three sources that Cusharlain had been asking after him, on behalf of someone
else. After giving that thought, Hanse traded with a grimy little thief. First
Hanse reminded him that he could easily take the five truly fine melons the boy
had been so deft as to steal, all in an afternoon. The boy agreed to accept a
longish, stiffish piece of braided gold thread, and Hanse gained four melons.
With his hilt and then thumb, Hanse made a nice depression in the top of each.
Into each he tucked a nice pearl; four of his thirty-four.
These he set before the hugely fat and grossly misnamed Moonflower, a S’danzo
who liked food, melons, pearls, Hanse, and proving that she was more than a mere
charlatan. Many others were. Few had the Gift. Even the cynical Hanse was
convinced that Moonflower had.
She sat on a cushioned stool of extra width and sturdy legs. Her pile of red and
yellow and green skirts overflowed it, while disguising the fact that so did her
vast backside. Her back was against the east wall of the tired building wherein
she and her man and seven of their brood of nine dwelt, and wherein her man sold
… things. Hanse sat cross-legged before her. Looking boyish without his arm
sheaths and in a dusty tunic the colour of an old camel. He watched a pearl
disappear under Moonflower’s shawl into what she called her treasure chest. He
watched the melon disappear between her lavender-painted lips. Swiftly.
‘You are such a good boy, Hanse.’ When she talked, Moonflower was a kitten.
‘Only when I want something, passionflower.’