Page 7 of Silk & Sand

Raider leaned over the bar and snagged a clean cup from the shelf below. After pouring two fingers of raaki into it, he slid the cup to Seth.

When Seth drew a breath, likely to repeat his earlier injunction against alcohol on a hot day, Raider said, “Ahmet makes the best raaki west of the Kesh.”

“You clearly want to chat, but it’s obvious you have nothing useful to offer.”

“Must everything be useful? What about beauty, pleasure, experience? Aren’t you Curators constant travelers? That ought to inspire a bit of curiosity about the places you visit. Or are you too jaded for delight?”

“Curators are not tourists. We have work to do.”

“Work and pleasure are not mutually exclusive,” Raider argued enjoyably. “I accomplish both seamlessly.”

“I seriously doubt that what you do constitutes work. You’re clearly an opportunist. Among other things.”

The Curator’s gaze drifted to the dagger. Or perhaps to the exposed sliver of Raider’s torso?

Raider grinned. “Have you been talking to Ahmet already?”

Seth answered with that lovely scowl of his.

“I like to see places and be on the move,” Raider said. “Not unlike a Curator.”

This comment clearly offended Seth. “We are nothing alike. You serve no purpose but your own.”

“Should I instead serve someone else’s? Why should someone get to own me?” Raider bristled at the idea.

“Is that what you think I am, owned by the Arcanum?” Seth shook his head irritably. “Gods, why am I even having this conversation with you? It’s over, by the way. Where the hell is the proprietor?”

Seth glared around like Ahmet might be hiding behind one of his customers.

Raider argued, “You deliver valuable, likely dangerous, arcane artifacts to the Arcanum. Either they own you, or you have a naïve faith in them.”

Seth turned his glare on Raider. Unable to resist the conversational bait, he shot back, “The Arcanum is one of many colleges within Masir University. There are checks and balances—”

“Oh, I’m sure that works so well.”

“The Arcanum might not be perfect, but it’s better than most. There are good people there. And to think you were calling me jaded!”

Raider poured himself a fresh cup of raaki. The conversation was getting too serious. He was starting to actually care about the subject and, for some reason, the Curator’s perspective.

This was why he should stick with easy, playful, flirtatious men. It didn’t matter how well the Curator’s clothes fit his powerful body or how much his deep, gruff voice turned Raider on.

The best thing in the world was a cup of raaki—he threw one back—a smile—he let his return—and the prospect of a long, luxurious bath. And a bowl of spiced lamb, which he could smell approaching.

Ahmet emerged from the kitchen bearing a laden tray on his shoulder. He snagged a steaming bowl from it as he passed Raider, raising a bushy eyebrow at the sight of Raider’s company. Before Seth could stop him with questions, Ahmet swept on through the tavern with his tray.

When Seth’s stomach growled audibly, Raider said, “Oh, so you are human.”

Seth muttered something that Raider couldn’t make out.

Spirits lifting at the sense of gaining the upper hand again, Raider offered, “I’ll share.”

“I’m perfectly capable of getting my own food if I want it.”

“And equally capable of denying your needs as well as your wants.”

Now color really did bloom across those perfect cheekbones. Interesting. So what was it the rigid Curator wanted?

Or was that flush the effect of raaki? Because at some unnoticed point, Seth had downed the drink—and had slid a coin Raider’s way to pay for it.

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