And she had seemed to like it. More than liked it, she’d clung to it, and had finally given him the smile he’d been angling for.
But then she’d run away. Why?
Two women, one older and one younger, both wearing Bamboo caste jewelry walked up to the booth, their eyes bright with interest. Emil reluctantly put the question of Mara’s strange behavior aside. He was here to sell Arvi goods, not to think about girls, no matter how intriguing they were.
Maybe if he did well today, it would give him the opening he needed to talk to his father.
Emil put on his best smile. “How can I serve you ladies this day? Would you like to see the finest cashmere in all the Bhinian Empire?”
Both women smiled back at him. Like most Bamboo women, they were dressed in flowing tunics and loose pants in finely woven cotton. They wore matching pairs of gold hoop earrings, and thin golden bangles jangled on their wrists.
A wealthy artisan family, Emil judged. Probably high-end tailors or clothiers looking for materials. The younger girl wore a small gold hoop in her nose, signaling that she was unmarried. Emil directed his next smile at her.
“I have thick wools, fine wools, medium-weight. Soft as mist and sturdy as the goats we take them from. Of course, none of them are as lovely as you ladies.”
The girl blushed and cast her eyes down. The woman gave her an indulgent smile. “I am teaching my daughter how to trade for goods. I see I’ll have to teach her to beware of flattering tongues as well.” She unrolled some of the cashmere and studied it with a practiced eye.
Emil grinned. “I can see you are a woman who knows what she wants, and a fine judge of fabric, and that, ma’am, is not flattery.”
“This is very fine work,” the woman said. “But perhaps a little steep in price?”
“Our yield was low this year,” Emil said. “Less supply sadly makes for higher prices.”
The woman frowned. Emil pretended not to notice. “Of course, lower yield also means that this fabric will be rare this year. Perhaps rare enough to fetch a higher price from some of your more exclusive clients?” The curve of the woman’s mouth relaxed, and Emil went on.
“Rare Kildi-made cashmere, cut from goats that have grazed on the green mountains, with no equal in luxury. Just think how well that sounds.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You and I both know that nobles are always looking for ways to outdo one another. It’s part of the Great Game that they play. No price is too much if an item is rare enough.”
“Hmmm,” the woman said. “I see your point.” She made an offer, and Emil countered it.
This was the part he loved. It was like a dance: the haggling and dramatic gestures, the offers made and accepted and the weighing of coin. The two women walked off, each holding two rolls of cashmere, and Emil turned to put his handful of silver into the strongbox.
“That was impressive.” Esmer walked around the corner of the booth. Her hair was in a loose braid, hiding the gray streak, and she was dressed in her usual browns. “I feel like I should applaud.”
Emil gave her a theatrical bow. “Always a pleasure to entertain you, milady.”
The young cat-Sune shook her head at him, a dimple creasing her cheek. “I swear, Emil, one of these days that tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble. You’ll start out to sell something and find yourself engaged.”
“My father would hate that,” Emil said. The words sounded unexpectedly bitter, and he smiled to soften them. “Actually, he seems to be under the impression that you and I might be . . . attached.”
Esmer burst out laughing. “With you? I’d rather stick my tail under a cart wheel.”
“Hey!” Emil protested, a little offended in spite of himself. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Not a thing,” Esmer said. “You’re very sweet, for a human. But if you think I’d give up my cat form for anyone, you’re sick in the head.” She held up a finger. “And don’t tell me I wouldn’t have to, at least most of the time. I have friends mated to humans. Love is hard enough for people who are always in the same form. Besides, I don’t want to mate with you.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
Esmer raised her eyebrows. “Would you prefer that I was perishing of love?”
Emil’s neck was hot, and he tugged at his scarf. “Of course not.”
“Then stop complaining.” Esmer sat down on the ground, pulling her legs up. “You don’t want to mate with every girl you see, do you? So why should every girl want to mate with you?” She gave him a sharp look. “You’re unusually grim today. What’s wrong?”
