Kismet's Kiss: A Fantasy Romance (Alaia Chronicles) (15 page)

“Nothing was settled.” He bared his teeth in a menacing gleam.

Varene’s heart thundered in her chest, easily as loud as the noise of the crowd. She wanted to say something, fix this somehow, the way she always salvaged situations—but her nationality had already caused enough trouble. Drawing additional attention to it by arguing would only make more.

The mob rumbled and swarmed. People pressed around the squabbling merchants, cutting them off from Varene’s view, while another surge of people closed around Rupal’s stall, eyeing the tableau of Sohad and the drunken brute. Soon they glared at Varene’s face and veil. Bewildered, she looked down and saw that strands of her unruly hair had slipped from her ponytail and now dangled in view.

“That’s her, that’s the one.” Whispers skittered like dried leaves through the crowd, gaining more color and strength as the moments ticked by. “Do y’think she can cure the sultan’s family?”

“She’s a Teg witch. Why should she?”

“She’ll kill ‘em all, more likely.”

“
Maybe we should kill HER.
”

Not since Varene had been a small child had she wanted to be a mage, with magic and might beyond human form. She had only a fraction of a mage’s power, but had never envied Alvarr or Rokad or Qiara their inborn gifts…until now, when she’d have given anything to disperse this horde and rescue her companions and the precious sugarwort.

Priya took a half-step forward. “Don’t listen to rumors!” Her high voice shook with fright. “No one else can help the sultan’s family! They’ve tried, but only this woman—” and she grabbed Varene’s hand— “knows how to cure them. Let us return to the palace with the herbs!”

“She cursed them, like Bafar says!” bellowed a voice in the mob. “Why else would
she
know how to stop the illness?”

The crowd began to merge in Varene’s mind, becoming one menacing and hungry beast licking its fangs. Voices came at her so quickly she could no longer identify the sources. Varene, Priya, and Sohad found themselves backed against Rupal’s wooden counter.

Sohad shouted out. “I am the Royal Physician’s assistant! The Great Sultan himself sent us here for the herbs! We must return with them—”

“Excuses!” howled a bass. “Are you the witch’s herald?”

“Or maybe the witch’s
adept
!” shouted a baritone.

“We’d better save the pretty miss there from the sorceress’s clutches. I’m sure I can savor—save her, ha ha.”

Priya’s hand again clutched Varene’s arm, which had now grown stiff with fury. Varene and Sohad crossed protective arms in front of the smaller woman, nudging her behind them against the counter. Sohad glowered at Varene and whispered, “If you have more power than you’ve admitted, wield it now!”

She glared back, enraged at her own deficiency. “If I had it, I would have done so already!”

“I’ll savor the sorceress next,” rumbled a bass.

“Careful, you rapacious thugs,” spat one of the few women in the crowd. “The maid’s dressed in the sultan’s livery.”

“Yes,” shrilled a white-bearded man in a turban. “Touch her and you might never see your hands again.”

At least someone in the crowd didn’t crave their blood. If there were others, perhaps they could shift the mob’s mood. A breath caught in her chest.

Sohad jumped upon the shaky counter and grasped the sugarwort bag to his chest. “Guards!” he shouted out, staring down the aisle and waving his other hand. “Guards!”

Palace guards! Hope sluiced through Varene’s limbs. Sohad jumped down, pressed the bag into her hands, and pulled her and Priya through the crowd toward the free space beyond.

Around them, the horde hushed and stilled, as if the beast it had formed were debating whether to retreat.

Varene’s pulse throbbed in her throat. Her gaze swept down the aisle, looking for the flash of the setting sun on armor or spears—for salvation.

As they pushed through the bodies and the moments ticked away, she realized Sohad had taken a spectacular gamble. He’d hoped the threat of palace guards would give the three of them a chance to escape—but there were no guards in sight, and never had been.

Soon the horde realized it, too.

“Liars—there’s no one there!” roared a bass to their left.

“And what if there were?” shouted a man closing in on them through the bodies. “We’d turn over three traitors scheming to murder the royals. We’d be rewarded!”

“Grab them all!” yelled another. “And take those Teg herbs from the sorceress. End her power!” Dusty bodies closed in again around Varene, Sohad, and Priya—a sweaty press of flesh reeking of ale and hate.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
he palace of the sultan of Kad was enormous, but Gunjan the jencel-bird located his master at last, hard at work in an office overlooking the lush central courtyard.

Gunjan flew past the doorway without entering, wanting a moment or two to compose himself. After all, it wasn’t easy to interrupt a sultan. Especially after one had been, er, deliberately absent from one’s usual post.

And during Gunjan’s fly-by, the sultan hadn’t looked particularly welcoming. In fact, there had been a distinct frown on his face as he’d stared down at his books.

What if, Gunjan thought as he flew on, his own caretaker had informed Kuramos of his absence, and that was the reason for the sultan’s ill mood? What if Kuramos was so angry with him that he’d be shut back in his cage for good? The sultan had never punished him before, but what if he did now? Oh, how Gunjan would miss the wind, and the sun on his wings…

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate his home in the golden Cage and the many treats and honeyed nuts often served to him—but he liked freedom better. Much better.

Still, the Healer had seemed very sure the sultan would permit Gunjan to fly to Teganne. And she’d also been certain this mission to Teganne could help the sultan’s family. This trip was important. And so, therefore, was Gunjan’s role in it. His chest puffed out a bit as he considered that.

