Vella removed her sable and laid it across a chair. "Don't lose track of this, Zelmit," she warned. "I'm fond of it, and I'm sure we'd both hate what would happen if it accidentally wound up on a caravan bound for Tol Honeth."

"You don't have to threaten him, Vella," Yarblek said mildly,

"That wasn't a threat, Yarblek," she retorted. "I just wanted to be sure that Zelmit and I understood each other."

"I'll get that cloak," Zelmit offered.

"Do that," she said.

The cloak was not so much shabby as it was tattered, and it smelled as if it had never been washed. Vella pulled it on over her shoulders with some reluctance.

"Put the hood up," Yarblek told her.

"I'll have to wash my hair if I do,"

"So?"

"Do you know how long it takes hair like mine to dry in the wintertime?"

"Just do it, Vella. Why do you always argue with me?"

"It's a matter of principle."

He sighed mournfully. "Take care of our horses," he told Zelmit. "We'll walk the rest of the way." And then he led Vella out of the office. When they reached the street, he took a length of clinking chain with a leather collar on one end out of a side pocket of his overcoat. "Put this on," he told her.

"I haven't worn a chain or collar in years," she said.

"It's for your own protection, Vella," he said wearily. "We're going into a very rough part of town, and the One-Eyed Dog is the roughest place down there. If you're chained, nobody will bother you unless he wants to fight with me. If you're loose, some of the men in the tavern might misunderstand."

"That's what my daggers are for, Yarblek."

"Please, Vella. Oddly enough, I sort of like you, and I don't want you getting hurt."

"Affection, Yarblek?" She laughed. "I thought the only thing you really liked was money."

"I'm not a complete scoundrel, Vella."

"You'll do until the real thing comes along," she said, fastening the collar around her neck. "As a matter of fact, I sort of like you, too."

His eyes widened, and he grinned.

"Not that much, though," she added.

The One-Eyed Dog was perhaps the foulest tavern Vella had ever entered and Vella had been in a large number of low dives and shabby taverns in her life. Since the age of twelve, she had always relied on her daggers to ward off unwanted attentions. Although she had seldom been obliged to kill anyone except for a few enthusiasts she had nonetheless established a reputation for being a girl no sensible man would attempt. Sometimes that rankled a bit, though, since there were tunes when Vella might have welcomed an attempt. A nick or two in some unimportant places upon an ardent admirer would sustain her honor, and then- well, who knows?