Shadow Spinner (10 page)

She wasn't there.

At last I stopped, let the river of people wash past. An emptiness opened up inside me. I knew it wouldn't have been good to see her. She would be worried to find me here, outside of the harem—and beside herself when she found out what I was up to. But still. . .

Now, beyond the baskets of lentils and shelled almonds, I could see carpets. A whole row of them, hanging on a line strung above the street from one side of the domed arcade to the other.

I moved into the carpet bazaar, peering into every stall and staring at the beggars who sat against the walls. My bad foot clunked against something hard—a wooden loom. The carpet weaver yelled out a curse, ceased her knotting, and shooed me away. I hobbled down the street; my foot
hurt.
Worse, this didn't seem quite like the right place. The street was too narrow. There had been a crowd gathered around the storyteller, but here there was no
room
for that.

At last, through a gap in the mass of bodies before me, I glimpsed a high spurt of water glinting in the sun.

A fountain.

I pressed through the throng, faster now, until I came to a wide, open place where two streets crossed. And there, like an island in the middle of the moving river of people, was another crowd. A still crowd, in front of the fountain.

Listening to a story?

I wriggled between the bodies until I could see what they were watching . . .

My heart sank.

It was a man with a performing monkey.

I looked past him, at the fountain. Water splashed down into a blue-and-gold-tiled basin. It was the same fountain—I was almost certain.

So where was the storyteller?

Panic bubbled up within me; I pushed it down. This didn't mean he wasn't
here,
I told myself. Maybe there was
another fountain in the carpet bazaar. Or maybe he had moved to a different place. It had been a long time ago, after all. I had been
lost,
after all.

I squeezed backward through the crowd, then stumbled through the carpet bazaar, searching. The sharp pain in my foot had eased, but now it ached with every step. Here was another place where the street widened. But no fountain. No still crowd of listeners. Then, to my left, I saw a flight of stone steps, leading down. And I remembered: There was more of the carpet bazaar below.

I hobbled down the steps, jostling against shoppers, trying to keep my balance, then moved through the cool, dark lower part of the bazaar, through yellow scraps of light where the sun streamed in through holes in the vaulted ceiling.

Nothing. No fountain. No storyteller.

The panic was pushing up again.

Stairs. More stairs.

Hobbling up again, past lacy, wooden screens and men who worked lathes with their feet. I rounded a corner into the leather bazaar with its revolting stench of animal skins and the blistering reek of the tanning vats.

And always I looked for the blind storyteller. I saw fortunetellers and snake charmers and water sellers and lute players. Once, my heart leaped into my throat as I heard the thread of a story, saw a crowd standing around a seated man. But I knew as soon as I saw his face that he was not
my
storyteller.

At last, hot and sweaty, I found myself back among the food stalls. My bad foot ached and throbbed. The inner side of my big toe burned where it pressed my sandal straps against the ground, and the whole bottom half of my leg
had seized in a cramp. I leaned against a wall and massaged my leg. The day had grown hot, and flies swarmed in great buzzing clouds about the food. About
me.
The thick commingled reeks of spoiling fruit and overripe cheeses and animal droppings made my stomach roil. My mouth was parched. I looked longingly at the water seller, squirting thin, cool jets of water into the brass cups that dangled from the harness on his chest. But the only money I had was the gold dinars Shahrazad had given me. And gold was too dear for a cup of water. People would stare and become suspicious. I'd be a target for thieves.

As much as I admired Shahrazad, I began to see that she knew little of the world outside of the harem. To make a mistake like that . . . And now I felt uneasy about this plan. A plan for the outside world, made by two people who had never seen it. All hinging on this storyteller, a man I had seen but once, years ago. Who might have moved to another city by now. Who might have
died.

If only Auntie Chava were here! She knew the whole bazaar as well as her own front courtyard; she would know how to find the storyteller.

But . . . I could go to
her.
I could ask her where the blind storyteller had been. And then I could see her. Could talk to her.

I imagined what it would be like to go home. How happy Auntie Chava would be to see me. Old Mordecai would open the courtyard gates and she would look up from her work, then she would run to me, and—

What was that?

I started up out of my daydream. A crimson robe, like most of the harem eunuchs wore. Two of them.

I crouched down, watched them pass. Their faces
were blocked; I couldn't tell who they were. But I knew they came from the harem.

Were they looking for me?

And I knew it then, that I couldn't go to Auntie Chava. It would be dangerous for her to know what I was doing. Because if the Khatun had discovered that I was gone, she would send her men to Auntie Chavas home and have it searched. They would question Auntie Chava. They might already have gone there. And someone would wait there . . . for me.

I pressed myself back against the wall, the panic rising in a thick, choking wave inside me. The storyteller was gone! How could I have imagined he would still be here after all these years? I had been foolish even to think it!

I would never get that story, and Shahrazad would have to tell the Sultan that she had lied, and then . . .

Then she would die. The Sultan would marry the copper-haired girl who told stories worse than a donkey, and then more women would die. And the city would go back to the way it had been, with unmarried girls living in terror for their lives, and their fathers and brothers threatening rebellion.

But right now I didn't care about that. Right now I cared only about Shahrazad.

“Move aside, girl. Move aside.”

I stumbled out of the way of a short, hunched woman, who unrolled a small rug and sat down upon it. The fortuneteller. I remembered her from when I used to come here with Auntie Chava. This was her spot. The woman fanned a deck of cards and called out for people to have their fortunes told.

I'd like to know
my
fortune, I thought. But I couldn't use the dinars.

