Her sharpness was not lost on him, and though she disguised it as a playful slant, Maslakhat saw the truth between the lines. His eyes narrowed, his ears flicking back and then forward again—not particularly surprised at her response to his equally as subtle assertion of her own shortcomings. Ultimately, they were similarly unimpressed with each other, and from his perspective, this was an honest shame. Neither were willing to bend to the will of the other to acquiesce any small measure of power. And since those of their alike heritage were still woefully uncommon amongst the whole of the islands, Maslakhat felt there was no great benefit in driving her away. He knew she would never be the sort of companion he’d like her to be, but he did not need to like her to share these sands with her. It would be a worse crime for her to abandon Salem completely, disappearing to whatever faraway land Shararat or Kore had perhaps found herself.
“Worse, is a flower who reckons itself a weed,” he added as she patronized him, thinking of the black Arabian in particular as a lingering bitterness from their altercation clung to his tongue. And in turn, he did not conceal a secondary inference that the ‘Teke might glean of his disappointment in her.
At least Ak Burun had offered to make herself useful, even if she had done so in a manner equally subversive. He wondered what she stood to gain from such a confrontation with an unwelcome stranger. If she desired even ground, she would do well to claim it or fight for it herself.
“I could imagine no task more befitting,” he replied evenly, laying the groundwork for her to string her ropes to whom he thought might be waiting for her, just across the arid hills.
MASLAKHAT
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