Desert Rising (10 page)

Sulis nodded. “Had you noticed that the acolytes of Aryn and Parasu usually have their
feli
with them, whereas Voras's and Ivanha's acolytes are almost never with their
feli
?”

“Voras's soldiers take their
feli
on patrol with them,” Lasha said. “But that's the only time I've seen a soldier with a
feli
.”

“And the Counselor of the One is never without her
feli
,” Jonas said. “I've been noticing all day, after our talk yesterday.”

“Voras and Ivanha are the biggest troublemakers,” Lasha added. At their frowns, she added, “Well, everyone knows that. They like things to stay the same, no matter what the One says, and all the nasty rumors about the Counselor come from the gossipy pinks. It's as though they try to make the One look evil.”

“If you go to the healers, take me,” Sulis said abruptly. “And Jonas, I want to go to a judgment with you. I don't know how to learn what Ivanha or Voras feel like though . . .” She broke off as they heard heavy footsteps on the main walk.

A man in a red tunic with brown breeches and tall black riding boots walked around the corner. “I am looking for Sulis Shalindar,” he said. “I was told she came this way.”

Sulis was startled and scrambled to her feet with the others. “I am here,” she called back.

“The Templar wants to speak with you,” the man said. “You are to follow me.”

Sulis's eyes met those of her companions. They looked as worried as she felt, and Lasha mouthed “be careful” to her.

“I'll see you at midmeal,” she said casually, and they nodded.

She turned and followed the acolyte through the courtyard, her head held high.

 

Chapter 6

H
AVING SUCCES
SFULLY DELIVERED
his message to Sulis, Kadar scooted back into the crowd of brown-­robed Forsaken. They parted, then closed around him, concealing him from the sight of the red-­cloaked man and his striped
feli
. He caught his breath at the corner, saw a red uniform moving through the crowd after him, and pushed forward again.

At least he'd managed to get a note to Sulis though he'd probably infuriated her. He grinned, remembering the startled look on her face. But his grin faded to a frown as he thought of the secrecy behind everything. It wasn't going to be easy to get messages to her. It didn't look as though she'd be a part of the rebellion outside the Temple.

Kadar jogged a little faster, getting past the three circle roads and ducking into an alley. He wrenched off his brown robe and stuffed it into some rubbish littering the back way. He emerged from the alley into a more populated street that had a mix of modestly rich residences, tailors, and milliners. Kadar looked up the street with interest, recognizing several of the shops' crests. These were the merchants his uncle took to the back room when they arrived, bargaining over wines, cloth, and other goods more excellent and exclusive than what his uncle offered to the public. When the Nasirof silks came, these tailors would be the ones bidding on it for their rich clients. None of the exclusive silks would fall into the hands of lesser families.

A door opened in the front of the milliner's shop where Kadar was standing. A young man stepped out, adjusting a small, feathered cap. He almost ran into Kadar before he saw him and stopped in surprise. Severin's eyes widened as he recognized Kadar, and he bowed slightly.

“Hasifel. I certainly hope you won't displace my hat again. As you see, I've just gotten a new one, and I'd like it to last a little longer,” he said, a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Kadar studied him a moment. “It certainly suits you better than the last.”

Severin sighed theatrically. “Yes, I was under a bad influence when I picked it out. I believe it made me look like a bit of a fop.”

He raised an eyebrow at Kadar, as though expecting him to protest the statement. Kadar agreed, so he stayed silent.

Severin laughed. “No protests from you, I see. I'd heard the Hasifels were honest to a fault; apparently the rumor is true. What brings you this far from your great hall?”

The other man was being surprisingly pleasant, especially after their last exchange. Kadar responded warily. “I'm thinking of commissioning a northern-­style outfit,” he lied. “I will be around the city at least this next year, and it can be inconvenient to stick out so much.”

A striped
feli
emerged from the alley Kadar had just come from, followed quickly by the acolyte of Voras. The man held a shabby brown cloak in his hands—­the cloak Kadar had just discarded. Kadar stiffened as the
feli
came up to him and sat down, staring intently at him. He cursed himself for not realizing the
feli
would be able to track him and prepared an excuse as the acolyte came up to his
feli
.

Severin looked between Kadar and the
feli
with obvious amusement and raised his eyebrows at Kadar. Kadar shrugged. The acolyte reached them and Kadar opened his mouth, but Severin beat him to it.

“Is there a problem?” he asked the acolyte, all warmth gone from his voice.

The acolyte's eyes widened in surprise, and he looked from his
feli
to Kadar, then from Kadar to Severin, at a loss for words.