“What isn’t wrong?” Emil started tidying up the booth, arranging the soft rolls of cashmere in gradients of shade, white and cream to darkest browns and grays. “Stefan’s under silence for the entire day, not that he’d be speaking to me anyway. Father’s too busy to let me get a word in edgewise, but not too busy to concern himself with my eventual choice of wife. And I ran into that girl who saved Stefan yesterday, and I think I made her angry.”
“Mara?” Esmer sat up straighter. “She’s here?”
“She came by the booth. We were talking and she just . . . ran off. I don’t even know what I said.”
“Huh.” Esmer rested her chin on her knees. “Mara’s situation is complicated, Emil. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“You’re probably right,” Emil said. He could tell that Esmer knew more than she was saying, but he didn’t press. Esmer held on to her secrets like greedy men held on to gold. If she didn’t want to tell you something, she wouldn’t.
It was probably for the best, Emil thought. He really should be thinking about other things right now. Like the fact that he couldn’t even talk to his own brother.
As if the thought had summoned him, Emil spotted Stefan down the row of booths. His twin was wearing his festival clothes: a clean red shirt and dyed brown trousers. He was balancing two bowls of roti bread and rice in his good arm, and his broken wrist was tucked into a sling.
Emil watched as Stefan made his way toward a booth that sold bottles and bowls of dye. That was the Yanora clan. They traveled the Empire searching for roots and plants, their path often crossing the Arvi’s. The two clans were on friendly terms.
Stefan handed one of the bowls to a tall young woman Emil recognized as Kizzy Yanora. She was wearing a skirt that had been dyed a vivid purple, and there was a bright yellow shawl around her shoulders and neck. She said something to Stefan, poking him in the shoulder. Stefan made a face at her, then laughed.
Emil frowned. How long had it been since Stefan had laughed like that at home? His brother shouldn’t be more comfortable with strangers than he was with his own family. Maybe if they could actually talk, maybe if Emil could show his brother how much he mattered, and how much he cared about him, they could be allies instead of rivals.
It was worth a try. Even if it made his father angry.
Emil looked over at Esmer. “I’m going to go talk to Stefan,” he said, pulling his embroidered red scarf off his neck. “Can you watch the booth?”
“Of course.” Esmer stood up and stretched her limber spine. Emil offered her the scarf, and she wrinkled her nose. “Do I have to?”
“Only if any Hearth caste come to trade,” Emil said. Hearth caste people wore beaded collars that symbolized their tie to the land. They paid better prices if the Kildi sellers kept their necks covered too. “Please, Esmer.”
“Fine.” Esmer rolled her eyes. “The things I do for you.” But her smile was warm as Emil left the booth.
ONCE OUT OF the booth, Emil let himself relax into the flow of the fair. Not even the mingled smells of perfume and unwashed bodies bothered him. It was just another familiar piece of the landscape, like the musicians and dancers, like the noise of haggling and laughter, like the smell of spiced meat and fried bread in the air. People snacked on pickled gooseberries and drank generously sized cups of sulai, a sweet alcohol made from molasses.
Everything exac
tly as it always was.
Then Emil’s eye caught something that wasn’t usual—the shine of a blade. He turned.
Standing near one of the entertainers’ tents was a man as tall as Emil. He wore a black vest over his bare muscled chest, and the dark scars of his Wind caste mark showed plainly on the brown skin of his shoulder. He held an unsheathed short sword with an ebony handle, examining the edge as he talked. Brass throwing circles hung at his waist. Probably a mercenary of some sort.
The man was spinning a story about fighting a beast in the Eastern Forests.
“Lost two of my best men taking that monster down,” he said, as the rapt group of people around him listened. “But what else were we going to do? Elephant that size could level a village. He almost did. And it’s not like Emperor Saro’s men are going to do anything about it.”
His audience nodded in agreement. Emil turned back to look for Stefan.
His brother had left the Yanora booth and was weaving his way through the clumps of people. He was balancing his own clay bowl in one hand, and it looked like he was trying not to bump his injured wrist in the crowd.
