But apart from the occasional pangs of envy at Farran’s easy manner, trading was growing farther and farther from Fox’s mind. He could feel the caravan, practically hear their voices on the wind, and it thrilled him. They were so close he could smell it, and even the very spring breezes seemed to be excited for him, bounding about like an eager dog as Fox picked up the pace on the road a little more each day. The waking hours were full of song and laughter and races between himself and Topper. Soon, Fox would be bringing Father home.
By his reckoning, they were just two days from crossing paths with the Thicca Valley caravan when they stopped for the evening in Florint. It was a crowded little city tucked at the base of a small fortress, with a thriving nightmarket at its heart. Fox could hear the seasoned merchants on the highway swapping tales of the city. From the sounds of it, Florint was one of the more diverse markets, pulling in waresmen and entertainment from all across the Known World.
Fox and his company trailed into town with a spice merchant, Harris, and his wife Tara. Harris was a moody but friendly enough old man, who’d welcomed Fox’s group into the warmth of his fireside. And from the way he spoke, he’d been everywhere on the Merchant’s Highway. Twice.
“Florit’s a right little hub of madness, it is,” said Harris as they passed through the city gates. “Trade from all over the continent, not to mention foreigners of every sort. But the Lord Camerontine loves his shopping.”
“Sorry, but who’s this Lord Camerontine?” asked Wick.
“Lives up in the fort,” said Harris. “Runs it, actually. Spoiled little military brat he is, but he keeps us employed. Always buying new things and hiring new chefs right out of the Nightmarket. They haven’t got a decent weapon up there to defend the city, but Spirit knows he’s got enough fine jewelry to keep an entire royal court in fashion.”
Every inn and tavern in the city was quickly filled as the merchants bought their keep for the night. Fox and his group were among several small companies who found room at the Pocket Frog, a cozy inn right at the edge of the square where the Nightmarket was to be held. The rooms were larger than Fox had expected, and the dining room was in reality an open courtyard out back with long tables set up beneath a lantern-hung tree. Fox didn’t mind, though. It provided him a perfect spot to sit and watch the Nightmarket begin to come to life. As late afternoon wore into evening, a tangible expectation began to grow. Fox and his group took their supper early to watch it all come together.
Lanterns were lit on every corner and hung from every tree. A discordant, ghostly sort of music drifted through the air as instruments were tuned somewhere out of sight. As twilight fell, brightly colored awnings began to spring up, and wooden booths filled the street. Some were complex, wheeled in from back alleys and unfolded to reveal built-in shelves and carved niches for displaying goods. For others, it was a simple matter of bringing out a long table draped with a blanket or decorative cloth. Some, including several companies who’d been traveling on the highway, were planning on trading right out of their trunks. They lugged crates and great chests of merchandise down into the Nightmarket square, tucking themselves and their wares into any empty corner or gap between booths. And above it all, stretching between the upper rooms of shops and the rooftops of houses, was colored fabric of every sort.
Browns, golds, sky-bright blues ... every pattern and every color was stretched across the rooftops in scraps of fabric, like one haphazard tent. As Fox watched, more colors were run out on clothes lines like flags. He leaned over to Harris, sitting at the next table nursing a small vat of rather awful-smelling soup. “What’s that all about?” he asked, pointing at the patchwork of color above the square.
Harris glanced up. “Just the Symbol,” he said, returning to his meal almost at once. “It says to those in the fort that the Nightmarket is alive and ready for business. On nights when there aren’t enough merchants in town to make it worth his while, the colors don’t fly.”
Fox grinned and leaned across his own table to tug on Topper’s sleeve. “Do you see those colors?” he asked, and the younger boy nodded. “That’s what the Shavid are like. All bright and varied patterns and sometimes you can’t even keep them all straight!”
“But they’re beautiful!” said Topper, a smile pinching his freckles.
“They are,” agreed Fox. “Imagine it, Topper! A world with no more greys and blacks and whites, not like back home. It’s all ...” Fox waved his hand vaguely at the Symbol, running out of words to describe it.
It took a moment for Fox to realize that the men were laughing at him, and he blushed and settled back into his seat.
“Don’t be ashamed,” said Wick placatingly. “We just enjoy your healthy curiosity, that’s all.”
“Old men like us sometimes forget what that feels like,” added Farran, and Wick chuckled in agreement. Then, Farran gently nudged Fox’s shoulder with the booted foot that was propped easily up on the table. “Go,” he said with a smile. “Enjoy the Nightmarket. Your father will have to pass through Florint soon, this is as good a place to wait as any.” And then, from a hand Fox was sure had been empty a moment before, Farran tossed each of the boys a thick silver coin. “Have fun,” he said, winking.
