surprise, he pinwheeled into the street and fell into the muck churned up by wagons, riders, and foot travelers. Those who witnessed Emerence’s attack laughed. She did not. Instead, she glared at Culkhen when he flipped over to stare at her with a bewildered expression that swiftly turned ugly.
“You bitch,” he snarled, rising unsteadily to his feet, his front caked in filth from neck to feet. He took a menacing step toward her.
Instinct warned her she no longer faced a loud-mouthed albeit harmless drunk, but she gripped the pole tighter and held her ground. If she fled inside, backed away, or showed any hint of weakness or fear, he’d take it as a signal and only increase his harassment.
“You get one warning, Culkhen,” she said. “Plant yourself here again to disturb the peace, and I’ll see to it you take up residence at the Zela. Again.” She had no idea how she’d make such a thing happen, but Culkhen didn’t need to know that.
She must have sounded convincing if the sudden flash of fear in his eyes was any indicator. Her triumph was short-lived. His lips peeled back in a feral baring of yellow teeth, and his hands clenched into fists. He took two steps toward her. Emerence gasped to suddenly find her view of her opponent partially blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered figure.
“You heard Madam Ipsan,” her defender said in accented Beladine. “Go your way and don’t return.”
Stepping to the side for a better view of both Culkhen and this man, Emerence watched as Culkhen swayed on his feet, blinked slowly and executed an unsteady pivot before lurching away. The show over, those who who’d stopped to watch the confrontation continued on their way, a few going into the apothecary and the drapery just as Emerence had hoped.
She released the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding until now and addressed her companion. “I thank you for the intervention, sir. Culkhen is troubled and troublesome.”
He turned fully to face her. She caught and held a second breath, this time for a very different reason.
A Quereci nomad. A strikingly handsome one at that. Swarthy skin made even swarthier by the mountain sun and sharp features that reminded her of a raptor bird, he stood out among the pallid, sun-deprived Beladine crowds like a memory of summer, beautiful and brief in these climes. She guessed him to be in his late twenties, though it was hard to tell. The sun had carved small fans into the skin at the corners of his black eyes. His eyes too seemed older, ancient even, as if he’d witnessed the passing of centuries or stared into a darkness that stared back and showed its fangs.
Those eyes narrowed as his gaze took in her stance and the grabber pole in her grip. “Have you faced him alone before?”
She liked his voice, soft around the edges, deep in the middle, as if he rarely spoke loudly, and if he did, others sat up and paid attention. “No, He hasn’t been this bold until now. I suspect he learned my father and half our staff are working at the palace today. He must have assumed he’d only have me to deal with.”
“More fool him then.” The Quereci tipped his chin toward the grabber pole. “You’re good with that stick.”
Emerence felt the hot waterfall of a blush descend from her scalp to paint her cheeks and stain her neck and was horrified by her reaction to a polite compliment. The memory of her clerk’s words when he first warned her about Culkhen saved her from an awkward response. “I was told a group of Quereci were waiting to see me. I’ll risk a guess and say that’s you?”
Her champion nodded. He gestured to where a trio of women waited just outside the entrance to the drapery. Bundled for winter weather, they waved with gloved hands. Emerence recognized the one who held up a stack of packages to show her.
“Dahran Omeya!” She strode to the women, leaning in to gently kiss the elderly woman’s cheeks and have same done to her.
The Quereci woman perused Emerence from head to toe, finally declaring with a frown, “You shouldn’t be fighting men in the streets in this weather dressed like that, Mae Ipsan. At least wear a shawl and cap.”
Emerence laughed. In the many years her father had traded with the Quereci, she’d learned of and grown to admire the fiercely independent mountain nomad women. Dahran Omeya had been their principle contact, and