Ever (11 page)

These are my foolish thoughts. Still, he is a masma.

And I am half in love with him.

At breakfast I tell Mati that I would like to visit the market. I must escape our sad house for a few hours.

“I'll come.”

“No need.”

She nods.

To go into the street without Mati or Pado, I must bring a male servant. I pick Pazur, although I know he wouldn't be Mati's choice. Pazur has many friends. Some will be at the market. He'll chat with them, and I'll be free of him.

Before we leave, while Pazur waits in the reception room, I run to my room. My everyday tunic is good enough for the market, but I change into my second-best—my best until Mati gave me the blue one. Second-best is pale purple with a white belt and white embroidery along the hem. I tie my hair in a ribbon and toss a few copper coins into my small tapestry sack, which I tie onto my belt.

I remove my felt slippers and put on sandals. The market is near the city gates, a long way from our door.

We join the throng on the King's Road. I smell the market before we reach the first stalls: spices, smoky grilled meats, sweat, hides, wool. I see the striped awn
ings that shade the street from the summer sun.

“Pazur!” A young man waves to him from shoulder-high stacks of baskets.

“Go,” I say. “I'll find you when I'm finished.”

Pazur nods and is off.

Someone is shaking timbrels. Someone taps a drum. Stepping high, almost dancing, I follow the sound.

Chickens flap in their cages. The turtle woman stands by her wide bowl of turtles. Half a dozen men stand at the beer vat, paying their coins for pulls at the straw. Children cluster nearby, waiting their turn at the plum-juice vat.

The musicians are playing next to a market cook, who is grilling goat meat on an open brazier. Poor musicians. Several people are eating the cook's wares, but no one is listening to the music. The musicians' coin cup is empty, and no wonder. Their rhythm isn't interesting, although they gesture as the masters do. The drummer leans over her drum and shakes her hair. The timbrel shaker squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. He raises his arms and sways. The fringes of his shawl skim close to the cooking meat.

Out of pity I put a coin in the cup and step side to side along with the simple beat. Something bumps into my
toe. A ball of yellow wool! I bend over. Although the ground is level, the ball rolls away, trailing a strand.

My heart
pat-pat
s again. I follow the strand.

OLUS

M
Y GROUND BREEZE
rolls the ball of wool toward me. Kezi follows. Outfitted as a wool peddler with a deep basket of yarn, I wait outside the city gate.

The wooden gate doors have been pushed inward because the city is open. Facing outward to the right and left of the gate are twin colossi, enormous stone lions with bearded human heads. I stand under the beard of the right-hand lion.

My scheme had been to peddle my wool down Kezi's
street, but when I saw her making her way to the market, I came here.

The ball of wool unwinds past the furniture makers, the sellers of remedies, the scribes for hire. Then it veers left, away from the stalls, beyond the water trough for the merchants' donkeys and camels, and down the deserted final stretch of the King's Road. When the yarn rolls through the gate, Kezi hesitates.

I send the wool back to her and dismiss my ground breeze. If she fears leaving the city, she can take the yarn and go. I'll find another way to speak to her. I don't want to frighten her again.

She picks up the wool and rolls the strand onto the ball. The yarn is speckled with gold. She scratches a speck with her fingernail. I performed the same test myself. The gold won't come off.

“Olus?” She rounds the lion's huge paw.

She knew it was me! “Greetings, Kezi.” I put my fist to my forehead.

She bows her head. “Greetings, Olus.”

We stand awkwardly, smiling but not speaking. Now that we're together I have no idea how to start. I say, “Er . . .”

She says, “Um . . .”

We laugh.

I collect myself. “You're looking for something in the market?” This isn't what I want to say.

She holds up the yarn and laughs. “Wool.” Her eyes go to the wool in my basket. “Does the wool come from your goats? Do they have gold in their coats?”

I shake my head. “The wool is from Akka.” I take a knife from the pouch at my waist and cut lengths from a few balls of yarn. “Here.” I give them to her, samples of Enshi Rock's finest.

