by Rena Barron
The audience turns to one another in collective whispers. I glance at Sukar, who shakes his head, and then at Essnai, who mouths, her voice low, “Did you know about this?”
“No,” I say under my breath. I’m as shocked as everyone else, and don’t understand why my mother waited this long to share such important news. It should’ve been first on the agenda.
“I’ve heard of no such report,” the Vizier says, his brows creasing into a deep frown.
“While praying to the orishas on our recent vigil,” Arti says, addressing the audience, “I saw something very disturbing. When I commune with the orishas, my ka wanders our great city, and our lords reveal things to me in strange ways.”
I glance up at the Almighty One’s booth again. Second Son Tyrek leans over to get his father’s attention, but the Almighty One waves him off. He’s busy laughing at something Crown Prince Darnek just whispered in his other ear.
“There’s a vile person stalking the city and stealing children in the night,” Arti says, her voice quiet. “A person I can only glimpse but not see clearly, because something protects them against my sight.”
The Vizier’s elara ruffles as he whirls around to face the Master of Arms, his twin sister, who sits to his right. “Is there any truth to this news?”
General Solar and the Vizier share the same sharp features and dark eyes. She leads the military forces of the Kingdom: the gendars, the guards, and the shotani.
“I received a report this morning.” General Solar’s voice is as cold as her brother’s. “I am confident that the head of the City Guard will discover and arrest the culprit with speed.”
“I wish I shared your confidence,” Arti says, “but this is no ordinary child snatcher, to hide from our magic.”
Barasa, the Zu seer, adds, “It must be the work of anti-magic.”
The audience gasps, and my eyes land on the crest on the Vizier’s elara. Anti-magic comes from craven bones. No one possesses it outside of the Omaris and the royal family. It isn’t something you can buy. No one has seen a craven in centuries. Not since they slaughtered a legion of the Kingdom’s army in one night.
It isn’t hard to figure out what Arti and the seers are insinuating. Everyone knows the story of the Vizier’s—and Rudjek’s—ancestor who fought the cravens in the Aloo Valley. He’d slain a craven and later made trinkets of its bone to protect against the influence of magic. The bone could be the only thing to hide its wearer from the seers.
The Almighty One leans forward, his shaved head glistening with a dusting of gold. “Are you accusing the Omaris?”
I notice how he doesn’t include his family—the Sukkaras.
“That is a bold accusation,” Arti says, neither confirming nor denying it. “I’m only saying that the fiend must be wearing craven bone. That much I know from my vision.” She casts a sidelong glance in the Vizier’s general direction. “No one would question the Omaris’ good name . . . but have we forgotten the incident in the market so soon?”
As Arti lets her words settle, everyone in the coliseum holds their breath. She means after the Rite of Passage. Re’Mec mandated the Rite to remind us of the orishas’ sacrifice to save mortal kind. A hundred and twenty of them fell in their struggle to stop the Demon King and his insatiable thirst for souls. There’s script on the Temple walls with instructions for the Rite, but there’s no telling when Re’Mec will demand another one. Until the last Rite of Passage, there hadn’t been one in twenty years.
For the Rite, the seers designed deadly obstacles for volunteers to undergo to test their mental and physical fortitude. Last time, they faced a hostile desert with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Looking to make their mark, the Vizier’s older sons, Uran and Jemi, volunteered together. In the end, the Rite broke their minds just as it had done to so many before them.
The last Rite was five years ago—the only one in my lifetime. Fewer than a third of those who attempted it came back. Very few returned whole.
I wasn’t in the market the day Jemi killed a merchant. Witnesses say he became enraged over a perceived slight. He was haggling with an Estherian over the price of a gossamer veil he wanted to buy for his mother. The argument went too far, and he cut the merchant’s throat. After that, the Vizier sent him and his squadron on an assignment far from the Kingdom. He’s been there ever since. The Vizier made his other son, Uran, an ambassador to the North. Rudjek says that he spends most of his time locked away in his rooms, refusing to see anyone, even his wife. He flies into sudden rages, and his attendants must restrain him.
