Pretties, it insisted. I want to touch this.
Ashe beat it back down again. No.
I want to touch this.
No. He walked away from the gem merchant, who had looked up a moment before as she became indistinctly aware of Ashe’s presence, then looked back to her table, having not seen him as he passed by.
The dragon noticed the next table as well, spread with fine spices. Peppercorns; I want to count them, it whispered again as it made note of each grain, seed, bean, flake, and sprinkle.
Ashe willed it down again. No. He looked around for the source of the power.
Perfume and ambergris; it came from the vomit of a leviathan which had eaten seventeen mackerel, one hundred seventy—
Stop.
Look at the fabric; no silk today, just linen, cream velvet, and wool in thirteen textures. The wool is in shades of blue, azure, violet, indigo—
NO. Ashe turned around again; it was near. He sublimated the dragon with an intense effort and tried to clear his mind.
Across the street a commotion caught his attention. It seemed to be centered around a small woman in a gray cape and hood, not unlike his own. He moved closer, feeling the call of the power source.
Rhapsody had been struggling with her own personal dragon, the desire to run her hands over the exquisite fabrics on the table in front of her. The cream velvet was especially exquisite, but far outside her ability to pay. With a sigh she forced her hands back to her sides and moved on, looking at the other wares of the marketplace.
At the end of the street a table caught her eye; the items on it were pooled in clusters that sparkled in the sun like light on a moving stream. Her interest piqued, Rhapsody hurried down the street in the direction of the gleaming objects.
She stopped before the merchant’s table. The sparkling pools turned out to be jewelry, mostly earrings, by and large tawdry merchandise, but there were a few things of value and craftsmanship, some of which were genuinely lovely. She had a weakness for beautiful clothes and baubles, though she would rather die than admit it to her Bolg companions, and so in their absence she allowed herself the secret pleasure of looking at the glistening trinkets, her eyes matching their glow and even exceeding it.
The merchant turned to her when he was finished with his other customer, checking the table before raising his eyes to her face. Rhapsody knew immediately he was unconsciously taking stock in case she had stolen or would try to steal something.
Her Lirin blood had elicited the same reaction in Easton, something she never really understood. Lirin had little use for material possessions, especially items as useless as adornments like earrings and necklaces, so why they were automatically suspected by shopkeepers and tradesmen was beyond her. She had written it off to racism and tried not to be offended, but each time it happened it made her blood boil. She swallowed hard and tried to maintain a pleasant expression as she turned away from the table, her interest gone.
“Miss?” The merchant’s voice held a note of desperation. Rhapsody innately held her hands up slightly, putting them into plain sight, in case he was about to accuse her of lifting something.
“Yes?” She did not turn back.
“Please, don’t leave yet. Did you see anything you like?”
Rhapsody turned around again. The look on the merchant’s face was utterly different than it had been a moment before when he was trying to wheedle a bald man into purchasing a matching pin for the ring he had just bought. His eyes were wide, as if amazed, and he was gripping the table in front of him so tightly his knuckles were turning white.
“Is something wrong?” Rhapsody asked, concerned. The merchant shook his head quickly, but did not release the table. “Yes, there are a lot of very nice things here. You have some lovely merchandise, but I was just looking.” She turned once more to go.
“Miss?” The tone was even more urgent this time.
Rhapsody sighed, trying not to be visibly annoyed, and looked back at him again. His face was flushed and his hands were trembling.
“Are you ill?” Rhapsody asked in alarm. She was about to reach for her waterskin, but the man shook his head and pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, mopping his brow rapidly.
“No, thank you, miss. Please, take a minute. Is there anything you would like?”
“I just told you, I’m only—”
The man seized a pair of gold earrings from the table and held them in front of her eyes. “These match your locket perfect, miss. Why don’t you try them on?”
Rhapsody looked at the earrings. They were one of the items she had identified as lovely, with a simple but elegant artistry that did, in fact, match the gold lavaliere she always wore. Undoubtedly they were far more than she could afford, but she couldn’t resist a look.
The trinkets caught the sun and flashed, and the secret part of Rhapsody that coveted pretty things was delighted, even as her mind reminded her sternly that street hawks could sell seawater to a shipwrecked sailor. She had never been good at resisting, and so had avoided the Thieves’ Market, as the bazaar in Easton was affectionately called, whenever possible.
“Please, miss. They were made for you. Try them on; I just want to see how they look on you. Please.” His insistence seemed more than even the most fervent sidestreet pitch.
Rhapsody couldn’t stand it anymore. “Oh, very well, as long as you understand I probably won’t buy them.” She took the jewelry the man proffered with an intense gleam in his eye, and pulled down her hood to try them on.
The gold was a different grade; she could see that even before they were attached to her earlobes, and it made her wistful for a moment. She remembered the pride on her mother’s face as she had opened the box with the locket, and Rhapsody had known then, as she did now, how dearly it had cost her. Next to the earrings it looked less lustrous and rich, though its craftsmanship held up as a match.
A deafening screech, followed by a crash and the splintering of wood, erupted in the street behind her, and Rhapsody jumped.
