(--)
Machidael is by Nat!
The wolves and even the coyotes, with whom he was supposed to share blood, were strange creatures to him. He did not understand how the coyote could run the gamut of color from tawny to white (and, he presumed, black as well) and be more relative to the jackal than the wolf. Perhaps Sebante had lied? Machidael had trusted the creature to a great extent, and perhaps all of it had been a mistake. Machidael was not used to being made a fool, though he knew the foul taste of betrayal well enough.
He sized her up and down, looking over the cloak. It was draped in such a way that Machidael could discern no weapons, though perhaps they were only expertly hidden? Or perhaps she was a master of combat without weapons. Either way, she was a woman, and he did not fear her sex. He had seen warrior women and ridden with some of them, too, but when they raided a village or town it was always the screaming and clutching women who went down first. Their weaknesses were known to the rust-hued jackal.
What give? He thought back to Amaury and the word he'd used for the smoke. Dagga? The jackal had no way of knowing this word was not a typical reference to the plant, of course. Fuck? he added, rudely gesturing at the object used to perform such an act. And why not? Sebante had been his last, and Machidael was used to far more frequent pleasurings than he received now. It would take a particularly lowly sort of canine to prostrate themselves for meat, so easily obtainable, but Machidael and his ilk preyed on desperation.
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