Snippet #1521560

Much as he hated to admit it, Secru's heart began to beat a little faster when he saw that his stalker had entered the hut. He deliberately didn't look at her any more than a normal glance - no point letting her see how fascinated he was with her. "If there's anything left in my flask, stalker -" he said, airily "I'd appreciate you tossing it back." He looked across at the far wall, where his scabbarded sword leaned. At least they trusted him enough that they hadn't hidden it. He had a spare in his traps, but this one was his favorite, renowned for its balance and wieldiness, and he'd have preferred not to lose it.

He looked as the rough-looking servant entered, and began making tea. He saw the look she gave him, and noticed how unimpressed she looked. Well, who could blame her - she'd probably never read a poem in her life, probably couldn't read at all. And he doubted she'd appreciate good music. Presumably she was some local drab they'd recruited for domestic help. He had to admit though, that under the coarse grime and dirt, she was a pretty piece. If she put her mind to it, she could give my little stalker some stiff competition, he thought. With the accent on the "stiff"...

Something didn't quite ring true, though. For a peasant girl, her accent was very refined. More like someone who'd spent time at court, than a field girl or local yokel. And the delicate, economical way she moved was something he associated with the aristocracy, not a cheap hired-help. He wondered if she was someone who'd come down in the world.

In any case, he thanked her politely - where he came from, politeness was a way of life, as it is in any society where minor spats are settled with killing weapons - and sampled the tea. He found his eyes flicking from the stalker to the servant-girl and back again, comparing the two. Not, he knew, that either of them cared which one he preferred, but it was better than getting bored, in the tense, silent atmosphere of mistrust that pervaded the dwelling.