His eyes reflected so much: uncertainty, defiance, curiosity, lust-all half hidden behind a facade of nonchalance. Zip drew a breath. “Get the frog off of me.” The knife was still there by his ear. He could have gone for it-his eyes slid that way-but he didn’t.
She patted his cheek. “Soon, lover, when we have an agreement. But right now.
Mama Becho is going to bring us a couple more drinks, right. Mama?”
The old proprietor said nothing, but waddled over with two mugs of bad wine. It was too far for her to bend over and place them on the floor, so Chenaya reached up to accept them. Mama Becho grumbled incoherently and backed away.
“I’m supposed to drink from here?” Zip asked caustically.
Chenaya moved one of the mugs near to his head, dipped a finger in it, and held it to his lips. After a moment’s hesitation, Zip’s tongue poked out and licked away the red droplets, their gazes remaining locked all the while.
“I know the funds from your Nisi supporters have dried up lately.” Chenaya dipped her finger again and held it for him to suck. “The PFLS needs money, like any group, and I’ve got plenty of that. We’ve also got mutual enemies, so it’s only natural that we should join our efforts.” She paused long enough to swallow a draught from her own cup. “You want to free Sanctuary from the Rankans and
Beysibs.” She tapped his chest. “I want to drive out the Beysibs, too. But it looks like I’ve got to get rid of a Rankan to do that.”
One of Zip’s men slipped through the door and made a move toward his leader. A throwing star flashed briefly through a random sunbeam that spilled through a crack in the ceiling and thunked into the wall. The man leaped back. Chenaya clucked her tongue and wagged her finger, and he leaned uncomfortably against the doorjamb.