Bash’s gaze wanders back to the women working nearby. “Speaking of human leathers, that one over there?” He tips his head, and my eyes follow the tip of his horn as it jerks in the direction of a woman named Tara. I’ve met her; she’s nice. Mother of the cutest twin girls ever. “She would make for an interesting hide. A herd of ones with skin like hers and a person could make lovely items.”
I stare at the alien. “Shame on you! She is a person.”
Bash’s gaze swings back to me, looking startled. “Ah.” He shocks me by lowering his ears and it may only be a tiny, tiny fraction—but he ducks. “Apologies. I mean no offense; only that her skin pattern is interesting if one considered her in terms of leather products.”
“That person is not a leather product; she’s the mother of two babies, and she is freckled, as are her adorable babies,” I explain, telling myself that I should not find this funny, but Bash’s shame is making me smile against my will. “And if this is the way you think when you see us, I’m also going to tell you a story about a woman named Cruella. She had a thing for spots too and it didn’t end well for her. I think you need this story.”
Bash’s eyes flick to Tara—or more aptly, the Rakhii who has his tail wrapped around Tara. “Harvesting that one wouldn’t end well for me, either. Her mates are very protective of her.”
“Imagine that.” I shake my head at him.
Bash cuts me a look, but he doesn’t gripe at me. He’s still feeling a little bit contrite, clearly. I glance to the blacksmith hob who has to be close enough to hear us, wondering what he thinks of his boss being nice, for once, but I get side-tracked when I see the hob’s wings. Normally, they carry them so that the little thumb-like talons sit high above their shoulders, but right now, this hob’s thumb talons are touching the quarry floor; he’s splaying his wings out behind him like steadying hands, all the finger-like bones spread to give him absolute stability. A bat clinging to cave rock. He’s staring intently at whatever metal he’s working on, and he’s wearing protective eye gear as flames and sparks spray in front of his face. He’s using what looks like a blow torch.
He’s welding.
I shoot Bash an incredulous look. “Why don’t Rakhii do the welding?” I eye him. “Can you weld? Or is your fire not hot enough?”
This gets me a disgruntled flash of Bash’s eyes before he goes back to examining my hand. His ears flick before snapping behind his head, sort of haughty-set, maybe thanks to me questioning the ability of the mighty Rakhii. And if being conscience-stricken kept him less growly a moment ago, that’s no more. “Of course I can weld. Anyone can weld—especially a Rakhii. But there are welders and there are metal artists. Cyden is a hob who happens to have a gift—a great gift—for taking metal and turning it into true art.”
“That’s neat.”
Bash makes a contemplative noise and he flicks my arm. I glance at the spot, surprised he finger-struck me, until I see the swollen red dot where a piece of rock sliver dug into my skin yesterday. I wasn’t able to get it out, but I figured it wasn’t big enough to worry about.
Bash warns, “Hold still,” before he grabs me, blows fire on his claw, digs it under the sliver, and sweeps it out so fast I can barely do more than squeak—then he spits on me.
“Okay.” I jerk on my hand and he lets me go. I shake it out like you would a drool-coated newspaper retrieved by a well-meaning dog. “I grasp that culturally, there is no insult in being spit upon by a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall guy who thinks humans are a step up above bugs and cowhide, but where I come from—” I widen my eyes at Bash, who peers at me, then my mouth, before drawing his gaze back up to mine “—what you did would be considered pretty shocking.”
“Healing you, you mean? Yes, after hearing your awe regarding wheels and tires that inflate, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“No! I mean the spitting thing. You don’t just hack up on someone. Give me a warning!”
To that, he catches me by the arm (where there’s no more red spot) and enunciates, “Brace yourself. I’m going to administer a