“Choose one for me,” Rapskal suggested.
“A woman’s robe?”
He shrugged his bare shoulders. “In my time in the dream stone, I saw Elderling workers all wearing these sorts of robes. Men and women. Some of the robes were shorter, with trousers underneath. My clothes are in rags, and I really don’t care who wore those robes last.”
The folded garments were stacked on the shelves. Her fingers traveled down the pile until she found one that was gold and brown. “Try this,” she suggested as she drew it out.
“Not red?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“Very well,” he said and embarrassed her by standing up and walking toward her. She tried to pull her eyes away from his dangling genitals and could not until she heard his pleased chuckle.
“Cover yourself,” she suggested sternly, tossing the garment to him.
“You’re sure that’s what you want?”
“Yes,” she replied emphatically and wondered if she spoke truth. The sight of him had stirred her to warmth. She was torn between crushing her reaction and allowing herself to indulge it. She watched him draw the gown over his head and shrug his shoulders into it. The Elderling garments were sleek and long, designed to be ankle length. The skirt of the robe was loose enough to accommodate a full stride, but the top clung nicely to his shoulders and chest. Once donned, there was nothing feminine about the garment on Rapskal. He chose a bright red sash to tie it, and green footwear. The colors rioted gloriously, and she found herself smiling. It was so Rapskal of him to deck himself out so. He hastened to admire himself in the mirror, and then he turned to her, saying, “It feels so good to be dressed so finely, doesn’t it? If only we had something to eat right now, I’d say there wasn’t a thing in the world left for me to wish for.”
The moment he mentioned being hungry, Thymara’s appetite awoke with a roar. She had nothing left in her bag; she had thought they would only be in the city for an afternoon. “Do you have any food?” she asked hopefully.
“Not a scrap!” he replied cheerfully. “Shall we explore a bit more before we go back?” He cocked his head, and his eyes went distant. “Heeby woke up early. She’s already gone to hunt. So she may kill and sleep before she comes back for us. Unless Sintara would carry us back?”
“Not a chance,” she admitted. She knew that without asking. She tried to copy what he had done, reaching out to her dragon, but felt only her presence, with no awareness of where she was or what she was doing. Well, that was Sintara. If she wanted Thymara to know anything about her, she’d tell her. For her trouble, she sensed the dragon’s agreement. That was all.
Rapskal shrugged at her. “Well, no dragon to ride, no food to eat . . . We may as well finish exploring here. Come on.” He held out a hand to her and, without thinking, she took it. His hand was warm and dry in hers, the fine scales sleek under her thumb. He showed no sign of sharing her distraction at their touch. Instead, he led her out of the room and into the corridor.
The first door they tried was locked and did not yield to Rapskal’s thumping and kicking at it. In a hallway of a dozen doors, they found only two others that were open. Both rooms were similar to the one where they had slept. In one, only the large furniture items remained, as if the owner had packed possessions and left. In the other, the wardrobe held a similar supply of robes, shoes, and, in addition, leggings. Thymara decided it had belonged to a male Elderling, but as she helped herself to a set of leggings she found she didn’t care.
The clothing was pushed helter-skelter onto the shelves, and every horizontal surface in the room was littered with small items. A handful of peculiar stones were stamped with images of flowers and trees.
Rapskal came over to glance at them, shrugged, and said, “Money is my guess. Useless. But look. He’s left me a comb and some funny little brushes. Two necklaces, wait, no, one is broken. This is just some old string, all rotted away. Empty little pots, perhaps for salve or ink or something. Whatever was in there has dried away to dust. Here’s a nice little knife, but the sheath is all rotted. What are these?”
“No idea.” The objects were made of metal, hinged together, and had catches to add more links. “A belt?”
Rapskal hefted the heavy metal items. “Not one I’d wear! Maybe something for a dragon.”
“Maybe,” Thymara agreed dubiously. Her stomach growled loudly. “I need food,” she observed and heard the irritability in her voice.
“Me, too. Let’s take the stuff we found and walk down to the river. Maybe we can find some edible plants to chew on or a fish or something.”
