singlet that looked as if it had been stitched onto her. Her hair matched the
skirt, despite her black eyes and brows, and three bangles chimed on each wrist.
The oldest of the three sat against the wall with a bald and white-bearded man.
He was presumably her husband, since they were saying nothing to each other. The
third was a blowze of perhaps thirty who wore a low-necked white blouse that
displayed a great deal of her pair of highly mobile head-sized breasts. Her
skirt was heel-length, unslit, and wildly striped. Her voice was just as loud.
Among the tables and stools moved a thin young man in a nice green tunic and
waist-apron over fawn-colored leggings. He had a tray, a towel, a shock of
unruly brown hair, and a limp.
The advent of the veiled lady through the curtain of colored Syrese rope
attracted attention, naturally; there was, after all, the veil, in addition to
her hooded emerald cloak of obviously good cloth and weave. She was, however,
escorted. Someone recognized him and called out with a wave. Wintsenay, self
consciously with Jodeera, barely nodded acknowledgment. The newcomers stood
where they were, on the entry platform a step above the room.
The veiled lady paid no mind to any of them. Her eyes, as invisible below the
hood’s shadow as her face behind the quietly colored paisley veil, followed only
the movements of the big man in the coat of scintillant, softly jingling chain
mail. He set down a double handful of mugs and slipped some coins into his apron
before following the gazes of those he served. His brows rose at the sight of