“Is he with you then, sir?” he finally asked Severin, twisting the brown cloak in his hands nervously.

“Obviously,” Severin said coldly.

The acolyte looked from Severin to Kadar again, as though memorizing Kadar's face. “Very good, then, sir,” he said. “I'll leave you alone.” He turned and walked away, whistling to his
feli
as he left. The
feli
sat and stared at Kadar a moment, then stood and bumped his head against Kadar's thigh, purring. Kadar scratched it once behind the ears, and it turned to stalk off after its paired, making no attempt to catch up. Kadar stared sadly as the cloak Farrah had purloined for him disappeared around the corner with the acolyte. She was going to be furious with him for losing it.

Severin turned to Kadar once they were out of earshot. “Been a busy morning?” he asked genially, all trace of coldness gone from his voice.

Kadar matched the lightness of his tone. “I've had busier. But the city is a bit more exciting than life on the road.”

“You must have traveled quite a bit with the caravans,” Severin said.

“Most of the two Territories,” Kadar answered. “It isn't nearly as interesting as it sounds.”

Severin laughed. “Maybe not for a traveler like yourself, but it sounds fascinating to me. There's a shop around the corner that does a decent tea. I can also give you tips on the best tailor if you really are interested in finding one.” His tone was dry on the last words.

Kadar was uneasy about the man's sudden friendliness after his actions with Farrah but realized this was a double opportunity. He could learn which tailors the top family of Illian patronized, giving them first choice when the new silks came in. He could also learn what motivated one of the Temple's pawns—­the viceroy of Illian—­from his son.

“I'd be honored,” he responded formally.

Severin's eyes narrowed. “I have more than enough ­people kissing up to me on a daily basis. Don't go servile on me, Hasifel.”

“That's one thing you'll never have to worry about, Severin,” Kadar responded lightly. “I am servant to no man.”

Severin clapped him on the back genially, and they walked shoulder to shoulder to the eatery.

U
NCLE
T
ARIK WAS
impatiently waiting back at the house when Kadar returned from his midday meal with Severin. Kadar had stopped off at the merchant hall when he realized guiltily that he'd missed the midday instruction Uncle Tarik usually gave him and was late for his shift serving the public and selling wares, but one of his cousins had directed him to go home.

“Uncle Tarik, I'm sorry,” Kadar said hastily, hoping to forestall a lecture. “I was exploring the milliner's street and ran into Severin Vicent. He asked me to midmeal, and I couldn't get out of it.”

Uncle Tarik let out his breath in a whistle. “Severin? You didn't get in another fight, did you?”

“No. He didn't have his goons with him. He was actually being friendly,” Kadar said.

“I wonder what he wanted,” Uncle Tarik said.

“He asked me lots of questions on travel and the kind of bandits we'd fought,” Kadar said. He'd also asked, rather wistfully, what it was like exploring the Territories, and let Kadar tell him about some characters he'd met in his travels. Kadar didn't think his uncle needed to hear that.

Aunt Raella came around the corner, carrying a cup of hot tash, a strong, caffeinated drink made from ground cactus spines and roots. “Severin's father made him the minister of travel for the city,” she said, settling into the bench with a sigh. “Though that really doesn't mean much more than his getting gold for talking to travelers and saying he condemns bandits. And grilling all merchants on paths through the desert.”

“He didn't ask me anything about the desert,” Kadar said defensively. “He must have known I wouldn't tell him.”

“Or he's waiting until he thinks you're unwary,” Uncle Tarik said. “He may think you'll become one of his followers, and he can get whatever information he wants.”

“He never will,” Kadar said firmly.

“I wonder if it could work the other way around,” Aunt Raella said shrewdly. “He is an arrogant boy; maybe he'll brag about his father's plans for the desert to someone he thinks is his friend.”

“I'd thought of that,” Kadar admitted. “It's partially why I went with him. Oh, and he introduced me to Mistress Afenball, his seamstress, afterward. She took my measurements for some northern-­style clothing.”

“Ha!” Uncle Tarik said, slamming his fist on the table. “I knew that old bat was tailoring Vicent's clothes although she wouldn't admit it. She didn't want me raising prices.”

“She did seem a bit chagrined when she found out who I was,” Kadar said with a grin. “Severin admired the tapestry cloth on the edging of my robe and said they hadn't had new styles in several moons—­so she might be in later to bargain for the cloth.”

Aunt Raella smiled. “Well done, Kadar,” she said warmly, as Uncle Tarik chuckled and dashed to the records room to see how much cloth they still had.