Before another word could be said, Fox and Topper sprang up and rushed to the edge of the dining yard, where only a narrow strip of alley stood between them and the heart of the Nightmarket. And as they stepped beneath the brilliantly colored canopy, it was as though the entire world came to life around them. Music that had been muted and distant was now all around them. Colors and smells and the shouts in every foreign language bled together like wet paint. Topper and Fox clasped hands as easily as though they were brothers, and Fox let Topper lead the way.
If Fox had thought any other market grand or impressive, he had been wrong. This was no mere bazaar of goods and trading: it was like its own little country, tucked beneath a patchwork sky. A dozen different languages hit his ears with every step, and fresh smells welcomed him with every breath. There were not only merchants selling their wares, but making them. Workshops and smithies opened right up into the market, throwing their doors and windows wide and turning the streets into one long, twisting hallway.
Fox and Topper wandered seamlessly from shop to open-air booth, each restraining themselves from spending their entire fortune in one place. They purchased sweets and meat pies from bakery windows and tossed some of their change to a street performer twisting his body in impossible ways. They even stood at the heart of a crowd watching a spirited play put on in the middle of the Nightmarket. And as Fox watched the performers, a strange twinge began to pull at his heart. It was an odd, disconcerting feeling. Like someone had plucked at a harp string, and the string had simply forgotten to play.
“They’re Shavid,” said Fox finally, his eyes glued to the man on stage. They were not his Shavid, Radda and the company that would be back in Thicca Valley any day now. No, this was a different group. But they were Shavid, Fox could feel it. Their colors were somehow separate from the wild patterns above, and they smelled foreign in a way that nobody else quite did. Like they were from everywhere and nowhere, all at once. And the feeling, the sureness that these were indeed Shavid, was echoed in the odd rhythm in his chest.
“You alright?” asked Topper, elbowing Fox gently in the ribs, but sharply enough to draw his attention.
“What?” asked Fox, tearing his eyes away from the performers. “Yes, fine, why?”
“You were mouthing the words of their play,” said Topper with a small laugh. “Have you seen them before? You must be a fan of their show to have it memorized like that. You were spot on.”
“I was?” asked Fox shakily. He turned back to look at the brilliantly costumed performers once more. “I’ve never seen this play before,” he added, almost to himself more than Topper. And, as his friend didn’t seem to hear him, Fox let it go. But as he watched the play come to a close, he was extra careful to keep his lips pressed tightly together. And w
hen they had finished, Fox quickly separated himself from the crowd and headed away from the Shavid, dragging Topper with him.
“Something is wrong!” said Topper, finally managing to free himself from Fox’s tight grasp around his wrist. “Come on, tell me! What’s got you shaken?”
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Fox insisted, digging a handful of sweets from his pocket and munching anxiously on them. But the truth was, something wasn’t wrong. Something was very, very right. And every one of Fox’s muscles was humming, urging him to join the Shavid. To run, right now, and ride away with them to wherever they might be going. It was an urge so strong that it terrified Fox, and he simply had to tear himself away.
But instead of attempting to explain all of this to Topper, who was watching him with wide-eyed concern, Fox changed the subject. “You think if you bought your Mother that necklace over there, she’d forgive you for running off with us?”
That did the trick. Within minutes, Topper was telling stories all about Doff, and Fox’s problems were forgotten as they wandered through the Nightmarket. Topper went on and on about his adopted family and the candlemaking business. He bragged about the first flawless candle he’d made, and how Kaldora had kept it on her shelf ever since, saying it was too precious to burn.
“Sounds like you’ve really found your place,” said Fox.
“My place,” said Topper fondly. “You know, I’ve never been able to say that about anywhere.” And there was something of an extra swagger in his step as he added, “Feels right nice, it does.”
As time wore on, the Nightmarket began to grow ever more crowded. Topper and Fox were easily buffeted by the crowds, and they began to keep more to the outskirts of the marketplace. After awhile, they simply perched themselves on a mid-level scrap of roof. A sort of low set of eaves halfway up a shop building, so they were above the crowds but still more-orless tucked beneath the Symbol. Here and there, the levels of colored fabric dropped lower, and patches of star-dusted sky shone through
“Reminds me of when I used to live up on the rooftops,” said Topper, grinning up at the great swaths of patterns and colors. “Never had views like this, though.”
Fox laughed and pointed up at a cluster of embroidered birds on one of the cloth pieces. “See, that’s not too different from back home! You’ve got birds, you’ve got stars, it’s practically identical!”
