A Gathering of Wings (15 page)

“Of course,” Malora says. “I’ll wait here.”

While Malora waits—watching from a safe distance as Zephele lifts and uncorks the many colored vials, running them beneath her nose and then beneath Orion’s—Dock wards off the carters, swatting at them as if they were flies.

“Poor fools can’t afford booths so they cart their wares,” Dock explains. One of them, a Dromad, thrusts his wares in Malora’s face and babbles.

“Anglish!” Honus tells them in a surprisingly churlish voice.

Malora sees what the Dromad offers and isn’t interested: salt crystals, palm dates, items woven from palm leaves. Another Dromad joins him pushing a cart with a rack of fine-looking woven halters that interests her more.

“For camel and horse!” a third Dromadi carter promises, from behind a cart carrying a single saddle tooled with silver and turquoise.

“No need to be hasty. There is an entire aisle devoted to saddlery,” Honus tells her over the noise of the hawking Dromad.

Malora considers buying a beautiful saddle for Sky, but
Sky isn’t there to be fitted for it. Nor does she want to run ahead of herself. If she finds Sky, she won’t need a fancy saddle to enjoy being on his back again. If only she
can
find him. One more day, she thinks.

Zephele is bargaining with the Dromad at one of the scent counters. The Dromad looks affronted. Orion, smiling sweetly, intervenes, holding out a handful of nubs. The Dromad sweeps them from Orion’s palm and into a pocket that appears to be sewn right into the hide of his hump. Then he begins to wrap the vials, more than a dozen of them, in paper. Orion instructs the Dromad to wrap them extra thickly, and Malora is touched by his consideration for her sensitive nose.

“There are alchemical ingredients here that Orion can’t obtain locally, like clove and myrrh and sandalwood and eucalyptus,” Honus explains.

Zephele returns and hugs Malora for joy as Orion lays their parcels in the cart. “I have
stockpiled
wild jasmine!” she tells Malora gleefully.

They pass into an aisle that appears to be composed of livestock: pens of sheep and goats and cattle; rows of camels, hunched in a long disgruntled line, their long, gangling front legs tied together. There are horses, too, yoked together like beads in a long string, their hides rimed in dust. Malora moves up and down the rows, searching for Sky. The Dromadi vendor, chewing a black viscous cud, observes Malora from beneath his dusty lashes and says something to her in his harsh, guttural tongue.

Honus says, “He wants to know if you wish to purchase a horse.”

Malora laughs. The idea is absurd to her. “No thanks,”
Malora says. “Tell him I get my horses for free.” Then she removes the portrait of Sky from her pouch, smooths it out, and shows it to the Dromad while Honus explains. “Tell him how big Sky is,” Malora says, gesturing with her hands.

Staring briefly at the picture, the Dromad spits into a nearby copper pot, wipes his lips on his arm, and says something to Honus. Honus smiles.

“What?” Malora says.

“He says if it’s
big
you want, he can sell you a camel with a fine saddle with bells on it.”

The Dromad nods, as if confirming Honus’s translation.

“No thank you,” she tells the Dromad. “I don’t ride camels.”

Honus steers her away from the booth. “He says it is your loss. But believe me, you would
not
be happy with the gait. Very bumpy, even with a saddle. And they have notoriously foul dispositions.”

Zephele nabs them and hustles them past the livestock into the next aisle, where the vendors wear colorful vests sewn with mirrors through which the hair on their shoulders and torso pokes. They have triangular faces with broad flat noses, the points almost meeting above the crowns of their heads. In the center of their broad foreheads, precious gems glint. Before them, piles of gems rise up like small glittering mountains—rubies and sapphires, aquamarines and tourmalines—mound after mound, flashing in the sunlight.

Breathlessly, Zephele works her way up and down the aisle, sifting her fingers through the gems, beneath the disapproving eyes of the vendors. But Malora is more interested in the vendors than their wares.

“How are the gems on their heads held in place?” Malora whispers to Honus.

“Embedded in their skulls at birth. They are Bovians from the east,” Honus whispers back.

“Cow-heads,” Neal mutters over his shoulder. “They carry on like princes royal but they are really just miners with airs.”

Except for their horns, they look like men. Malora peers over the counter and sees the hairy legs and blockish split hooves of cattle.

