caught the shadow in his eyes, that perpetually evaded, darted, shifted in a
slave’s nowhere privacy-he had turned that apparent shyness to furtive purpose.
Or had always had it.
“She’s calling in the debt,” she said, “isn’t She?”
“Trust me,” Haught said. His finger wandered down her cheek to her throat.
“There are few women who attract me. Certainly I don’t share her bed. Calling in
the debt, yes. And when the world changes, you’ll wear satins and eat on gold-“
“Gods, Shalpa and Ils de-“
Her voice changed in her throat, lost its harshness and became Rankene-smooth,
betraying her. She stopped and spat. “My gods!” (But it came out pure and
clear.)
“My rose has hurt your hand.” Haught gathered her fingers to his lips and kissed
the thorn-sting, and Moria, who had faced street gangs dagger in hand and sliced
respect into more than one Downwind bully, stood and trembled at that touch.
Trembled more when he turned her toward the mirror and she saw the touseled,
dark-haired woman who blinked back at her in shock. Rage flooded through her. He
made her this. Witchery like the rose. She turned on him with fury in her eyes.
“I’m not your toy, dam-
mit!”
(But the voice would not roughen and the accent was not Ilsigi.)
“You’re the way I always saw you.”
“Damn you!”
“And the way She wants you. Leave Mor-am to the streets. He has his uses. Yours
are uptown. Haven’t you understood what you’re for?”
“I’m not your damn whore!”
He flinched. “Have I ever asked that? No. I’ll tell you what you’re to do. But I
wouldn’t use that word. I truly wouldn’t, Moria, in Her hearing.”