Chapter 7 #3
We round another corner, and the aisle opens into a wide square.
Camels kneel, allowing members of the kingdom to unload their packs.
Baskets of figs and pomegranates land with heavy thumps onto the sand.
Sacks of wheat lean against one another, stalks spilling from the open tops, their feathery golden heads swaying in the breeze.
Amphorae are stacked carefully beside the tents, and a few of the camels carry bundles of dazzling maroon and gold fabrics with glints of golden pentacles and gleaming candlesticks tucked among their loads.
Actual treasure, my brain shrieks. Like, glittering-loot-you’d-hide-in-a-chest kind of treasure. Land pirates. What’s the word for that? Highwaymen? My inner preteen—the one who used to spend entire summers rewriting dog-eared bodice rippers—lets out a full-body scream.
“Oi, you!” Tarek calls, already halfway to a line of stacked amphorae. He jerks his chin toward a crate filled with iron tools, heavy enough to bow the boards. “Bet those arms are more than decoration.”
Declan straightens, almost eager, rolling his shoulders as if lifting something backbreaking is exactly the kind of distraction he’s been waiting for.
I take the moment of freedom to drift toward one of the camels, silk spilling out of its pack in waves. The maroon folds gleam like wine in the sunlight, rich and heavy, the scent of cinnamon and cloves baked into the fabric as if it’s been marinating in spice the whole way here.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn. “One of your brethren already blessed me with a face full of snot.”
The camel blinks slowly, unimpressed, lashes thick as fans.
A woman in a headscarf approaches, one arm hooked around a woven basket of figs. She nods at the camel’s pack. “Hand, please?”
I reach up and help her unclip one of the treasure-stuffed packs from its harness. “Is all this for the tents?” I ask, eyeing the silks and gleaming candlesticks.
She puffs out an incredulous laugh. Gesturing to the shimmer of gold peeking out from the bundle, she says, “These items are not necessary goods. They’re meant for our performances. For show. Any who want them are able to trade for them at the market.”
“So you only get to use these things while you’re performing? Not to decorate your personal space?”
Her thin mouth twists into a smile. “What with rehearsals and performances and the work of tending to the kingdom, I spend so little time in my personal quarters, there would be no use in decorating it.”
“Where does all this come from?”
“Our queens send their court to Pentacles at the turn of each season,” she explains. “We bring spices and glasswork. In return, they give us metals, gold, fabrics. Enough to dazzle the crowd during our nightly performances.”
“I didn’t realize everyone performed as their job.” I say, shifting the pack into her grip.
Again, she laughs softly, the sound like sand running through fingers. “No Festival of Flame, no applause. And what’s the point of life without applause?”
The camel snorts as if to agree.
I hesitate, my fingers tracing the edge of one of the silks spilling from the bundle. “Do you know of a woman named Fortune?”
Her brow furrows.
“She’s…” I falter, searching for the right description. “A performer, maybe. Someone important.”
“An unusual name…one I would remember.” She gives a small, regretful smile. “Can’t say that I have heard of her. But I hope you find who you’re searching for.”
The woman steadies the pack against her hip and moves back toward the tents.
Something tugs at the back of my dress. I glance down and nearly shriek.
A miniature donkey stares up at me with enormous brown eyes rimmed by long lashes. The skirt of my dress is clenched between his teeth, silk drooping out of his mouth. He chews happily, unbothered by my horror, his jaw working in slow, contented circles.
Perched on his back, like a queen on her throne, is a cat with lemon-yellow eyes and smoke-gray fur, sleek and gleaming despite the desert dust.
“Hey!” The donkey tilts his head, long ears turning toward me. I yank the damp fabric free, and strings of spit plop onto the sand. “Absolutely not. Do I look like your salad bar?”
The cat flicks her tail and curls it neatly around her paws as she sits on her steed, and my annoyance dissolves in an instant. “Oh my goodness,” I gush, reaching out in what I’m sure is a universal gesture of can I pet you? “Aren’t you gorgeous?”
The cat slowly raises one paw. Holds it there. Then—whap. A hiss slices the air as her claws skim my knuckles.
I jerk my hand back with a gasp, staring at the faint red lines blooming across my skin.
Tarek jogs over with Declan close behind.
Declan drags a forearm across his brow, wiping sweat from his face, then runs his palm down the back of his neck.
His black button-down is plastered to his chest, clinging to every line of muscle.
In the sunlight, the damp fabric gleams like ink poured over steel.