A chill crawls down my back at how blank Rudjek’s face has gone. I ache to go to him, but I know that would only make matters worse. We’ve come this far without our parents guessing how close we are.
“Where are your sons, Vizier?” Arti says, her voice bright. “I’m sure they’d want to clear their names.”
My mother has wielded the news of the kidnappings at the assembly to strike at the Vizier, and doesn’t care who else she’ll hurt. She never does. Even so, the question of the missing children hits a nerve. From the whispers in the coliseum, I’m not alone in wondering who would do something so vile. My gaze finds Rudjek again, and my stomach sinks when he refuses to look at me.
Six
According to my father, everyone has a little magic in them—only our family has more than most. He says that to the patrons who come to his shop to make them feel special. He knows it’s not true, but people need something to believe. The crowd filing out of the coliseum certainly has no magic, and it would seem, no heart or conscience either.
They talk about the missing children like they’re the latest scandal, and it annoys me to no end. To attend the assembly you must have property and standing. No one here will worry about their children, for none are without attendants day or night. I push through the throng of people, losing a few beads from my sheath along the way. There are so many of us that the gray-washed West Market feels alive for once. Alive and teeming with petty gossip.
“She’d better watch herself, lest she ends up like the former Ka-Priest,” a man leans toward his friend to say. He’s loud enough that some people mumble their soft agreements. Others rally to my mother’s defense.
I only glare at him. It isn’t the first time someone has flung that particular threat at my mother. It still stings. I don’t like that Arti and the Vizier are always bickering. Sometimes it turns nasty. That said, she’s done good for the Kingdom. When the Vizier joked about raising tithes again, he left out why the Temple asks for money. My mother and the seers run all public services in the Kingdom. Free education for those who can’t afford private scribes, meals, shelter for orphans. Programs that my mother created when she became Ka-Priestess.
The former Ka-Priest, Ren Eké, was before my time, but people still sing his praises. He was beloved for his wise and quiet nature, and he and the Vizier got along well. People say there was better collaboration between the Guild and Temple back then. As an Eké of Tribe Litho, he bore the honored position of head of his extended family. Yet, one foggy morning, a fisherman found the Ka-Priest impaled on a hook in the bay. Naked, his body mutilated.
So even if my mother and I don’t always see eye to eye, I worry about her. It’s no small feat to kill any public figure, but to attack a witchdoctor would be even harder. Still, his death remains as mysterious as this child snatcher on the loose, one who can hide from magic.
Witchdoctors, real witchdoctors, can mend a broken bone with a word or ward off a storm with a ritual. Powerful ones like Grandmother can see across time. Arti can too, even if she doesn’t bear the title witchdoctor since leaving the tribal lands. My father can reverse aging and extend a person’s life beyond their natural years. I’ve always thought my family safe because of their magic, but now I’m not so sure.
A shiver creeps across my shoulders as I duck down alleyways chock-full of bins of rotting food to avoid the crowd. Grandmother had seen a green-eyed serpent while reading the bone
s and believed it to be a demon. Now Arti had only gotten a glimpse of the child snatcher. She and the seers think it’s the work of anti-magic. What if it’s something else?
A demon and missing children. It doesn’t seem to make sense, but the timing is too close, the circumstances too strange. Why would a demon be in a vision about me? I’m nothing special. Yet, as impossible as it sounds, even I could feel the wrongness of the magic in Grandmother’s tent. It was nothing like the feather touch of tribal magic. The magic had been invasive and curious, hostile. The situation with the children is far worse. The biggest question is why; what reason would anyone have to take children?
I slip out of the alley and into a different crowd in the East Market—my nerves on edge. I keep remembering the way Rudjek refused to look at me after my mother all but accused one of his brothers of being the child snatcher. If he doesn’t want to see me, I can’t blame him. Not after this morning. As I brace myself for the possibility that he won’t come, dread sinks in my chest. I miss our routine—I miss him.
