***
Ran-Del stepped into the bar. The sharp smell of a blackwood fire filled the room. He studied the stone fireplace in the corner. From what Francesca had said, it seemed city dwellers considered a fire a good way to give a room ambience, rather like wall hangings or a vase of fresh flowers. For Ran-Del, the woodsy aroma brought a sudden attack of homesickness.
Next to the back of the stone structure, Georges Rangoon sat at the far end of a long table. On either side, people Ran-Del recognized from the warehouse drank, ate, and talked noisily, sometimes all at once.
Georges saw him first. “It’s my big fish! Come here, Ran-Del! Come and meet your co-workers.”
Ran-Del started to join the group, but a figure blocked his way.
The bar owner herself stood in front of him, a tray of drinking glasses balanced on one hand. A kerchief covered most of her red hair, and an apron hid some but not all of her shape. She stared at Ran-Del’s hair. “I see the lucky woman is now even luckier.”
Ran-Del didn’t know quite what to say. Had it been a compliment? He decided to assume it was. “Thank you.”
She shifted the tray, looked him up and down once, and then lifted her chin. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking if you want to come upstairs to my place.”
Ran-Del swallowed. “No, there’s no point.”
She nodded and walked away, vanishing through a swinging doorway.
“Ran-Del!” Georges called. “Stop flirting with Janis and come meet the gang.”
Ran-Del decided against arguing that he wasn’t flirting. If he said nothing, they would forget it sooner.
“This is Ran-Del Jahanpur, everyone,” Georges said. “Ran-Del is going to work with us from time to time.” He nodded at the fair haired man beside him, who scowled at Ran-Del. “You’ve met Brandon. Don’t mind him. He thinks making eyes at Janis is his sole right.”
Brandon flushed red, and everyone hooted with laughter.
“Don’t tease the poor boy,” said the elder of the two women, a brunette with a wide streak of white down her hair. “My name is Jena. I keep the customer records in order—and Georges, when Clara’s not around.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
Ran-Del shook her hand, wondering what customer records were. Shaking hands still seemed a peculiar way to greet someone you had never met. Among the Sansoussy, such intimacy was reserved for kinsman and close friends.
“I’m Thelma,” said the younger woman, also offering her hand. “I saw you at the warehouse. You’ve cut your hair since then.”
Ran-Del shook her hand. She had a firmer grip than Jena. Ran-Del suspected her shirtsleeves hid a more muscular build than he had seen on most city women.
“I’m Guillermo,” said the nearest of the three men, holding out his hand. He had a ready grin, white, even teeth, and deep-set eyes. “Is that knife on your belt real?”
“Yes,” Ran-Del said, gripping harder when Guillermo squeezed his hand tighter than a baby tree bear grasped its mother's fur. “Why would I carry a pretend knife?”
The third man leaned across the table to offer his hand. “Why would you carry a real one?”
“This is Arno, our philosopher,” Georges said. “Sit down and have a drink.”
Arno nodded at the empty seat across from him. “Plenty of room.”
“So,” Thelma said, twirling one of her short black curls around her index finger, “Georges says you’re a Sansoussy?”
“I am.” Ran-Del took the seat that was offered.
Their faces turned toward him, curious but not hostile. He could feel the friendship in the air, the sense of being a group. None of them seemed afraid of him, or angry, even if Brandon still smoldered a little.
“Tell us about the forest,” Jena said.
Ran-Del leaned back against the seat back. With the sound of the fire crackling, the smell of blackwood burning, the background noise of people talking, he could almost imagine he was back in the forest on a visit to another village. It was the closest he had come to comradeship so far. “What do you want to know?”
The Sixth Discipline Page 61