But to make the journey and bring a Tegannese to Kad safely with the herbs, he’d have to speak with the sultan. A possibly livid sultan.

Well, then he would have to do it. Even if it meant he was about to get his feathers blasted off.

After three deep breaths, he turned and flew back toward his lord and master.

He landed as quietly as he could on a silver étagère against the wall. The sultan was sitting at the mahogany desk, staring at ledgers. The late afternoon sun warmed the colors of the courtyard garden outside, but it didn’t seem to improve the sultan’s mood. Scowling, he tapped his fingers on the desk as his eyes scanned down the columns. He seemed distracted, though; his gaze kept losing focus and he had to begin again at the top of the page.

Gunjan cleared his throat.

“Yes, yes, what is it,” the sultan growled, not looking up.

“Great Sultan—” Gunjan began.

At the sound of the papery voice, the sultan lifted his head and stared straight at Gunjan. “Jencel! Why aren’t you in the Cage?”

“Ah…perhaps you’ll let me answer that in a moment, O Lord. The Healer asked me to find you.”

Kuramos shot to his feet. Gunjan backpedaled on his high perch even though he was safely across the room.

“Is everyone all right?” the sultan asked, eyes large with concern.

“From what I gathered, yes.”

“Then what does the Healer want?”

“She believes she knows a cure.”

“Praise the Goddess!” Then the sultan clamped his fingers around the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. “Are you here to tell me she’s cured my family?”

“Well, ah, no, O Lord. She’s searching for this cure, a plant called sugarwort, in the city—but she
knows
she has it in Teganne. She asked me to fly there tonight and send someone back through the FireRing with a supply.”

The sultan’s shoulders slumped with a sigh, and he gave a judicious nod. “Then that is exactly what you should do.”

“Yes, O Lord. Ah, er, one other thing…”

Kuramos cocked a brow.

“The Healer wanted me to tell you something.” Discomfited, Gunjan shifted to one foot and lifted the other into his chest feathers. Somehow he always felt better that way. “I think she was joking. In fact, I’m sure of it, O Lord—”

“Just tell me what she said, Gunjan.”

“Yes, my sultan. I believe her exact words were, ‘Have Kuramos tell his guards not to wave their spears around this time.’”

Gunjan’s flight muscles quivered as he waited for a backlash. After all, a sultan might not enjoy being told what to do. He couldn’t imagine
his
sultan liking it, anyway.

When Kuramos broke into a grin, Gunjan nearly fell off the étagère.

The sultan straightened, a smile still planted on his lips. “You’ve delivered the message. I’ll take care of things from here.” He strode to one of the many windows stretching across the wall and swung it open. “Good luck and fast wings to you, jencel. Fly well, for all who are ill!”

“I will, O Lord. May those you love stay safe on this side of the egg!” Gunjan flew out into the sunshine he loved.

K
uramos had just returned to his treasury revenues and balances, a task he detested but deemed crucial to being an informed monarch, when he was interrupted again.

“O Lord,” said Hamar from the doorway, “the Royal Tailor is here for your fitting. He says he has chosen magnificent material for your Raliyam garb.”

Kuramos sighed and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “He’ll have to wait a short while.” He enjoyed wardrobe fittings even less than looking over the ledgers, and neither would be able to pull his thoughts from those who were bedridden.

Before Hamar could respond, footsteps pounded down the hall toward the office. Hamar peered out and hastily backed into the room to avoid a collision.

“Great Sultan! O Lord, I have news—” One of the palace guards careened through the doorway.

“Can I not finish my accounts without interruption today?” Kuramos snapped.

He regretted the outburst, but had no chance to form an apology. “The market, O Lord!” said the agitated guard. “There’s a riot!”

Kuramos narrowed his eyes. “More than the usual haggling over prices?” The guard’s rattled demeanor confirmed it. “How bad?”

Before the answer came, Hamar’s swift intake of breath stopped further conversation. The steward’s face paled.

“What is it?” Kuramos felt himself rising from his chair.

Hamar stared at him, wide-eyed. “Where is the Royal Healer?”

“My jencel was just here. He said she was in the city, looking for…” Dread twisted around his spine. “Oh, by the goddess, no!”

Hamar took a step forward, locking gazes with the sultan. “Sohad wanted herbs to help with the treatment. He requested infirmary funds to take to the market. Do you think…”

But Kuramos had already leapt to the window. “GUNJAN!” he bellowed. “GUNJAN, COME BACK!”

He scanned the sky, so empty under the waning sun. Finally a black speck appeared, growing larger by the moment. He stepped away from the window to allow the bird room to land on the sill.

Gunjan halted there, but kept his wings half-spread as if ready to bolt. “M-my sultan?”

“The Healer. You said she was going to the city to find her herb. To the marketplace?”

“Yes, O Lord.”

Gunjan’s wings relaxed, but Kuramos’s body tensed. The sultan swung his head to the south, though walls and distance obscured his view. “Was she going alone?”

“I don’t know, O Lord. But the servant girl was bringing clothing to her, so perhaps—”

Kuramos spun on his heel. “Meet me at the South Gates, Gunjan!” He sprinted toward the door.

“O Lord!” Hamar shouted as Kuramos passed him and the astonished guard. “A riot—I can’t let you take the risk!”

“In that case,” the sultan roared as his legs pistoned him down the hall, “tell yourself I’m going shopping!”