters.
    His nose told him someone lay in his room even before his eyes picked out the L-shaped hummock in his wire-frame bed. A pale, boric acid-dusted leg ending in a calloused, hammertoed foot emerged from the wooly army blanket, and a knife-cut shock of short red hair could just be distinguished at the other end.
    Alessa Duvalier was back from the heart of Dallas.
    Valentine examined the foot. Some people showed the experience of a hard life through their eyes, others in their rough hands. A few, like Narcisse, were bodily crippled. While the rest of Duvalier was rather severely pretty, occasionally exquisite when mood or necessity struck, Duvalier’s feet manifested everything bad the Cat had been through. Dark with filth between the toes, hard-heeled, toes twisted and dirt-crusted nails chipped, scabbed at the ankle, calloused and scarred from endless miles on worn-through socks—her feet told a gruesome tale.
    A pair of utility sinks held her gear, reeking of the camphor smell of its spell in the decontamination barrel, her sword-concealing walking stick lying atop more mundane boots and socks.
    â€œVal, that you?” she said sleepily from under the blanket, voice muffled by a fistful of wool over her mouth and nose to keep out the basement chill. She shifted and he caught a flash of upper thigh. She’d fallen into his bed wearing only a slop shirt. They’d never been lovers, but were as comfortable around each other as a married couple.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œRoom for two.”
    â€œShower first. Then I want to hear—”
    â€œOne more hour. I got in at oh-four.”
    â€œI was out at the forward posts. Pickets didn’t report you—”
    She snorted. Valentine heard Hank’s quick step on the stairs he’d just come down.
    He looked at his self-winding watch, a gift from Meadows when the colonel assumed command of the Razorbacks. The engraved inscription on the back proclaimed forty-eight-year-old eternal love between a set of initials both ending in C . "One more hour, then. Breakfast?”
    "Anything.”
    Valentine took a reviving spout-shower that kept Hank busy bearing hot water down from the kitchen. Valentine had been seeing to the boy’s education at odd hours, trying to remember the lessons Father Max had issued at thirteen, and had put him in the battalion’s books to make it easier to feed and clothe the boy. They shared more than just a working relationship. Both had ugly red-and-white burn scars; Valentine’s on his back, Hank’s on his semi-functional right hand.
    â€œWhat’s the definition of an isosceles triangle?” Valentine asked as he worked a soapy rag up and down his legs.
    â€œAll—no—two sides of equal length,” Hank said.
    â€œWhen all three are the same?”
    â€œEquilateral,” Hank said.
    Hank also got the questions on degrees of the corners of an equilateral right. Tomorrow Valentine would get him using triangles for navigational purposes . . . it always helped to add practical applicability right away. In a week or so the boy would be able to determine latitude using the sun and a sextant, provided he could remember the