She spun quickly around, dropping the earrings on the counter, and moved back; two oxcarts had smashed into each other. The first cart was unbalanced and about to tip over onto the table of the jeweler.
The animals snorted and screamed in panic as the drivers tried to get out of the way of the toppling cart. Rhapsody ducked under the table and pulled it back out of the fray, managing to keep most of the wares in place. The jeweler panicked, and would have abandoned his merchandise if there had been a place to run, but his exit was blocked.
After a precarious moment, the drivers sorted it out. Amid much cursing and recriminations the wagons were pulled apart, and Rhapsody busied herself helping the jeweler reset his table; it gave her a chance to experience the enjoyment of touching the baubles while helping him. He seemed to be in shock, so she passed him her waterskin while she worked. His wide eyes never left her face as he drank.
It only took a few minutes to set the bench to rights, and after making sure nothing was missing as far as she knew, she helped the man up, brushed him off, and gently retrieved her waterskin from his rigid grip.
Poor soul, Rhapsody thought with sympathy, how terrified he is. “Are you all right?” she asked, receiving only a glazed nod in answer. She was surprised that a merchant in a bazaar would have such a long recovery period. The ones she knew were amazingly fast on their feet, and probably wouldn’t have let an event like this even slow, let alone stop, a sales pitch. But the jeweler was an older man, and this was a different world than she was used to. As she turned to go, once again, the man called after her.
“Miss?”
With a sigh, Rhapsody turned to face him for what she prayed was the last time. Nana had tried to teach her the fine art of walking away courteously, but she had never quite got it down. “Yes?”
The jeweler held the earrings out to her. “Please. With my thanks.”
“No, thank you. I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“You must,” he said,
his voice louder than he meant it to be. “Please,” he said, exhibiting more control.
The look in his eyes was so urgent that Rhapsody feared hurting his feelings. “Well, thank you,” she said, giving in, and took the earrings from hands that trembled. She attached them to her ears again and swung her head slightly so that they caught the light. “How do they look?”
The man’s mouth fell open, and he stuttered his answer. “Beautiful.”
Rhapsody reached into her pack for her coin purse, but the man waved her hand away. “A gift. Please.”
“All right; thank you,” she said, smiling. “I hope you are feeling better soon.” She put up her hood and walked away, leaving the jeweler, as well as the cart drivers and the witnesses to the accident, watching her in stunned silence.
41
From across the street Ashe watched the proceedings, first in amazement, then amusement. Whatever was beneath the hood of the remarkable creature in the gray mantle had clearly stunned the street merchant, but the woman had not seemed to notice.
The tradesman was standing, mouth agape, and staring intensely from the moment he had looked up inside her hood, while she continued about her business. Ashe’s dragon senses wondered if she might be hideous, but he could make out no deformity or injury at this distance. He would have to see for himself what the commotion was about.
Whatever it was about, the commotion was growing. Ashe was not easily rattled, but he was somewhat taken aback when the two oxcarts slammed into each other. The drivers obviously had been able to see what their vehicles had obscured from him—she had pulled down her hood a few seconds before the accident occurred.
Whatever else she was, she was agile; a second after the moment of impact she was under the table, rescuing it and its owner from the collision, then helping set things to rights before ambling off again.
She made her way down the street, oblivious of the havoc she was causing, as tradesmen and soldiers, farmers and peasants, women and men alike stopped and stared after her, some of them dropping their belongings. Ashe’s hand came to rest casually on the hilt of his sword as he turned to follow her with his eyes as long as possible, but all he could make out was a glint of sun-colored hair and—
A flash of agony shot through Ashe, twisting his stomach and nauseating him, originating at his scrotum, which had been violently wrenched to one side and had gone numb in preparation to experience excruciating pain.
In the moment of shock that preceded the wave of misery he knew was coming, his hand lashed out and seized the wrist of the young girl whose fingers still encircled his testicles. He felt the bones of her wrist grind as he squeezed with a crushing force, freeing his genitalia just before the incapacitating sensation coursed through him and made him gasp deeply.
The offending hand belonged to a young pickpocket, a girl of about sixteen, who had inadvertently mistaken his balls for a coin purse while attempting to raid his pocket.
Normally Ashe was immune to any sort of problem of this nature; between his dragon sense, his speed, and the near-invisibility afforded by his misty cloak, those who would bother him in any way would be unable to get within arm’s reach of him. The depth to which he had been distracted by the strange vibrations of the gray-cloaked woman had allowed him to be vulnerable for the first time to this form of attack.
The girl cried out in pain as he gripped her wrist even tighter and dragged her back as she started to run, lifting her off the ground.
She was tall and thin, with long, unkempt hair the color of winter straw, and Ashe allowed himself the involuntary mental check he made unconsciously any time he was near a blond woman; he pulled her within visual range and looked down at her. Her eyes, staring up into his hood in abject terror, were a pale, watery blue, and he noted, as he always did, that this could not have been who he hoped.
