Dark of the Sun by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

make the jest that had sprung to mind. “Artistry. Yes. Then you would be best-pleased with Jo-Hsu at the Heavenly Flute. I could send a messenger to bespeak her for you for the evening.”
    Ordinarily Zangi-Ragozh would have turned down this offered service, but he suspected it would not be a good notion in this instance, so he drew a string of copper cash from his sleeve and took four coins off the cord. “Two for you, two for your messenger,” he said, handing over the money. “I will visit the Heavenly Flute in a short while.” His slight smile was polite enough, and his respectful manner gained him another notch of approval in the landlord’s estimate.
    “It will be done at once,” the landlord assured Zangi-Ragozh, and clapped his hand for one of his servants, his round features set in a professional, meaningless smile. “My lad will go on the instant.”
    “I thank you. And where is this establishment?” He rested his hand on the high counter as he waited for an answer.
    “It is three streets away from here. You cross the market-square and bear left at the first street beyond the square. The mouth of the street faces the Temple of the War Gods, and it runs south for four blocks. The Heavenly Flute is in the second block on the right. You will see the sign.”
    “Very clear and concise. You are an asset to your profession,” said Zangi-Ragozh, and returned to the fire to draw Ro-shei aside for a few private words.
    “You’re going out,” said Ro-shei in Byzantine Greek. “For the evening, or all night?”
    “I hardly know yet, not having seen what is out there,” said Zangi-Ragozh in the same language. “That will depend upon what I find, will it not?”
    Ro-shei shook his head. “I hope you will not abandon your search too readily or assume you cannot obtain what you require. We have a long way to go yet.”
    “We do,” Zangi-Ragozh admitted. He looked directly at Ro-shei, continuing purposefully, “If the dancing girl is unwilling, then I will try to find a widow to visit in her sleep.”
    “So long as you have nourishment,” said Ro-shei with feeling. “Ever since you freed Dei-Na, I have noticed that you deny yourself what you most truly need, and this causes me concern.”
    “I am in no danger,” said Zangi-Ragozh.
    “It is going to be a demanding journey; you said so yourself. You need to maintain your strength. Days are beginning to lengthen, and the increasing sunlight will make greater exactions upon you, and that, too, will deplete your stamina. If you do not feed your hunger, how are you to maintain the discretion you have been so determined to preserve?” Ro-shei glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “This is not Yang-Chau. You are not known here; anything you do will be noted and considered. Your true nature would not be welcomed by anyone in this town.”
    “Do you suppose Jong or Yao or Gien is likely to take advantage of me if they knew?” Zangi-Ragozh asked.
    “Probably not. But highwaymen often have agents at inns such as this and are not above setting ambushes.”
    “I know,” said Zangi-Ragozh. He went on in Chinese, “I have arranged for the men’s supper. Do you want me to send a request to the kitchen, or do you want to fend for yourself?”
    “I have a duck I bought in the market-place. It will more than suffice,” said Ro-shei, also in Chinese.
    “Then I wish you a pleasant evening,” he said, fitting one hand into the other.
    “And I wish a pleasant evening to you, my master,” said Ro-shei, moving aside so that Zangi-Ragozh could draw on his oiled-leather cloak and leave the inn.
    The evening was turning raw, the wind more penetrating, the rain colder. Zangi-Ragozh drew up the hood of his cloak and lifted his shoulder to the wind as he made his way along the side of the nearly empty market-square toward the Temple of the War Gods. He stopped for a moment to look into the elaborate interior of the building and heard the drums sounding to