“Tell me,” he said. “Why is it that caravan guards wear so little armor?”

“It’s the weight,” Delilah said, self-conscious. “On a trip like this, every pound counts. And, um,” she dropped her gaze, “armor’s expensive. The smaller the outfit, the cheaper.”

“Not to mention the training benefits,” came Savannah’s voice. Delilah’s buff second-in-command swaggered up to them, clad in bits of artfully shaped bronze. A thin smile masked her belligerence. “In weapons practice, the more skin you expose, the faster you learn to avoid being hit.”

“I am sure, then,” he said with a sneer, “that both of you learned to avoid injury very rapidly indeed.”

“It’s what makes Delilah’s Dames the best,” Delilah said, holding up a hand to forestall Savannah’s indignant retort.

Longing filled Krake’s face as he gazed at the palanquin. “There’s a real woman. The Lady Pallu. You two should take a few lessons from her. Just the way she holds her hand shows an inexpressibly tantalizing weakness and pliancy. Those demure, lovely veils cannot but conceal the most gorgeously pillowy body—round stomach, soft skin, generous thighs, sweet little virgin bosom, buttocks like twin, plush moons . . .” He cleared his throat abruptly. “We leave in an hour.” He stalked off.

Delilah and Savannah snickered. Delilah gazed at the palanquin, trying not to stare at the dark-skinned man beside it. “I wonder what it would be like,” she said, “never having to lift a finger. Having someone else fetch and carry for you all your life, luxuriating in hot baths, lounging on silken pillows—it’s rough, being working-class.”

“Look at it this way,” Savannah said. “You and me, we get to travel and meet interesting people.”

The two held straight faces for a few seconds, then broke into raucous whoops of laughter.