Free Sandstorm by Megan Derr Page B

frown turning into a glower. He hefted a small wine skin from the floor nearby and poured the contents into a small cup. "We noticed, searching your things, that you use valtyanar." He grinned, and for a moment looked almost boyish. "If I had not mistaken you, I think you would have found yourself caught anyway. This wine is unique to our Tribe, and we're the only ones who can drink it without immediately passing out." He pressed the cup to Simon's lips. "Drink." His tone said he could, and would, force the issue if he had to.
    Too exhausted with pain and relief that he was alive to feel pain, Simon obediently drank. His eyes widened in surprise - there was valtyanar in the wine. That was what had tasted familiar about Bahadur's kiss; a lingering hint of the potent drug.
    "I think the only thing that surprises me is that only one Tribe uses a potent poison in wine."
    The world was beginning to dim, blur. "This is a light sedation?"
    Bahadur laughed. "Yes."
    "One…one more thing…" Simon struggled to get the words. "My horse. She…take care of her. Doesn't deserve to…die because…of me."

    "We'll see to it," Bahadur promised. Simon knew he would. To let a fit horse die needlessly was a crime punishable by death. No one would let a good horse go to waste. He hoped they took care of Angel until he could take her back.
    Then thinking became too hard, his head too heavy, and he let the darkness take him.
    He was starting to hate waking up. Pain from the blows combined with a sick, heavy feeling from the wine, and Simon thought briefly, fondly, that waking up to one of Isra's temper tantrum's had never seemed more appealing.
    Simon ignored the panic that suddenly tried to overwhelm him. Absolutely no one knew he was in danger. Isra was used to him vanishing for days and weeks. By the time Isra began to suspect something was wrong, it would be too late.
    Unless he could escape, which he was fully intending to do.
    Making a vain effort to will away the pain in his head, Simon finally settled on trying to ignore it and focus on his surroundings.
    Which weren't much. Sand. Empty tent. Arms stiff and sore. If he ever got captured again, he was going to insist on a different method of imprisonment. And Lady spare him another taste of that wine.
    Though he would dearly love to take some home and see what havoc he could wreak.
    Simon grinned briefly at the thought, then forced his attention back to matters at hand. He strained to hear what was going on outside, but if the Jackal were like any other Tribe, they would have made certain he was just far enough away from the rest of the camp to avoid such things.
    The tent flap moved at the corner of his vision, and he wasn't surprised to see Bahadur appear - though he was surprised to see the man brought food. "Are you my caretaker, then?
    Punishment for kissing me?"
    Bahadur grunted, and Simon could see he was fighting a smile as he knelt. "I will confess that I have rarely enjoyed getting in trouble so much." Bahadur briefly touched a mark on his left cheek, and Simon wondered suddenly what the scrolling bit of ink meant. "A pity you're a prisoner. Ah, well. The Lady has her reasons, no?"
    "Oh?" Simon asked, genuinely surprised. "Did you just admit you enjoyed kissing a western bastard?"
    "A kiss is a kiss," Bahadur replied, "and I think I was mistaken in calling you western, though I don't know how you could possibly be eastern looking as you do." He held a piece of soft bread up to Simon's mouth. "Eat. Then perhaps we can reach another bargain?"
    Simon nodded. He was going to argue with that? "Not fond of the confession by beating method?"
    "The Sheik told me to obtain information; he did not specify how."
    Strange. The proper form when speaking of one's Sheik was to say 'my sheik' not 'the sheik'.
    To say 'the' was to separate oneself - from Sheik and even Tribe. Bahadur was quietly saying that he lacked confidence in his Sheik. That he did not stand with his Tribe. He was saying