Linsora grinned. “True, I could use a weapon. Or two.” She thumped the mug on the table and rose. “Don’t look so dejected, Permac. Did you think a year in prison would reform me? The people of my homeworld and yours might be related, but mine don’t have your little talents.”
“You carry knives instead,” Permac grumbled. “And what do you think is better? At least I don’t make a mess.” Permac reached into his jacket and handed her a knife. “Here. Since you’ll be getting more anyway, you may as well have this back. One of the few things the Carratians didn’t confiscate when you were arrested.”
Linsora examined it, flipped it and caught it by the blade between her fingers. “Thought it felt familiar. Keep it. You never know when you might find it useful. Besides, I cut you and didn’t clean the blood, so it’s yours.”
Linsora strode off toward the shops. By the time Permac caught up with her, she had chosen a long black cloak made of the soft skin of some large creature, boots, several identical skirts and shirts, two plain jackets all nondescript and utilitarian clothing and four knives of various sizes.
“That should do it. Is it too much?”
“For my wallet?” he asked. “No. Go and change while I haggle.”
She appeared minutes later looking not much different than she had. Permac knew the knives were now in places she could reach easily. Given a little time, she’d probably sew concealed pockets in all her clothing. He shook his head.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. If you’re happy, let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.”
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