Zephele swoops down upon Malora and waves a sapphire as big as a wren’s egg in her face. “What do you think? Should I buy it?” she asks.

“What for?” Malora asks.

“For its beauty, of course, why else?
I know!
I will buy it for you for your collection!” Zephele says.

“Please don’t,” Malora says.

But Zephele is already bargaining with the bovina behind the counter.

“Don’t bother arguing with her,” Orion says. “She’s enjoying herself immensely. Shopping is like a sport for her, and she has entered with great gusto the greatest arena on earth.”

The travelers now pass vegetables and fruits piled high, melons and pineapples and pomegranates and apples of all kinds, berries glistening like gems, bunches of green bananas and other fruits Malora has never seen. Feeling the first pangs of hunger, Malora wonders when they will eat. Her palm—beneath a bandage that was fresh this morning but is already brown with dust—aches, as do the balls of her feet.

Zephele leads them over into the next aisle. Malora gets a
quick impression of knitted goods and great spools of thread presided over by thick-legged hibes with baggy gray skin and sorrowful human faces with ragged, oversized ears.

“Loxidants,” Honus says. “A homo-elephantine hibe. Mostly textile merchants.”

By the time they extricate Zephele she has purchased six bolts of fabric. To get her to leave the aisle, they have to promise to return later. It is not yet midday and already the cart is nearly full.

“We are approaching the only truly worthwhile aisle of the marketplace,” Neal says.

“It’s called the Arsenal,” Honus says with an ominous flash of his eyes.

For the first time, Malora’s desire to shop bursts into flame. The booths are run by Pantherians, who nod at Malora when she eyes the goods as if they recognize a kinship. With muscular arms crossed over their bare chests, males and females stand proudly before racks of intricately carved spears, swords, daggers, bows, and arrows. Orion points to one of the spears, painted with a red and black design and wrapped in muslin strips from which hang beads and what look like the teeth of small mammals. “What do you think of that, Malora?”

Malora picks up the spear and hefts it, rattling the teeth and shells. “The point is sharp enough, but with these noisy decorations hanging off it your prey would hear you before they saw you.” She replaces the spear.

“The faun maiden is right,” the nearby Pantherian says in a deep voice as refined as Honus’s. “It is ornamental in nature. Would you care to examine some
real
weapons?” she asks
Malora. “We keep the pretties out front and the deadlies in back.”

Malora follows the Pantherian behind a curtain made of tiny painted bones into a long gallery. On either side of the gallery hang more weapons, plain and lethal-looking: deadly, indeed. At the far end stands a skin target pierced many times over. The rest of the party has joined Malora.

Choosing a wooden spear, Malora hefts it, then shifts it to her right hand, feeling only a mild twinge in her palm. “Now
this
is what a real spear looks like.”

Orion nods. “I will take your word for it.”

“May I?” Malora asks the Pantherian, indicating the target.

The Pantherian nods.

There is a line of stones in the sand. Malora stands behind the line, and everyone else gathers behind her to watch.

Malora flexes her right hand. She will have to get used to using the hand in spite of the wound. Balancing with her left hand, Malora draws the spear behind her right shoulder and executes a few test passes with it. It is light, but the balance of the spear carries it forward without weighing it down. Malora inhales, drawing her arm back and then bringing it forward with a quick rush of breath, releasing the spear. It whistles through the air and sticks in the target, handle wobbling, at the exact center.

“Nice arm,” purrs the Pantherian. “In spite of the wound.”

“Nice spear,” Malora replies. “It throws itself.”

“Hardly.” The Pantherian goes to retrieve the spear from the target.

“Would you like to buy it?” Neal asks.

“Of course she would like to buy it,” Zephele says. “Did you see the way she threw it?”

Malora gives Zephele a look. A month ago, Zephele would never have expressed admiration for the handling of a weapon. A month ago, Zephele would never have set foot in the Arsenal. “No thank you,” she tells the Pantherian, “but I would like to buy one of those sticks like the Ka carry.”

“A Kavian serpent staff?” the Pantherian says with a scornful snort. “Over that way. Come back when you want something
real
.”

Two aisles over, Malora chooses from among hundreds of brightly painted wooden sticks, one that is the right size and heft for her. Painted like a red cobra, the smooth hooded head fits nicely in her left hand and supports her weight.