For one delirious second, I completely understand straight men’s fascination with wet T-shirt contests.
“I see you met Cinder,” Tarek says cheerfully, interrupting my mental drooling. “Keeps the caravan clean of pests. But she is rather…” He tilts his head from side to side as if weighing his options. “Picky.”
“Picky?” I echo in time to watch Cinder abandon glaring at me to launch straight into a purr when Declan reaches out. She presses her head into his palm like they’re old friends.
I scowl. Cats like me. They always like me. In third grade, my next-door neighbor’s Maine Coon used to follow me to school every single day and wait for me to get out. I was basically “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” only “Amanda Had a Very Large Cat.”
The donkey brays softly and butts his wet nose against my thigh.
“Oh no you don’t.” I sidestep quickly.
Tarek grins as he scratches the donkey behind the ears. “And this is Fennel. He chooses his friends wisely.”
Declan chuckles, stroking Cinder’s back. The cat all but liquefies under his touch, eyelids closed in bliss. “Guess this smart girl can tell who the difficult one is.”
I frown. “Ass.”
Fennel brays loudly.
Tarek claps his hands together, loud enough to make me jump. “On to our next task!”
Before I can ask what it is, he takes off toward the stacked amphorae. He hauls one up with ease, then thrusts another into my arms. The clay is cool against my palms but heavy enough that my knees wobble.
“Each of you delivers one, and then there will be no need for a second trip. Teamwork!” He grins and claps me on the back. Water sloshes over the rim of my urn and splashes my feet.
“Delivers one where?” I demand, hugging the amphora tight to keep from spilling more as Declan takes his without complaint and holds it with one strong arm like he was born to be a farmer.
“Why, the market, of course!” Tarek calls, already marching down the aisle.
We follow him to another stretch of open sand where silk ripples overhead in shades of scarlet, saffron, and vermilion.
The air here in the market is hazy with smoke from stalls offering hand pies, spiced meats, and roasted vegetables.
At the center of the market, a circle of musicians weaves a lively rhythm from drums, lutes, and the high, reedy trill of a pan flute.
A stall keeper stirs bubbling pots, the broth spitting and hissing as it splashes onto open flames.
A glassblower blows molten orbs into beads that glow like captured suns.
One stall is stacked high with rugs in every pattern and hue imaginable, while another gleams with the same golden candlesticks and pentacles I helped unload earlier.
At a stall overflowing with dates, figs, pomegranates, prickly pears, and apples, Tarek waves us over.
Behind us comes the steady clop of small hooves. I don’t have to look to know Fennel has followed, Cinder perched on his back, the donkey’s cat-clad shadow following mine.
“Ever heard of personal space?” I mutter over my shoulder. Fennel edges closer until his flank brushes my hip. “Unbelievable,” I grumble.
The handles of the amphora dig into my arms, water sloshing over the rim as my feet sink into the sand. My shoulders ache, and my grip slips. There’s no way I can make it another five feet, much less fifty, without losing more of its contents.
Declan strolls up beside me, not a hitch in his breathing. He eyes the damp streak running down the front of my dress and smirks. “I’m surprised there’s any water left in there.”
I shoot him a look. “This thing is half my size.”
Without asking, he dips down and takes the urn from me like it weighs less than a purse. My arms, suddenly empty, feel like wet noodles at my sides as I trail after him toward Tarek.
“Set them here,” Tarek instructs cheerfully, plunking his own down onto a woven mat.
Declan lowers both of ours while I pretend I’m not panting.
“I appreciate it,” I say, swiping the spilled water from my arms.
He brushes off his hands and flashes a perfect white smile. “I wanted to take it from you from the start, but I figured you wouldn’t like that.”
“Yeah, I, uh, I probably wouldn’t have.”
We stand there awkwardly, not making eye contact, the silence stretching taut while I scramble for something to say next.
I’m saved by Tarek, who vaults between us right as a vendor’s fan comes down hard on his shoulder. “Ow!” he cries, rubbing the spot. “No fighting in the market, Sasha!”
The woman running the stall leans over her table of fruit and swats the air with the same closed fan. “And what of stealing, Tarek?”
Stolen apple in hand, he clutches his chest. “You wound me, madam. I haven’t stolen a thing.” Then, grinning from ear to ear, he takes a massive bite and blows her an exaggerated kiss.
We drift away from the fruit stand and weave through the crowd.
A frown creases Declan’s forehead as he toes the sand. “Where does all the produce come from? It can’t be easy growing things in this.”