I eyed her narrowly. 'What are you suggesting?'
'I don't know.' Del sounded as frustrated as I. 'Maybe it's only because we're stuck here in this house, bound by its rules without knowing what they are. It makes me uneasy.'
'So does not having a sword.'
A muscle jumped briefly in her jaw. 'Yes.'
'I know, bascha. Trust me, I know.' I sighed. If both of us suspected the metri's motivations, or intentions … I shook it off. 'Meanwhile, you coming?'
She considered. Then stood up. 'But only to be certain the hawk does not overset the hutch.'
'Of course.' I bared teeth. 'Little rabbit.'
Del tugged at the rucked up folds of her long tunic, sorting out her clothing. 'This little rabbit feels somewhat naked without a sword to hand.'
'This little rabbit has teeth,' I reminded her.
'And the hawk?'
'The hawk has talons. But yes, he isn't pleased to be without a sword either.'
'We should remedy that.'
'We should. Maybe tomorrow.' I stopped in the doorway, turning back. 'Do you suppose they even have swords on Skandi?'
Del thought about it. 'I haven't seen anyone with one.'
'Me neither.' I scowled. 'What's a self-respecting man to do for a weapon?'
Del slid past me. 'Use his teeth and talons.'
We did not, of course, have any idea which winehouse Herakleio habituated. We didn't even know how many there were in Skandi, on Skandi, nor even what they looked like. Simonides, however, met us at the front door.
He arched a single eyebrow as he saw Del.
'She's the rabbit,' I explained. 'Also known as bait.'
His face cleared even as Del glowered at me. 'The molah-man will take you both into the city. As he has taken Herakleio into the city on many similar occasions, he knows which winehouses to try.'
'Winehouses,' I stressed-winehouseoi?-getting a better idea of the task. 'Ah. And just how many are we to root around in?'
'Why, as many as are required to find him.'
'And how many might that be?'
'We are an island,' he answered. 'The first in a chain of islands. We import goods and export goods.'
'He means,' Del translated, 'that many ships come here with many men aboard them and likely every other building in the city is a winehouse.'
'Even so.' Simonides didn't smile, but I detected a faint glint of amusement in his eyes before he turned them to the ground.
I nodded. 'And might this molah-man be the same molah-man who took Herakleio into the city tonight?'
'The metri employs many.'
Del sighed. 'Is Herakleio in the habit of sending his molah-man home before he's done drinking?'
'Sometimes. Sometimes not.' He flicked a glance at me. 'Sometimes he does not return home at all.'
We were men. We both knew what that meant.
So did Del. 'And is there a favorite woman?'
Simonides cleared his throat faintly. 'Herakleio consorts with many.'
'In other words, this could take us all night.'
The servant inclined his head. 'And even part of the day.'
I glanced at Del. 'Care to change your mind about coming along?'
Her expression was elaborately incredulous. 'And permit the hawk to overset all the hutches?' She went on before I could answer. 'If I stay, I won't be able to sleep until you're back. So I'll come.'
'Why won't you be able to sleep?'
'Because I can't when you're gone. Not well.' She shrugged. 'I'll wake up every time I turn over, wondering how near dawn it is and if your dead body is lying in some rank alley somewhere in the middle of a puddle of horse piss.'
The imagery was vivid. 'Gods of valhail, why?'
'Because,' she said matter-of-factly, 'it's what women do.'
'Imagine men dead and lying in horse piss?' I shook my head. 'It's foolish to paint such pictures, bascha. A waste of time.'
'Undoubtedly,' she agreed dryly. 'But it is our nature.'
'To worry.'
'To wonder.'
'To imagine things that aren't true and won't come true?' I shook my head again, more definitively. 'I always said an imagination could get women into trouble.'
'But occasionally these things are true and they do come true, and dead bodies are found lying in rank alleys in the middle of puddles of horse piss.' She paused. 'Which is why women the world over began worrying in the first place.'
'But it's never come true with me.'
Her expression was as bland as only Del could manage. 'Yet.'
I scoffed. 'I could also live to be an old man and die in bed with no teeth left in my head.'
'You could also die in a puddle of horse piss with no teeth left in your head.' She paused. 'Tonight.'
'And you'd rather see it happen than simply imagine it.'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because perhaps I could stop it.' She shrugged. 'Or, if not, I could at least go home to bed knowing you were lying dead in a puddle of horse piss, and not merely imagine it.'
Simonides, apparently recognizing where this discussion might lead-and how long it would take to get there-cleared his throat again. 'The molah-man awaits,'
So he did. So did Herakleio. Somewhere on an island that was full of winehouses and puddles of horse piss.
If they had horses on Skandi. Which I don't think they did.
Ihe moon was nearly full. Feeling virtuous-and oddly relieved-because I'd taken the first serious steps toward regaining fitness, I relaxed against the back of the molah-cart, one arm slung around Del's shoulders as we drew closer to the city on the rim of the caldera. Now that I had my land-legs back, I didn't mind the joggle of the cart. It was soothing in a way. 'Too bad we have to waste the night on finding Herakleio.'
Del doesn't cuddle in public, but she did lean. With pale hair and in paler linen, she was aglow in the moonlight. 'We could perhaps find him immediately,' she said, 'or find him very, very late.'
I laughed and set my chin atop her tilted head. 'You don't think he's lying dead somewhere in a puddle of horse piss, then?'
'He would not be so foolish as to put himself in the position to end up so.'
'Why not? And why would I?'
'Because he is the heir of the Stessa metri. Heirs of wealthy, powerful people only rarely go into rank alleys with puddles of horse piss in them so that they can be killed.'
'But I would? And I'm not?'
'You have. And I think even if you are the metri's grandson, she prefers Herakleio in the role.'
'Thank you very much.'
'You're the jhihadi, Tiger; isn't that enough? Or must you be wealthy, too?'
'Isn't it a rule that the jhidadi should be rich? I mean, what's good about being a messiah if you can't afford to enjoy it?' I patted her head. 'Not that you believe I am the jhihadi, mind you.'
'Well,' she said thoughtfully, 'I doubt very many jhihadis end up dead in puddles of horse piss.'
'Lo, I am saved.' Something occurred to me then. 'Um.'