I pass people haggling over day-old bread, overripened fruits, cured meat, and charms. Donkeys laden with sacks of grain kick up a fury of red sand. The market writhes like the Serpent River after a rainstorm, and reeks of sweaty feet and dung.
As everyone goes about their business, hard faces stare at me. Soft faces. Kind faces. Faces of all colors. Faces leathered from too much sun. Faces so structured they look carved from stone. Jovial, round faces. The people in Tamar come from everywhere—across deserts, across seas, across mountains. The city is home to all who embrace it. Most noticeably so in the East Market, which is why I love coming here.
There’s comfort in knowing that, like me, no one in this crowd quite fits. It always fascinates me how a person can at once blend in and stand out here. That would be the greatest advantage for the child snatcher, becoming invisible. My pulse throbs in my ears as I glance around again—seeing the market with new eyes.
Barefoot boys in tattered trousers and girls in dirty shifts duck through the crowds. Their small hands are quick as they slide them into pockets, lifting a money pouch here, a bracelet there. When a woman catches a little boy trying to steal her armlet, an unseen child on a rooftop strikes her with a pebble. Distracted and rubbing her head, the woman lets the little thief slip away with his prize. I don’t condone what the orphans do in the market, but I don’t judge them for it either. City life is hard for those who don’t come from a family of status. Unlike in the tribal lands, where magic is all that matters, money and influence rule here.
The sun beats down on my back as I cross a street dense with food merchants. A plume of smoke from their firepits chokes the air and waters my eyes, but it smells wonderful. Roasting chestnuts, spicy stews, plantains fried in peanut oil. My stomach growls a reminder that I haven’t eaten today. But I can’t stop for food; I’m too focused on getting to the Serpent River to see Rudjek, too anxious that he won’t be there.
He’d slipped out of the assembly before his father adjourned the proceedings. I’d watched as he’d tried to hide his anguish behind a blank, bored stare, but his is a mask that I can see straight through. I know him too well. My mother had dealt him a nasty wound. He’d already hated the way his father treated his brothers after the Rite and blamed himself for not being in the market that day to calm Jemi down.
I startle at a faint rustling at my side and catch one of the little thieves trying to lift my bracelet. I grab his arm—not too tight but firm enough to stop him from wiggling his way loose. The boy looks up at me with sad eyes, his lips trembling. Little con artist.
Before he drops a tear, someone slaps the back of his head. “Scat, or I’ll call the Guard.”
“Ouch,” the boy protests, and whirls around, holding his head. “You’re one to talk, Kofi!”
The would-be thief must be new to the market—I’ve never seen him before. From the hidden pocket under my belt, I dig out a silver coin and pass it to him. “You could’ve asked first, you know?”
He smiles sheepishly. “Next time I will.”
When the boy runs off, Kofi steps into his place. At twelve, he isn’t much older than the would-be thief. Fish scales cover the apron he’s wearing, and he smells fresh from the docks, which is to say like rotting entrails. His eyes go wide as he takes in what I’m wearing. “Why are you dressed like that?” he asks me.
I purse my lips and glare at him, even though he’s right, of course: my sheath is impractical and too conspicuous. Wearing something like this in the East Market proclaims me an easy mark to any thief. At least my family doesn’t wear a crest like Rudjek’s. “The better question is, why do you have a silver coin behind your ear?” I retort.
He grins as he reaches for one ear and finds nothing.
“The other ear.” I tap my foot.
His hand moves quicker this time as if the money will disappear in the blink of an eye. When he retrieves the silver coin, he tucks it inside his apron, a blush of joy warming his brown skin. I’ve snuck him enough coins lately that he no longer protests that he must work to earn its value. Our family has more money than we need, and like Oshhe always says, a coin hoarded is a blessing missed.
Kofi’s father is among the many fish merchants in the market. I came across their booth a year ago, drawn to where Kofi stood on top of a crate, selling outlandish tales to a crowd. “Desperate to flee a river of ice,” he said, “the fish swam all the way from the North.” When I shouted to him that this was unlikely, he changed his story, quick as a whip. “You’re right! This batch swam from the Great Sea seeking refuge from a giant serpent. Only they didn’t know that we eat fish too!”
