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"Also for your horse?"
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This time I leveled my most threatening sandtiger's glare at him, and he flung
his hands into the air. "All right! All right. I'll get charcoal and axle
grease. Mixed."
I watched him turn away. "What about Silk's tassels?"
"Oh, you can get those yourself!"
"But " But. He was gone.
Swearing inventive oaths having to do with Fouad's nether parts and the
decreasing amount of time he would retain them, I swung the pouches over one
shoulder and went back through the curtain. I didn't know which room was
Silk's, which was probably intentional on
Fouad's part. So at each curtained doorway I had to stop, ease the fabric
aside and peer in, hoping I wouldn't awaken anyone. After a late night of
entertaining various dusty and lusty males just in from the desert, Fouad's
wine-girls wouldn't exactly enjoy me waking them up this early.
Fortune followed me until I found the correct room. As I eased aside the
curtain, looking for a string of crimson tassels, I discovered the owner of
the tassels in the midst of a morning stretch. She stood in the middle of her
little room, nude, arching her back with arms outstretched. A long, luxurious,
languorous stretch. When a woman does that with her back,
other parts of her body shift forward.
I realized, as my face got warm, that once upon a time I wouldn't have been
embarrassed.
But somehow that had altered when I hooked up with Del. I guess maybe you
don't have to get married for a woman to start changing your perspective about
naked women who are not the woman who's doing the changing.
Not a happy thought, I reflected glumly.
Silk's eyes sprang open. I yanked my head back and shut the curtain hastily,
then cursed myself for behaving like a green boy who'd never been with a
woman.
"Tiger?"
She had seen me. My face warmed again. "Yes?"
Silk now stood at the doorway, curtain pulled around her body. The long black
hair was a tangle spilling over her shoulders. Brows lifted, she waited for me
to explain myself.
I floundered my way ahead. "I know this sounds strange . . . but could I buy
your tassels?"
Black brows arched higher. "My tassels?" I pointed self-consciously. "Those
tassels. The red ones." She glanced back over a naked shoulder, marked
tassels, then looked at me. "For her?"
"Her?" It took me a moment, but I got there. "No, not for Del! For my horse."
Which I
realized, as soon as I said it, didn't sound particularly complimentary. At
least Del was a human. I floundered on as quickly as possible. "He's white.
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And blue-eyed. He needs shielding from the sun."
Silk eyed me a long moment, her expression curiously blank. Then she dropped
the curtain and padded naked to the table where the tassels lay. When she
turned around again, swinging the tassels on one finger, there was no attempt
to cover herself. In fact, she was doing her best to display everything. I
cleared my throat, averted my eyes, and busied myself digging through pouches
for coins.
She appeared in front of me, offering the tassels. "No charge." I looked up,
wished I hadn't.
"Why no charge?" "Because I will have my payment over and over again," she
explained sweetly, "each time I imagine you telling your Northern bascha that
you got these tassels from me. And what I was wearing when you got them."
Hoolies. Women!
I muttered thanks through gritted teeth, grabbed the tassels out of her hand,
and got myself back to the front room as quickly as possible. Fouad,
straight-faced, handed me a small pot of grease mixed with charcoal.
In a purple burnous, carrying a pot of black greasepaint and dangling crimson
tassels, I
made my way from the cantina with what dignity I could muster.
The white gelding peered at me out of sorrowful and watery blue eyes. He was
bridled, saddled, and packed. Nothing left to do save for two final touches.
"I'm sorry," I told him, "but I have to do this."
He blinked lids edged with long white lashes. I stuck two fingers into the pot
Fouad had given me, made a face denoting disgust, then began to glop on the
first black circle.
"I've seen dogs like this," I said. "White dogs with black patches. But they
were born that way. They don't have humans painting the patches on."
The gelding dipped his head briefly and snorted.
"I don't blame you," I agreed. "I'd protest, too. You look like a buffoon." I
moved to the second eye. "It's not your fault. I don't mean to offend you. But
you must admit this is not
exactly how a self-respecting horse is supposed to look."
He extended his nose and whuffled noisily. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]