“Thank you.” She arranges the strands in her palm.

“Kezi . . .” I may never have another chance to be alone with her. “Kezi, I know about your pado's oath. I know you're to be sacrificed.”

To my astonishment, she nods. “Admat sent—”

Screams come from the market.

KEZI

S
MOKE RISES ABOVE
the gate lion's head. Olus drops his wool basket. He grasps my arm and we run toward the market.

A stiff wind hurries us along. I fear that the wind will fan the flames, but it dies when we get close. We race around the edges of the stalls. Although the smoke is thick, Olus seems to know where to go.

The timbrel player shrieks as he rolls on the ground, afire. Flames shoot up from the meat brazier. A woman slaps at her burning sleeve. The cook's straw cushion and several baskets are on fire. My feet dance up and down. I don't know how to help. Flame creeps up a bamboo awning pole. If the awnings catch, the whole market will go.

Liquid pours down on the pole and the cushion and the baskets. I look up. The plum-juice vat is in the air above us, dumping its contents.

The water trough flies above the burning musician. It tilts. His garments sputter and hiss.

The fire is out. I look for Olus and see him rolling a length of carpet around the arm of the woman with the burning sleeve. He seems to be concentrating only on her, but I know better. This masma saved everyone.

A wind blows the juice vat and the trough away from the market onto the King's Road, where they clatter down harmlessly.

Someone cries, “A miracle!”

A woman shouts, “Admat saved us!”

A man's voice rises, singing,

Many voices chant, “Thanks to Admat.”

I chant too, but I also think, Thanks to Olus, Admat's masma.

Pazur runs to me. “Mistress! You are safe!”

“And you?” I ask. There is soot in his hair. I notice ashes drifting down, soot in everyone's hair.

“I am well. We should go home now.”

People are chattering to each other. No one has heard of such a marvel as has just taken place.

“I haven't finished,” I say. “Mati knows I'll be here all day.” I start for the weavers' stalls. As I walk, I stuff my ball of golden wool into my tapestry sack.

Pazur follows me to a rug stall, where I go to a pile of carpets. I study the top one carefully, then lift it off and study the next. The workmanship isn't as good as mine, but I pretend to be interested.

Around me the market is settling into its ordinary state. Vendors resume their cries. Even the timbrels and drum begin again.

Pazur sits on a low stack of carpets. In a few minutes his eyes close. His head lolls sideways against an awning pole. I move to the next stall, where a merchant displays his yarns.

“You won't find wool as fine as mine here.”

Olus is at my side. He has his wool basket again.

“I want to see your yarn in the light.” I lead him past the sleeping Pazur, through the market aisle, and out into the sunshine.

We walk several yards until we are beyond earshot of the shoppers but still in plain sight.

“Olus, can you fly?”

“No, but I can ride my winds.”

His
winds?

“I can lift you, too. Would you like to ride my winds?”

I would like to ride
Admat's
winds. I nod eagerly.

“Would you like to visit Akka?”

I could live a full span of years and never see more than Hyte. “Yes, I would like to see Akka.” But I can't simply go. “Wait. I'll be just a minute.”

I run back to Pazur. “Wake up!”

His eyes open. “I'm awake, Mistress. I wasn't asleep.”

“Pazur . . .” I don't know how long I'll be gone. “Tell Pado and Mati I'll return—at the latest—when all the figs are ripe.”

He jumps up and seizes my arm.

I pull away. “Don't touch me!”

He drops his hand.

“Tell Pado and Mati about the miracle here. Tell them I've seen a sign.”

His mouth drops open. I leave him. In a moment I am with Olus again. “Where is Akka?”

“In the north. Beyond the hills.”

Will everyone see us fly?

Clouds blow in and cover the sun. This masma is powerful! Thick fog covers the King's Road and the market.

“Ready, Kezi?”

“Yes!”