Days after, I saw him with a woman who I later learned was his father’s new wife. She grabbed Kofi by his shoulders, her teeth gritted. “You’re so useless, boy,” she spat. “Can’t you do anything right?” Without provocation, she slapped him. The strike cut through me. I stepped in to stop her, but the next day Kofi came to the market covered in welts.
When I saw the woman again, I introduced myself as the Ka-Priestess’s daughter. I told her if any more harm came to Kofi, there would be serious consequences. That was the first time I relied upon my mother’s position to gain an advantage. It worked: Kofi’s stepmother stopped hitting him after that. Instead of beatings, she now ignores him. I know what that feels like, so I decided to be his pretend-sister from that moment on.
“Did you hear about the giant sea turtle that rolled in with the tide this morning?” Kofi starts to say, but my attention lands on Rudjek. He’s wading through the thicket of people, making a direct line toward me. The effect he has on the market is immediate. Girls flash him smiles and some try to catch his eye by stepping into his path. People stare at the craven-bone crest pinned to his collar.
Whenever anyone from a family of status comes to the East Market, there’s always a ruckus. But he loves the market as much as I do: it’s our second-favorite place to meet, aside from our secret spot by the river.
Merchants clamor for his attention, but Rudjek’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. He sidesteps a man selling the tiny bells favored by followers of Oma, the god of dreams. He’s grinning from ear to ear, his pale brown skin flushed. I let out a breath and the tension in my belly eases.
“This morning was interesting,” he says, interrupting Kofi. Up close the shadow of purple bruising on his right cheek matches his fancy silk elara. His obsidian eyes sparkle in the sun beneath long dark lashes.
I shift onto my heels. “Are you okay?”
Rudjek waves off the question, though his body tenses. “You missed my glorious match yesterday. I came in second.” He glances to his right, where his attendant and best friend, Majka, stands clad in a red gendar uniform. I didn’t notice him until now. “Only because he cheated.”
“By ‘cheated’ I think you mean ‘wiped the arena with your ugly face,’” Majka says. He presses two fingers to his forehead and flourishes a slight bow to me in the way of my father’s tribe. The
perfect Tamaran diplomat’s son. More so than Rudjek, Majka has the look of a typical high-bred Tamaran—rich brown skin, hair as thick and black as night, and deep-set dark eyes. I return the greeting with a smile.
Kira—to Rudjek’s left—clears her throat. She’s also clothed in a red uniform, a single black braid across her shoulder, her face as pale as a Northern winter. Unlike Majka and Rudjek with their double shotels, she has a dozen daggers strapped to her body. A merchant tries to shove a crossbow into her hands and another one waves tobachi knives to get her attention.
Families of import rarely set foot in either of the markets, not if they have attendants to send in their stead. Some families either can’t afford attendants, or choose not to have them. We have Nezi, Ty, and Terra, but to my relief, none with the sole purpose of following me around everywhere. Rudjek isn’t so lucky.
“I see you’re enjoying your new post, Kira,” I say as she shoos off the merchants.
Her face contorts into a frown. “I wouldn’t call guarding him a real post.”
Rudjek grabs his chest in mock offense, his eyes wide. “You wound me.”
I shake my head, still not used to Majka and Kira in their new gendar roles. At seventeen, they’re only a few months older than us, but old enough to begin careers. Majka’s mother is a commander under the Master of Arms, Rudjek’s aunt; his father is the Kindgom’s ambassador to Estheria. Kira’s father is the Master of Scribes. Both of them grew up competing in the arena with Rudjek for fun. After they joined the gendars, he petitioned to have them replace his old attendants. It’s a high honor to serve the royal family and their closest cousins, the Omaris, and Kira and Majka hadn’t earned the rank to be considered. But Rudjek’s father agreed, if only to strengthen political alliances with their respective families.