And then I realized: If I had looked for the fortuneteller earlier, she wouldn't have been here. People came at different times. I couldn't remember what time of day it had been when I had seen the storyteller but . . . maybe he
did
still come to the bazaar, only later. How could I have been so stupid, not to have thought of this?

With new hope, I made my way back to the fountain. I walked carefully, hiding my limp, and kept my head down in case the eunuchs were still about. The man with the monkey had gone and now there was just the crowd hurrying through streets in the harsh midmorning sun.

I saw down on the edge of the fountain to wait.

*  *  *  

He didn't come.

A band of musicians—two horn players and a drummer—set up and played for a while. Then a mule driver led his animals to drink in the fountain. A water seller passed by, ringing his bell and calling out that his water was cold and clear. I felt my gold dinars through the cloth of my sash. Too risky. So I cupped my hands and drank from the fountain—away from where the mules had been.

A moazzen called for noon prayers. Most of the bazaar emptied out as people went to pray and then to sleep during the hottest part of the day. I found a cool, dark place in the underground part of the carvers' bazaar, behind a heap of sawdust. There was no place private to make ablutions with water, so I made ablutions touching earth and said my prayers. I curled up to rest—but I couldn't sleep. Worry gnawed at me more and more.

Later, when the bazaar began to come back to life, I made another trek all through it, even down to the tanning vats. I saw no more harem eunuchs, to my relief. When I returned to the fountain, the fortuneteller had set up there.

Still no storyteller.

Shadows crept into the streets. The sun had moved overhead and to the west. Precious time was passing. Where was the blind storyteller?

Dread seeped into my heart.

I glanced around at the merchants and carpet weavers. From looking at them half the day, I had begun to know their faces. Maybe they would know the storyteller.

I didn't want to ask. I didn't want to call attention to myself. But I had to do something.

I approached one of the merchants, a stout one with a full, curly beard. “Uncle?” I said.

He looked at me as you would look at a beetle before flicking it off your sleeve; but then his glance snagged upon the fine cloth of my veil. Now he smiled; a broad row of teeth opened up in the middle of the brush.

“Do you know . . . Does a blind storyteller ever come here?” I asked. “To tell stories by the fountain?”

The smile vanished. He turned away from me and began straightening a pile of small carpets. “I don't know,” he said.

“But surely you would—”

“I don't know,”
he barked. “Now, unless you've come to buy, be on your way!”

I asked many people in the stalls all around, and it was always the same. They did not say
no,
that they knew of
no blind storyteller. But they averted their eyes, and said, “I don't know.”

“Sister?”

I whirled round to see a boy before me. By his frayed robe, I guessed he was some poor man's servant.

“I know the man you speak of,” he said. “He's not here today. He is not . . . feeling well. For seven copper fils, I will take you to him.”

T
he boy grinned at me then, a crooked, impish grin. He was taller than me, but probably around my own age. His face was smudged with dirt, but his eyes were amazing—huge and dark, with thick, long lashes.

I had seen his type before. A charmer.

“How do I know that you know him?” I asked, suspicious.

“He wears a peacock feather on his turban,” the boy said. And I could see it, then, that feather, bobbing this way
and that as the blind storyteller told his tale. Excitement rose within me. “Very well. Take me to him,” I said.

The boy held out his palm. “Payment in advance.”

“No. I don't pay in advance,” I said.

“Very well, then, half.”

“I can't give you half. I'll pay you well when I see him.”

The boy didn't move. “How do I know you have money?”

I tried to sound haughty. “Believe it. I do.”

He said nothing—-just kept his palm out.

I sighed. I would have to show him a gold coin. I reached into my sash and pulled one out. Eyes wide, he grabbed for it. I snatched the coin back and tucked it into my sash. “Let's go.”

The boy shook his head. “I don't know you,” he said. “How do I know you'll pay?”

“I don't know you, either!” My voice sounded shrill, even to me. I looked about quickly. A few people had turned to stare. More quietly, I asked, “How do I know you won't just run off and leave me?”

The boy grinned that grin of his. “You don't,” he said. “You'll have to trust me.”

If I gave him the coin, he would disappear and I would never see him again. I stood firm, shook my head.

The boy shrugged, but I saw the hunger in his eyes. Hunger for the gold dinar. “Well then, come along,” he said.

I kept my eyes on the tattered, grimy back of him as he wove through the crowds in the street. It was hard to keep up because I was trying not to limp, in case the eunuchs were still about. People kept cutting between us,
getting in the way. I bumped into one woman and stepped on another's foot; they shouted at me, shaking their fists. Just when I thought I had lost the boy, I caught sight of him leaning against a pillar, waiting for me. “This way,” he said, and again he was off.

I followed him all through the bazaar, and then into a part of the city I didn't know. The courtyard walls turned from brick to mud; the streets narrowed and the crowd thinned out; the paving stones gave way to packed earth. Dust rose in puffs from our footsteps, filling my nose with grit.

I gave up trying to hide my limp. It had been a long time since I'd seen the eunuchs, and my foot was hurting again. The boy drew farther and farther ahead, until once, when he looked back at me, I saw a startled look cross his face. After that, he slowed down. Though I didn't want his pity, I was glad for the slower pace.

I clung to hope. The storyteller had looked poor; he
would
live in this part of the city.

We went so far and so long and by so twisted a route that I began to think the boy had led me in circles—like some porters who, paid by the distance they carry a foreigner's goods, take the longest possible way.

Well, this boy would be far overpaid!

Then he was gone.