A Thousand and One English Nights (Book Three of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Thirty Five: A Short, Selective Biography of Robin Crake

When they started, after closing-time in the drained, deserted Baths, their voices echoed against the tiles, making Ellini feel as though she really was underwater. 

Robin took off his shirt, and she was confronted once again with the litany of scars on his chest and arms. He watched her eyes lingering on them with grim amusement, as if wondering whether she was going to faint.

Just for that, Ellini chose the surest way to annoy him – by showing concern for him. "You shouldn't do physical exercise with cuts and scratches like that. You'll reopen them."

He nodded meaningfully at the bandage that was just visible beneath the collar of her dress. She had wound it between her breasts and over one shoulder, because it was the easiest way of putting pressure on the wound. 

"That looks a lot nastier than a cut or scratch," said Robin. "Punctured lung, I'd say. You're going to feel it after a few laps of the running-track."

Ellini didn't ask how he knew. Perhaps it was the way she'd been breathing, or the way she'd been walking. Perhaps he could even smell the blood – that would be very Robin. Instead, she said, "The running-track? I thought you were going to teach me how to fight?"

He laughed. "You have to be fit, Ellie. You'll have to be fitter than most, on account of all the dodging and ducking you'll have to do. Are you used to exercise?"

"Oh yes. Running, mostly."

He grinned and lifted a hand, as if to touch her cheek. He thought better of it, though, and wrenched it back in mid-air, still smiling. "Always was your thing, wasn't it? Had to be."

He told her to strip down to her corset and drawers – which she did without flinching, because she knew he was expecting her to protest. But if he was astonished by her compliance, he didn't show it.

The bandage was more visible now, although most of it was tucked under her corset and chemise. Robin gave it a cheery nod, as though it was an old friend.

"I've seen wounds like that before. I taught Jack how to inflict them. I always thought they were a bit sadistic for his tastes, but then I suppose tastes change."

Ellini didn't look away, but she felt her heart slip down a few notches, realizing suddenly that her whole, sad, stupid story would be obvious to a man who knew what Robin knew. If you knew that Jack had forgotten her – and you knew how she'd left him in Lucknow – and you knew she was recovering from the kind of wound that had been Jack's speciality, once upon a time, then you could build up a fairly accurate picture of events.

"I told you he'd turn violent, didn't I?" said Robin, who had never been able to resist kicking someone while they were down.

"Let's get on with this," she said.

It was difficult. She didn't want to show weakness in front of him, so she pushed herself too hard, only shrugging contemptuously when he suggested she might be tired, and then collapsing into a numb, nauseous heap on the floor as soon as he'd left the room. 

Once, he came back in rather suddenly, pretending he'd forgotten something, and she had to scramble upright and assume a casual pose, as if nothing had happened.

And every time she didn't collapse, every time she sneered at his hand when he went to help her up, every time she outstripped him on the running track, he seemed to grow happier. He couldn't have been impressed. He had worked with some of the fittest, toughest fighters in the world. And Ellini was too determined not to be taken in to speculate on exactly what he was. The only thing she would permit herself to believe – because it was obvious – was that these night-time training sessions were his salvation.