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“Is that right.”
It wasn’t. It was a bald lie. The other had been a thin-faced weasel of a man, but the clothes and gear were distinctive.
In any case, the Curator’s words hadn’t been inflected as a question. Raider knew a give-me-more-information-or-else tone when he heard one. He would gladly oblige. But first:
“We’ve chatted quite long enough without me knowing your name.”
See that? Raider could ask questions without actually asking questions, too.
The Curator seemed to consider. Then his curiosity got the better of him—or could it have been Raider’s dashing looks?—because he said bluntly, “Seth.”
“Seth,” Raider echoed, trying it out. “Seth.” Mm-hm. He liked it.
His savoring repetition had the Curator’s eyes narrowing.
“I’m Raider.”
“I heard. Not the name your mother gave you, I assume.”
“A Curator ought to know better than to make assumptions. And he ought to know that he’s easily recognizable.”
“I do know that. I just didn’t expect—”
“That anyone from this ignorant spot of nowhere would’ve seen such a rarefied individual before?”
The Curator scowled attractively. “Where have you encountered a Curator?”
“Adiri.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
“Yes. The tombs there are just the kind of thing to attract Curators. Plenty of arcane artifacts to steal for your university.”
“We don’t steal.”
Before Raider could get in a proper scoff at that outrageous lie, Seth’s eyes traveled down to the jewel-studded dagger peeking out from Raider’s kaftan. “And who are you to judge?”
Seth had him there. Raider grinned and threw back his kaftan to show off the dagger to full effect. It looked fantastic behind his brilliant purple sash, jewels sparkling at his hip and golden pommel gleaming against the bronze expanse of his torso.
Was that a hint of red flushing along the Curator’s admirable cheekbones? Raider was certain it was, so he left his kaftan swept open. The man was either prudish (and therefore deserved teasing), or he was attracted to Raider.
In Yusef’s back room, Raider had flirted shamelessly, and while Seth hadn’t exactly played along, he hadn’t hit Raider either. Of course, that might mean nothing with a man so controlled. Glaring seemed to be the only release he allowed his temper.
Seth looked pointedly away, but the cords of his neck strung tight. Gods, the man was intense. So rigid. But powerful, too, and the brief looseness of his body when he’d readied himself for a fight—
A mental image, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome, assailed Raider: that body, stretched out, tied up, bare, arching in frustration, all but begging for relief …
Raider gave himself a shake. He hadn’t been that long on the road. Besides, assuming Seth was even inclined toward male lovers, Raider could not imagine a man so controlled allowing himself to be made that vulnerable.
A shame. It was a pleasant little fantasy. Of course, Raider might be persuaded to explore it in reverse …
Seth’s noisy exhalation dispelled the intriguing image.
“How long does it take a man to turn a spit? I’ve half a mind to proceed to my next point of interest.”
“He’ll be back any minute. And if anyone in Shalaa knows Jamil’s location, it will be Ahmet. He knows everything in this town. Take a seat! Don’t you know to rest when you have the chance?”
The Curator glared into the middle distance, then, to Raider’s surprise and delight, he came forward and settled on the stool. In truth, he kind of perched on the edge of it, but it still counted.
