"Great. Wear the tuxedo."
"I will."
"And maybe... clean up a little? Shave? Do orcs shave?"
He gives me a look that could curdle cream. "I will present appropriately."
"Perfect." I stand up. My knees wobble. Adrenaline crash. "So your tuxedo, where is it? At your place?"
"It's at my armorer's. Being stored alongside my formal plate mail and my spiked tactical harness."
"Spiked tactical..."
"The harness is unavailable regardless." He drains the last of his tankard. "It's currently covered in basilisk viscera. Three-day contract in the sewers. The gore hasn't been cleaned yet."
My brain stalls onbasilisk visceraand then lurches forward to the actual problem.
"Wait. The tuxedo is at your armorer's."
"Yes."
"Is the tuxedoclean?"
Pause.
"Define clean."
"Free of monster guts, Dash."
Another pause. Longer.
"The tuxedo may need attention."
I move to the table. My knuckles go white. The carriage to Silverleaf leaves from the north station at six a.m. Thursday. That's thirty-six hours away. Every tailor in the Upper Quarter closes at midnight. It's currently ten fifteen.
"Stand up," I say.
He stands.
Gods.
The table comes up to his mid-thigh. His shoulders span wider than the bench. The vest stretches across a body that could double as a dining surface for four.
No off-the-rack tuxedo on this continent will fit this orc.
"We have two hours," I say, grabbing his wrist and pulling. It's like pulling a warm oak tree. "I know a tailor on Hawthorn. She owes me for a cake."
"I haven't finished my drink."
His tankard is empty.
"Move, Dash."
He moves.
CHAPTER 2
DASH