An ugly, guttural snarl escaped him; it was the only noise he was capable of making at the moment, compromised as he was by her actions an instant before. The pallid eyes widened in fear, and Ashe felt his jaw clench in preparation of his utterance of vicious threats. But as he struggled to control his fury for fear he might kill the street wench, he felt pressure, this time of a different nature, against the wrist of his other hand.
“Kindly unhand my sister, or I will un-hand you.”
For the second time that morning Ashe had been caught off guard, and it both astonished and infuriated him. The dagger blade that now lay along his wrist had been put there without his notice, mostly due to the throbbing pain that threatened to cause him to vomit. The knife was pressing deep enough to serve as a warning without drawing blood yet.
He turned in fury to the other assailant, and felt his mouth drop open like those of the people he had been watching on the street a moment before.
Beneath his swimming gaze was undeniably the most beautiful face he had ever seen, or even heard tale of. Most incredible among all its exquisite features were two emerald green eyes, kindling in anger to the color of pale spring grass, glaring at him with a fury that superseded his own. Framing the elegant face were tendrils of hair that gleamed like gold in a smelting fire; had it not been restrained within its hood it would likely have outshone the winter sun.
The dragon blood within him danced in excitement.
I want to touch this. Please; let me sense.
Ashe beat back the urge, but had to concentrate to force his mouth to close, and gave silent thanks for the anonymous cloak and hood that were both the bane of his existence and his saving grace, particularly in situations like this.
Realization that she couldn’t see his face gave him sudden confidence, so he tempered what would have been his normal reaction and took a deep breath. When he did, he inhaled her scent, and felt his head grow weak with the pleasure of it. He struggled to keep his voice under control.
“I don’t know why you are snarling at me,” he said. “I’m not the one who transgressed.”
“You are hurting my sister, and if you don’t desist immediately I will return the favor.” The blade of her dagger bit a little deeper, but still did not pierce his flesh.
Good pressure control, he thought with a tinge of admiration. He released the girl, who remained staring up into his hood. To remedy that situation he moved away slightly, closer to the beautiful woman. She removed her dagger from his wrist, but continued to glare at him.
“My, aren’t you impressive,” she said sarcastically. “Don’t you have anything better to do than assault young girls in the street?”
Ashe’s jaw dropped again. “Excuse me?”
She turned to the streetwench. “Are you all right, Jo?” The girl, still staring at him blankly, nodded. “It’s a lucky thing for you she’s not hurt.”
Ashe could not believe this was happening. Never in his life had he felt at such a loss to control a situation; in fact, he was having a hard time forming a coherent sentence.
“Your sister—your—whatever she is, your friend, tried to pick my pocket.”
The beautiful woman glared at the girl, but said nothing.
“And she missed,” he said, punctuating the last word for emphasis. “She reached in and felt what she thought was a coin purse, then tugged on it most ungraciously—tried to yank it free from my trousers, in fact.”
His ears began to burn; he could not believe he was having this conversation at all, let alone in the street and with a complete stranger. The otherworldly quality of the woman’s gorgeous face had totally unhinged his tongue, and it was flapping as though in a high wind.
The woman cleared her throat, and when she removed her hand from her mouth a slight smile remained behind.
“Let me guess; it wasn’t a coin purse.”
“No.” His tone was pointed.
She glared at the girl again, who seemed to wither at her glance. Then her gaze turned back to him, and she sighed. There was music in the exhalation of breath, a music that Ashe could feel in the tiniest hairs on the back of his forearms.
&nbs
p; “I’m very sorry,” she said, her emerald eyes twinkling with effort to remain serious. “I hope there was no major damage done.”
“It’s a little early to tell,” he said ruefully, feeling the throbbing pain begin to subside and the nausea abate a little.
“Nonsense,” the woman said mischievously. Her hand shot out like a flash into his cloak and cupped his testicles.
Ashe felt his mouth drop open. Normally someone would have gotten as far as the mere thought of doing what she had before his reaction stopped them; his agility was thus far unsurpassed by anyone he had encountered in his 154 years. But here she stood, this enchanting thing, with his balls in her hand, smiling up at him before he had a chance to take a second breath.
She gave his genitals a gentle pat, sending waves of frenetic, if pleasant, shock through his entire body, and blood to many places she could not currently see but might be aware of momentarily. Then she bounced them carefully in the palm of her hand, her face intent on the reaction of their elasticity; at least, he hoped that was what she was gauging.
He knew he should ferociously order her to stop; had it been anyone else there would have been no point in speaking, as the dead can’t hear well. But again he said nothing, partly because he hadn’t recovered yet from his abject state of surprise, partly because he didn’t want her to.
Just as the reaction to her touch was beginning, she removed her hand. “They seem fine to me,” she said, her eyes sparkling wickedly. “Is the feeling returning yet?”
“The feeling was never gone; that was not the problem,” he said, attempting to match the humor in her tone. “But you could say that it has changed.”
Arousal was coursing through him now. He was extraordinarily uncomfortable with all this taking place on the street, and in particular with his stupid, moonstruck reaction to it. Then words came forth from his mouth, unbidden—words that must have been spoken by someone else, for surely they never would have come from him.