Which was probably why he didn’t see the nobleman coming out of the entertainer’s tent until it was too late.
It happened so fast, Emil barely saw it. The man’s head was turned to the girl next to him, and he stepped right into Stefan’s path. The bowl went flying, spattering the rice and sauce all over the nobleman’s gold-embroidered tunic.
The crowd fell silent.
“You idiot!” the man cried. He was about Emil and Stefan’s age, maybe a bit older. “Look at what you’ve done to me. Do you know how much this tunic is worth?”
The young woman with him put a calming hand on his sleeve, but he shrugged her off. “Apologize at once,” he ordered.
Stefan swallowed his temper with a visible effort. He bowed low. “Forgive me for bumping you.”
“Forgive me, sir,” the nobleman said. “Don’t any of you Kildi know how to speak to a Flower caste?”
Emil saw Stefan’s hands tremble and knew his brother was close to exploding. He tried to push through the crowd to reach him first, but there were too many people between them.
“Forgive me, sir,” Stefan said in a barely audible voice.
“Tamas, it was an accident.” The girl spoke for the first time. “You promised to help me pick out fabric for a new asar.” She opened her large dark eyes wider and put her lip out in a pretty pout. “I’m bored, Tamas. Let’s go.”
Tamas ignored her gentle attempt to redirect his attention. “In a minute, Revathi,” he said. A cruel smile crossed his face. He held out one sandaled foot. “You got food on my feet, dog. Lick it off.”
Stefan hesitated and for a moment, Emil thought his brother might actually do it. Then he saw the telltale curl of Stefan’s fists.
Oh no.
Emile gave up all pretense of politeness and shoved his way through the crowd. But before he’d gone two steps, Stefan punched the noble in the nose. It was an off-balance hit with his unhurt hand, but it still managed to connect with a solid crack.
Tamas staggered back, blood pouring from his nose. “You dare!” he howled, drawing his sword. “I’ll kill you for that!”
Emil threw himself forward. But it was going to be too late.
There was a flicker of movement behind Tamas, and the nobleman stumbled forward, as if someone had shoved him. The sword cut through empty air, missing Stefan completely. Tamas fell into an elderly farmer, knocking the man down.
A woman screamed. The relaxed, tipsy mood of the crowd shifted. Someone tried to help Tamas up. Someone else reached for the farmer, and the farmer’s wife, misinterpreting the gesture, hit the helpful stranger with her walking stick. He staggered back into the crowd. A drink spilled. Another punch was thrown, and suddenly everyone was fighting.
Emil ducked a stave as it whistled over his head, and stepped out of the way of a musician wielding an instrument case like a club. A merchant smelling of sulai grabbed the front of Emil’s tunic and swung a fist at him. Emil blocked it, then head-butted the man, making him release his grip. There was a crash as one of the booths fell over.
Emil saw a flash of blade next to him and whirled to face the attack.
It was Mara. Her short hair was mussed, and there was a scratch on her cheek. “Come on!” she yelled to him, her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t keep a tiger from eating him yesterday just so he could get himself killed today.”
She plunged into the crowd, using her fist and the flat of her dagger to beat them a path. Emil followed her, watching her back and praying to the Horned God with every step. Please let Stefan be all right.
When he got a glimpse of his brother again, the rush of relief was overwhelming. Stefan’s eye was rapidly purpling, and a cut on his cheek streamed blood, but he was standing. He had picked up his thick clay bowl, and was swinging it in his good hand as if it were a cudgel. There was an expression of fierce glee on his face.
By this time, the fighting had degenerated into a full-out brawl, weapons abandoned for fists and feet. Many people were simply punching anyone within reach. The Kildi had abandoned their booths and were running for the woods, coin boxes and merchandise clutched to their chests.
Emil looked for Tamas, the nobleman who had provoked Stefan. Tamas was fighing one handed, and had his other arm around the young noblewoman who sagged limply against him. Her brown asar was rumpled and her eyes were closed.
Despite the fighting around him, Emil grinned. The girl must have fainted in the madness, giving Tamas something else to worry about besides going after Stefan.