Neal says, “You have me baffled, pet. You had your choice of any number of magnificent weapons and yet you choose a decorative stick? The affectation seems most unlike you.”

Malora leans in to him and whispers, “My feet are sore from trotting like a faun. The stick supports my weight. Do you consider
that
an affectation?”

“No, I consider that sensible,” Neal says.

Malora has another use in mind for the stick, one that she keeps to herself: it will help her detect sinkholes if she has to go into the Downs to search for Sky. “I’m hungry,” she announces.

Neal sends the Twani back to the inn with their brimming cart while the rest of them make for the food aisle. Not even at the Founders’ Day feast has Malora seen such quantity and
variety of foods. Neal suggests that they take a quick tour of the booths before ordering. They tour the platters on offer beneath white canvas awnings. There are refreshing-looking glass pitchers of beverages from which Neal steers them away.

“Spirits,” he explains.

There are big colorful bowls of cut-up mixed fruits and others of vegetables. There are pots simmering over fires filled with stews, smelling delicious and savory. Zephele asks Honus which ones have meat in them. Then there are platters of roast antelope with their horns still attached, roast peacock with their feathers restored, whole cooked horned sheep, and tubs of great cheesy lumps.

“Dormice,” Honus says. “It is camels’ hump fat, floating in saffron sauce.” The description makes Zephele gag into her hand.

Suideans ladle buffalo stew from big cauldrons; Pantherians offer bush meat on a stick and served in a bowl made of hard, shiny-crusted bread. Malora is tempted to order this.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Honus says.

“Why not?” Malora says.

“Anything that’s called bush meat is very likely monkey meat.”

Malora recoils. One of the first things her father ever taught her was that monkeys were not for eating.

“Why are they permitted to sell tainted meat?” Malora asks.

“It’s the marketplace in Kahiro,” Honus says with a shrug. “Buyer beware.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very nice philosophy to me,” Zephele says with a deep frown.

“It’s not,” says Orion. “Not everything in Kahiro is nice, Sister, as you may have gathered by now.”

“Would either of you ladies care for the jellyfish parfait this nice merman is selling?” Neal asks.

A handsome, barrel-chested hibe with the head and torso of a man and the tail of an enormous fish sits with his lower half immersed in a great wooden vat of water. He offers deep glass bowls filled with something gelatinous and grayish green.

“What happens if the merman gets out of the barrel?” Malora asks.

“On dry land, he dies,” Neal says.

“Then how did he get here?” Malora says.

“He probably paid some strapping quad or biped to wheel him up from the sea. Live sea snakes are always tasty,” Neal says, indicating the bowl held up by the next merman.

“Then eat one of them,” Zephele says, slyly challenging.

Neal tosses a nub to the merman and dips a hand into the bowl. He selects a small snake that whips wildly about as he dips it into a bowl of bright red sauce and then drops the sea snake, wriggling, down his throat. He chews, then swallows hard and grins. “The sauce is really very good.”

“What does it taste like? The sea snake, I mean,” Zephele asks.

“Like chicken,” he says.

“A meaningless analogy, Flatlander. You know I’ve never eaten chicken,” Zephele says, giving Neal a rather unladylike elbow jab to the ribs.

“It tastes a bit salty and a bit bitter at the same time,” Neal says.

“In the bush,” Malora says, “if something tasted sweet, I
knew it would give me vitality. If it tasted salty, I knew it would nourish me. If it was sour, it wasn’t ripe. And if it was bitter, it would probably kill me.”

“From now on,” Neal jokes, “we’ll let you be our official taster. If it doesn’t kill you, it’s bound to be safe for the rest of us to eat. Do, by all means, tell us what looks good to you, Malora.”

After they have eaten, Honus says, “In my experience, nothing revives one from a postprandial swoon quite so well as a breath of fresh sea air.”

“Finally!” says Zephele.

“Take us there!” says Malora.

Neal leads them to a worn wooden door in the wall where a Ka stands sentry. When they flash their Eyes, the Ka throws the bolt and lets them pass through.

On the other side of the wall, a blue and green flag hangs limply from a high pole.

“Are we leaving the marketplace, or are we leaving Kahiro?” Malora asks.