two circles painted around them. The actual eyes were blue, and looked even lighter peering out from black patches.
'Why in hoolies did you pick him? '
'Beggars,' she declared succinctly, 'cannot be choosers.'
Well, no. But … 'A white, blue-eyed horse in the desert?' Actually, he was a pink-and-white, blue-eyed horse, because he lacked pigmentation. His nostrils and lips were a fine, pale pink.
'That is why I've put grease around his eyes,' she explained. It will cut down on the sun's glare reflecting off his face. And I slathered alia paste on his nose and lips.'
Del, this is a horse, not a woman painting her face.'
Yes,' she agreed equably, continuing to tack out the gelding.
Do you know what you're doing?'
'Yes.'
Are you sure? We've got the Punja to get through.'
'I had a white dog when I was a child,' Del remarked casually after a moment. 'He had blue eyes and no pigmentation. My father wanted to put him down, but I insisted he be mine. I was told that with the sun reflecting off the snow, he might in time go blind. So I mixed up grease with charcoal, and painted around his eyes. He lived to be an old, old dog. And he never went blind.'
'Is that why you bought this horse? Because he reminds you of your dog?'
'I bought him because he was the only gelding.' She glanced up. 'Would you want to risk another stallion anywhere near yours?'
'There are mares.'
'I tried that before. Your horse, as I recall, spent most of his time trying to breed her. Sometimes when I was on her.'
I recalled that, too. 'There are other liveries in town, I suspect. With other geldings.'
'But not with one we can afford. I did look.' Del reached up and tied something onto the left side of the gelding's headstall, then ran it beneath his forelock to the other side.
My mouth dropped open. 'Tassels? '
'Fringe,' she corrected.
'You're putting fringe on a horse?'
'It will help shade his eyes.'
First she painted black patches around his eyes, now she hung fringe across his brow. Gold fringe, no less.
I shook my head in disbelief. 'Where in hoolies did you find that?'
'I bought it from a wine-girl in one of the cantinas. I don't know what it once was. I was afraid to ask.'
'You went into a cantina by yourself?'
'Yes.'
'Kind of risky, bascha. Dangerous, even.'
'Tiger, I was in a cantina by myself when I met you.'
'Well, I said it could be dangerous.'
Del slipped a foot into the left stirrup and swung up, settling herself into the blanketed saddle with ease. 'Now, do you want to spend all morning arguing about horses, or shall we actually ride them?'
It was ridiculous. We were bound for the Punja and all its merciless miseries, including unceasing sun. Del herself certainly knew the risks; she had once been so sunburned I was afraid she'd never recover. A blue-eyed, white horse lacking pigmentation was a burden we couldn't afford.
But Del was right: neither could we afford something better. I suspected we had only a few coins left from Del's shopping expedition. If we didn't take the gelding, we asked the stud to carry two across the searing Punja, or we'd have to take turns riding and walking, which was slower going yet. Besides, if the gelding dropped dead on us from sunstroke, we could always eat him.
On that cheerful note, I mounted the uncommonly cooperative stud, winced at the creaking of my body, and began the careful process of relaxing complaining muscles fiber by fiber. Eventually my body remembered how it was supposed to sit a horse, and some of the soreness bled away. The stumps of my missing fingers were still a trifle tender, but once the stud hit his pace and settled, it wouldn't take more than index and middle fingers to grasp the soft cotton reins.
Del, mounted atop her white folly, leaned down to hand the horse-boy a few copper coins. Likely our last. I sighed, turned the stud, and aimed him out of the stableyard into the narrow alley between livery and adjoining building. He sucked himself up into stiff condescension as the gelding came up beside him, snorting pointed disdain. Then he caught a glimpse of one sad blue eye peering at him out of a circle of black greasepaint coupled with dangling gold fringe and shied sideways toward the nearest wall.
I planted a heel into his ribs, driving him off the wall before my foot could collide with adobe brick. 'Let's not.'
The stud took my hint and kept off the wall. Now he turned sideways, head bent back around so he could keep both worried eyes on Del's gelding. Ears stabbed toward the white horse like daggers. The accompanying snort was loud enough to drown out the sound of hooves.
Del began to laugh.
'What?' I asked irritably, trying to point the stud back into a straight line as we exchanged alley for street.
'I think he's afraid of him!'
'A lot of horses are afraid of the stud—'
'No! I mean the stud's afraid of my horse!'
'Now, bascha, do you really think—' But I broke off because the stud, now freed of the confines of the narrow alley, took three lunging steps sideways into the center of the street and stopped dead, stiff-legged, snorting wetly and loudly through widened nostrils. Fortunately it was early enough that the street was not yet crowded, and no one was in his way.
Del was still laughing.
'Maybe you should have gotten a mare after all,' I muttered. 'Look, bascha, just go ahead. I'll bring up the rear.'
Grinning, she took my advice. The stud eased after a moment, ears flicking forward as Del departed. 'What, you like the view from behind better?' I asked him. 'Fine. Can we go now?'
And indeed we might have gone beyond the first two strides, except someone stopped dead in front of us. On foot. It was either ride over the top of him, or halt yet again.
I reined in sharply, swearing, and looked down upon the interruption. A young man in an russet-gold burnous, a Southroner, with smooth dark skin, longish dark hair, strong but striking features, and the kind of liquid, thick-lashed, honey-brown eyes that can melt a woman's heart. It might have been happenstance that he stepped in front of the stud, impeding my way, except that one hand was on a rein, holding the stud in place—and the other held a sheathed sword.
'You are the Sandtiger,' he declared, raising his voice. Plainly he wanted an audience.
I might have denied his opening salvo in the interests of saving time, except I'd nearly lost myself in Meteiera and would never hide from my name again. I merely stared down at him.
Expressive eyes challenged me. 'Will you dance? Will you step into the circle?'
I opened my mouth to explain I couldn't dance, not the way he so clearly wanted, with a circle drawn in sand and all the honor codes. Instead I said, 'Not today,' and jammed heels into the stud's ribs.
Startled, he jumped forward. The young man, equally startled, lost his grip on the rein. With agile alacrity he leaped aside so as not to be ridden over, and I heard his fading curses as I struck a crisp long-trot to the end of the street.
Del waited there atop her quiet gelding. The stud took one look at him, considered spooking again, but was convinced otherwise when I cracked the long reins across his broad rump. There was no further dissent as Del fell in beside us.
'So,' she said calmly, 'the secret of your return is out.'