A hand touched his, and he looked down into Mara’s dark eyes.
“I have to help that girl. The idiot with her is going to let her get trampled.”
Emil impulsively reached out and brushed the sweat-damp hair back from Mara’s forehead. His fingers lingered at her hairline, and he thought he saw her flush deepen. “Thank you,” he said. “Again.”
“You’re welcome,” Mara said, smiling up at him. She squeezed his hand, sending a jolt of warmth up his arm. “Go to your brother,” she said. “He needs you.”
Emil stepped away reluctantly. But Mara was right. Soldiers would be here soon, and they would be looking for someone to blame. He had to get Stefan away.
His brother barely glanced at him when he ran up. Emil had to grab his shoulder to get his attention. “Come on,” he yelled, pointing to an open space between booths, with a clear trail to the forest. “Let’s get out of here.”
Stefan hesitated, then nodded, throwing the bowl away. Mara was fighting at the nobleman’s side now, her movements as smooth as a bird in flight.
Be safe, Emil thought in her direction, as if she could somehow hear him. Then he and Stefan ran for the trees.
MARA KNELT IN the dirt, cleaning her dagger. The fair was a far cry from the cheerful mix of colors and sounds it had been a short time ago. Abandoned weapons littered the ground. The air smelled of sweat and metal and blood. Most of the brawling had stopped when a squad of Imperial foot soldiers showed up. They’d arrested a handful of people, questioned others, and sent everyone else home. Mara had noted with relief that none of the prisoners seemed to be Kildi.
The sergeant in charge was an older woman with a worn face and deep-set eyes. She wore a long tunic of heavy silk, and a square plate of iron trimmed with copper that fastened over her chest. A short spear and a curved sword hung at her side. There was a tired, patient quality to her, as she listened to Tamas rant.
“I don’t care if they move around!” Tamas’s voice rose. His rich tunic was muddy, and he was sporting the beginnings of a respectable black eye. “I want that Kildi.”
The sergeant folded her hands. Her leather wrist guards were studded with bronze, a sign of her rank, and she spoke to Tamas as if he were a very small child.
“Yes, I understand, sir. We will do our best, but there are quite a few Kildi clans in the area. Do you know which family
the assailant belonged to?”
“How should I know that?” Tamas said. “They all look the same. Can’t you just . . . I don’t know, start arresting people?”
“No, sir, I cannot.” The woman sounded even more tired than before. “If you want mass arrests, you’ll have to appeal to the Emperor.”
“If you can find him,” Tamas muttered. The soldier gave him a sharp look, and he flushed. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“Of course, sir,” the sergeant said. She started walking toward the end of the fair, and Tamas followed. “I just keep the peace on this road. Now can you think of anything else about the person who hit you?” Their voices dropped to a low murmur, their feet treading on scattered gooseberries and crumbs of bread as they walked.
Mara’s feet itched with the need to start moving again, start looking for her charge. She didn’t like it here, and the soldiers made her nervous. But Tamas’s companion hadn’t come out of her faint yet, and it wouldn’t be honorable or kind to leave her unconscious on the ground.
Mara frowned at the thought, then leaned over to examine the girl more closely. She had a thin, fine-boned face, and her lips were slightly parted. Her loosened hair spilled over the dirt like dark, frozen water. Mara could see the glitter of a golden flower tattoo on the inside of her narrow wrist.
Mara went back to cleaning her dagger.
“You know,” she said, keeping her voice low, “most true fainting spells don’t last very long. If I were you, I’d start recovering before that friend of yours gets worried and calls for a healer.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Mara saw the girl blink. Then she started to move and make the soft murmurs of someone coming back to consciousness.
Mara hid a smile and set down her blade. “Oh, good,” she said in a voice that was slightly louder than normal. “You’re awake. No, don’t move too quickly; let me help you.”
She lifted the girl to a sitting position, leaning her against a nearby booth. She beckoned to a nearby guard.
“Can we get some water for the lady, please?”
Empire of Shadows Page 6