“Still have a full bolt of the material,” Uncle Tarik said, returning with an inventory list in hand. “The merchants stuck their noses up at it when I tried to sell it last month. ‘Too fancy, too pricey, my clients would never want such things.' ” He mimicked the woman's high-­pitched voice. “I can't wait to see Afenball's face when it becomes the fashion. And it will if the viceroy's son is wearing it on his lapels.”

Kadar must have looked doubtful because his aunt nudged him.

“What is it, Kadar?” she asked.

He hesitated, and she made shooing motions as though she were trying to push it out of him.

“Isn't the viceroy our enemy?” he asked. “I thought he was trying to invade our land and homes, and he keeps the Forsaken under his heel, but you seem happy to have his business.”

Uncle Tarik's face grew serious, and he glanced at his wife with an eyebrow raised. She shrugged.

“It's a good question,” she told Kadar. “And asking it means you're starting to think about the ethical side of business.” She tapped her temple. “That's what we look for in the final year of your apprenticeship, especially since you will be the heir.”

Uncle Tarik nodded. “There are many in the desert who won't do business with the Northerners for those reasons. Our family feels that hiding in the desert won't make the dangers disappear. It will simply give you less time to prepare when the danger comes to you.”

“It also comes down to who you do business with,” Aunt Raella interrupted. “We only barter and buy from ­people who use Forsaken as trades­people, paying them fair wages and treating them humanely.”

“We have to search harder and make longer routes, but the cloth we find is original and supports ­people who support the Forsaken,” Uncle Tarik added.

“So ­people like the Viceroy, who hate the Forsaken and want to keep them underfoot, are paying us a premium to buy cloth from ­people who believe the opposite of them.” Kadar grinned at the irony.

Aunt Raella nodded. “That's why you should always ask before you buy: Where did this come from? And what will come of the profit I give these ­people?”

“More than a few unscrupulous ­people have made huge profits at the cost of human lives because the buyer did not ask why this cloth was so cheap. It was cheap because it was paid for with human blood,” Uncle Tarik said.

Kadar nodded thoughtfully. Things were different in the small towns of the desert, where you knew the person who baked your bread and you took your knives back to the man who made them for reforging if they were broken. Anytime you no longer saw the face of the craftsman, the way you spent your money changed, and you could fall into pitfalls without realizing what you were doing.

“Oh, Ava, is it that time already?” Aunt Raella said, looking behind him. “I'll go get Farrah.”

Ava was standing in the hallway, holding a basket of market goods. Midweek was Farrah's night home with her family, and Ava always shopped at the market that day so she could meet Farrah at the Hasifels' house and walk home with her. Ava grinned at Kadar and gave him a small wave before turning to Uncle Tarik.

“Not quite time yet,” Ava said. “I'm a little early. I have something for you, Mister Hasifel.”

“Let's see it, then,” Uncle Tarik said, as Ava reached into the basket.

Last week, Kadar had watched in amusement as Ava bartered Uncle Tarik into exchanging a charcoal drawing of a temple
feli
for a set of lead drawing pencils and a sheaf of paper. She'd also promised him more drawings to sell in the shop. Uncle Tarik admitted after she'd left that he'd had Uncle Aaron import the pencils specifically for Ava because he was so impressed with her crude charcoal drawings. He'd wanted to see if her talent could blossom with better tools.

“I only had time to do one this week,” Ava said anxiously, putting the drawing on the table. “I can redo the edges if you need me to; they're a little tattered. I didn't know if bigger or smaller drawings would sell better.”

Kadar let out his breath, impressed. Ava had drawn a detailed likeness of Farrah, looking off in the distance, expression serious. The girl had captured Farrah's expression perfectly in black and white. It was a beautiful rendering. Ava was a natural artist.

“You drew this?” Kadar asked.

Ava nodded seriously. “I'll get better with the pencils,” she said. “They're so different from charcoal! I haven't had much time to practice this week, and I couldn't find much old paper in the dustbins to practice on.”

“What about the paper you bargained for last week?” Uncle Tarik asked, studying the drawing.

“It's too good for practice,” Ava said seriously. “I don't want to waste it.”

“We've got plenty of waste wrapping paper in the storeroom,” Kadar said. “You can have it to practice on.

“Now, I might be able to find a buyer for this,” Uncle Tarik said slowly, as though not wanting to dash Ava's hopes. “But I think your sister would object. If you want to sell in the hall, you probably won't want to draw likenesses of ­people you know. Maybe more
feli
, or drawings of the Temple. Travelers love those.”