Thieves World 4 – Storm Season by Asprin, Robert

hung with dusty drapes. She loved color, did Ischade, and avoided it for her

dress. Her hair was a fall of ink about her face; her habiliments were blacker

than night; her eyes- But the slave would not look at them.

“Look up,” she said, when she had read the message, and after a moment he must.

He stared at her. The fear grew quiet, because she had that skill. She held him

with her eyes. “I did a service for one your masters knew-lately. They seem to

think this obligates me. Nothing does. Do they realize this?”

He said nothing, shaped a no with his lips. He had no wish to be party to any

confidences, that was clear. Yes, or no, or whatever she wanted to hear; the

mind, she thought, was unfocussed like the eyes.

“So. Do you know what this says?”

No, the lips shaped again.

“They want the slaver. Jubal. Does that amuse you?”

No answer at all. There was fear. It bubbled against her nerves like strong

wine, harder and harder to resist, but she played with it, stronger than they

judged she was, despising them-and perhaps a little mad. At times she thought

she was, or might become so, and at others most coldly sane. Humor occurred to

her, a private laughter, with this gift so obviously proffered, this-bribe.

Animal she was not. She knew always what she did. She moved closer and her

fingers touched his arm while she wove a circle round him like some magic rite.

She came full circle and looked up at him, for he was tall. “Who were you?” she

asked.

“Haught is my name,” he said, all but a whisper, she was that close, and he