Roberson, Jennifer - Cheysuli 08 by A Tapestry of Lions (v1.0) Read Free Book Online Page B

This time when she beckoned, he
answered. She slipped a hand beneath his bloodied chin, forcing him to look up
into her own face. At closer range her age increased, yet her eyes seemed kind
enough in an assessive sort of way. Her hair was not really blonde, he
discovered by staring at exposed roots, and the faintest hint of dark fuzz
smudged her upper lip.
                The woman laughed. "Don't blush
quite so much, boy. You'll have me thinking you've never seen a whore
before."
                He gaped. "You are a light
woman?"
                "A light—" She broke off,
brows lifting. "Is that the genuine accent of aristrocracy?" She
leaned closer, enveloping him in a powerful, musky scent.
                "Or are you like me: a very
good mimic?"
                She is NOT like granddame after all.
Kellin tugged at his ruined jerkin, than blotted again at his split lip. She
watched him do it, her smile less barbed, and at last she took her hand from
his chin, which relieved him immeasurably. "Lady—"
                "No, not that. Never
that." Her hand strayed into his hair, lingered in languorous familiarity.
                Her touch did not now in the least
remind him of his grandmother's. "Why is it," the woman began,
"that boys and men have thicker hair and longer lashes? The gods have
truly blessed you, my green-eyed little man." The other hand touched his
leggings. "And how little are we in things that really matter?"
                Kellin nearly squirmed. "I—I
must go."
                "Not so soon, I pray you."
She mocked the elaborate speech of highborn Homanans. "We hardly know one
another."
                That much Kellin knew; he'd heard
the horse-boys speaking of whores. "I have no money."
                Rogan had plenty, but he doubted the
Mujhar would approve of it being spent on women. The whore laughed. "Well,
then, what have you? Youth. Spirit. Pretty eyes, and a prettier face—you'll
have women killing over you, when you're grown." Her eyes lost their
laughter. "Men would kill for you now." The smile fell off her face.
"And innocence, which is something everyone in the Midden has lost. If I
could get some back, steal it back, somehow—"
                Kellin took a single step backward.
Her hand latched itself into his filthy jerkin; she did not seem to notice her
hand now was also soiled. "I must go," he tried again.
                "No," she said intently.
"No. Stay a while, Share with me youth and innocence—"
                Kellin wrenched away from her. As he
ran, he heard her curse.
                This time when he fell, Kellin
managed to avoid urine and droppings, landing instead against hard stone
cobbles after his collision with a woman carrying a basket. He feared at first
she might also be a whore, but she had none of the ways or coarse speech. She
was angry, aye, because he had upset her basket; and then she was screaming
something about a thief—
                "No!" Kellin cried,
thinking he could explain and set everything to rights—the Prince of Homana, a
thief?—but the woman kept on shrieking, ignoring his denials, and he saw the
men, big men all, hastening toward him,
                He ran again, and was caught. The
man grabbed him by one arm and hoisted him into the air so that one boot toe
barely scraped the cobblestones.
                "Give over, boy. No more
kicking and biting."
                Kellin, who had not thought to bite,
squirmed in the tight grasp. He intensely disliked being hung by one wrist like
a side of venison. "I am not a boy, I'm a prince—"
                "And I'm the Mujhar of
Homana." The man waited until Kellin's struggles subsided. "Done, are
we?"
                "Let me go!"
                "Not until I have the ropes on
you."
                Kellin