By Jo Clayton
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Additional info for A Gathering of Stones (Drinker of Souls Book 3)
He was a man not bothered by much, seldom felt the need to prove anything about himself or his beliefs; impatient with routine, he drifted from job to job, quitting when he felt like it or because some nit tried to make him do things that bored him like wearing boots instead of sandals and a uniform instead of the ancient shirts and trousers he got secondhand whenever the ones he had were reduced to patches and threads. He had no plans for settling down; there was always something to see another hop away and he never had trouble finding a place on a ship when he was done with groundside living.
It won’t be long before I have to pay someone to climb into bed with me. She pulled the bristles through the soft white strands. Old nag put out to pasture, no one wants her anymore. She made a face at herself and laughed, but her eyes were sad and the laughter faded quickly. Might as well be dead. She rubbed the back of her hand beneath her chin and felt the loosening muscle there. Death? Illusion. Give me one man’s lifeforce and I’m young again. Twenty-four/five, back where I was when Slya finished with me.
He shifted round and saw the waiter walking toward them. ## A winding lane with flowering plums and other ornamentals growing at carefully irregular intervals along it led to the Outlook, a terrace halfway up the side of the dormant volcano which rose high above the lesser mountains that ringed the bay; the Inn of the Pearly Dawn sat on that Outlook, surrounded by its gardens with their well-groomed elegance, an expensive waystop but only moderately successful since the merchants, collectors, and more esoteric visitors preferred living in the heat and stench of the city where they could keep their fingers on its throb and profit thereby.