Talsu’s eyes. He called up the stairs to the living quarters over the shop: “Hey, Ausra, come down here a minute.”
“What is it?” his sister called back.
“Present for you,” Talsu answered. He winked at his father, and held a finger to his lips to keep Traku from giving him the lie. Traku rolled his eyes but kept quiet.
“A present? For me?” Ausra hurried down the stairs. “What is it? Who gave it to me? Where did he go?”
“So you think you have boys leaving you presents all the time, do you?” Talsu said, relishing his joke more than ever. “Well, I have to tell you, you’re not quite right. A little lady delivered this one, and it’s all yours.” He brought his foot forward, shying the rat in Ausra’s direction.
She disappointed him. Instead of screaming or running off, she picked up the rat by the tail, called Dustbunny, and told her what a fine kitty she was. Then she tossed the deceased rodent back to Talsu. “Here. If you liked it well enough to get it for me, you can be the one who gets rid of it, too.”
Now Traku laughed loud and long. Talsu gave his father a dirty look, but could hardly deny Ausra had outdone him this time. He picked up the rat rather more gingerly than she had, carried it outside, and dropped it in the gutter. When he came back into the tailor’s shop, he was wiping his hands on his trouser legs.
Dustbunny spoke up in feline reproach. Maybe she really had thought the rat would make the main course at supper that night. “Go catch me another one,” Talsu told her. “We’ll serve it up with onions and peas, or maybe with olives. I like olives a lot.” The cat cocked its head to one side, as if contemplating the possible recipes. Then she meowed in approval and departed with purposeful stride.
“If you want rat with peas and onions, you can cook it yourself,” Ausra told Talsu. She waved a finger at him. “And if you try doing this to Mother, she’ll make you cook it and she’ll make you eat it, too.”
Since Talsu thought his sister was right, he didn’t answer. He hoped Dustbunny wouldn’t come back with another rat too soon. If she did, Ausra was liable to have some unfortunate ideas about what to do with it.
Before he could take that worrisome thought any further, someone came through the door. He started to put on the automatic smile of greeting he gave any customer. So did Traku. So did Ausra. The shop did not have so many customers as to let them omit any courtesy, no matter how small.
Even so, the smile froze half formed on Talsu’s face. His father and sister also looked as much stunned as welcoming. The man standing before them wore tunic and kilt, not tunic and trousers. His coppery hair streamed out from under his hat. His mustache was waxed out to needle-sharp spikes; a little vertical strip of hair--not really a beard--ran up the center of his chin. He was, in short, an Algarvian.
“Hello. A good day to you all,” he said in accented but understandable Jelgavan. He swept off that hat, bowed to Traku, bowed to Talsu, and bowed more deeply to Ausra.
Slower than he should have, Traku answered, “Good day.” Talsu was content--more than content: relieved--to let his father do the talking.
“This is the shop of a tailor, is it not so?” the redhead said. He was, Talsu saw by his rank badges, a captain. That no doubt meant he was a noble. Coming out and telling him to take his business elsewhere was bound to cause trouble.
Traku must have reached the same unhappy conclusion. “Aye, it is,” he admitted.
“Excellent!” The Algarvian sounded as delighted as if Talsu’s father had told him he was about to win his weight in gold. His eyes, green as Dustbunny’s, sparkled with glee.
“You want me ... to make clothes... for you?” Traku sounded as if he didn’t believe it or, even, more as if he didn’t want to believe it.
But the Algarvian nodded. “You understand!” he cried, and bowed again. “You are, you must be, a man of great understanding. You will make for me a set of clothes, I will pay you, and all will be well.”
Talsu doubted that last. So, evidently, did his father, who said, “What kind of clothes... sir? How much will you pay me ... sir? When will you want them ... sir?
“You do not trust me?” The Algarvian sounded as if that had never crossed his mind. After a shrug suggesting the world was a crueler place than he’d imagined, he went on, “I want a good wool tunic and kilt, in civilian style, to wear for the coming winter. I will pay