Both boys laughed again, and settled in to watch the Nightmarket dancing below them. They snacked on their leftover sweets and pointed out curious booths to each other. They made guesses on what country people were from, which was something of a joke since neither of them knew the name of many countries at all. But where they couldn’t guess, they simply made something up. “Flat Hat Land” became a favorite, named after those traders who wore circular hats that looked more like baskets. Also, “The Nation of Pies” for the overly round gentlemen they saw wandering from bakery to sweet shop all night. They even saw Farran and Wick wandering about the place, deep in conversation about something. Topper tried to wave and get their attention, but the noise in the streets easily drowned them out, and he quickly gave up.
“So where’d you pick up that trader friend of yours anyway?” asked Topper as the men disappeared into the heart of the crowd. “He’s a mite too colorful for our parts, isn’t he?”
“He sort of ... found me,” said Fox uncomfortably. And then, surprised he hadn’t thought of it before, he added, “He’s my best friend’s ... uncle.” It was close enough to the truth, in any case. Farran might have been Lai’s true father, but she would never see him that way. Borric was her father, and always would be.
“Well, every family’s got the odd one, doesn’t it?” said Topper sagely. “I like to think mine is Wick. Because if it’s not, it’s surely bound to be me!” He laughed, and Fox shook his head.
“I know the odd one in my family is me,” he said. “First one in generations to be thinking of another life besides trapping.”
“Yeah, but it’s you!” said Topper genially. “You’ve got talents that aren’t meant for a life in Sovesta. You’ve got magic!” He said it with a childish awe in his voice, like he couldn’t believe such a thing truly existed.
“Maybe,” said Fox, shrugging. “But I couldn’t make a decent candle if my life depended on it.”
But Topper’s no-doubt ribbing response was drowned out by a sudden shiver. Fox could feel something approaching, something that wasn’t meant to be here. It smelled of blood and anger, and something that might have been desperation. Fox scrambled to the edge of their perch and looked around, scanning the crowds for anything unusual. The Nightmarket was so packed, it was hard to pick any one smell out. But if he listened very closely, he could hear a jarring note that set his teeth on edge. Something that sounded, and felt, wrong.
Fox swung down easily from the ledge, dropping onto the street like a feral cat. Topper followed, asking anxiously what was going on. But Fox held up his hand against the questions: he had to focus. He was on the hunt.
The Nightmarket seemed even louder and more hectic than before. The colors nearly blinded Fox in his heightened state of awareness, but he continued on, weaving expertly through the crowds the same way he might have dodged through trees and thick underbrush. Topper kept close on his heels, no longer questioning him. In fact, Fox thought his friend seemed downright excited.
They wound through shops and back alleys, all the while following a scent only Fox could smell. There was something sour in the Nightmarket, and Fox could feel himself getting closer. But their urgent progress was slowed when they hit a solid wall of people. A clamoring crowd of shoppers who didn’t seem to be buying anything, but were all facing the same way, straining to get a look at something neither of the boys could see.
Fox tried to push his way through, but there was hardly a gap large enough for him to fit one arm through. And each time he tried, he was rebuffed with a glare or a harsh word. Finally, Topper grabbed Fox by the elbow and tugged at him, saying, “This way!”
With a practiced ease, Topper led Fox through one of the open side alleys and up onto the rooftops, where they scurried along to the head of the crowd like rats. Oftentimes, their heads brushed up against the patchwork fabric of the Symbol, or else they had to part it like curtains to move forward. Finally, they came to the edge of the crowd and looked down, at once understanding what everyone was staring at.
“It’s Lord Camerontine,” said Fox. “It’s got to be!” They were looking down on finelycurled, golden locks of a young man who simply dripped with wealthy foppishness. He was gazing on every trinket as though it were simply a toy, and not someone’s hard-earned living. Here and there, he stopped to buy a piece of jewelry or a sugar-spun candy, laughing joyously at the simple little things. Fox could hear him saying things like, “Oh yes, this is delightful! I must serve these at my next party!” or “Fifty crowns? Oh, why not then! I’ll just use it as a paperweight somewhere.” But everywhere he went, merchants and vendors were thrilled. Those who were lucky enough to sell him their wares would likely be able to feed their families for an entire season.
“They’re all watching to see what he buys,” pointed out Topper. “Look!”
Fox followed his gaze back to the crowd. Topper was quite right; it seemed as though whatever Lord Camerontine bought was considered highly fashionable, and there was often a mad rush behind him as shoppers hurried to try and buy exactly what he had. To this, Lord Camerontine seemed completely oblivious. He was surrounded by his guards and personal shopping aides, all carrying his packages and telling him how grand he looked in every hat and scarf he tried on.
“Is he what you’ve been looking for?” asked Topper.
“No,” said Fox, glancing around for a hint of anything unusual below. “But it’s close, whatever it is.” He breathed in deep once more, and with a sudden rushing certainty, he knew exactly where it was, although he still had no idea what it was. He eased carefully away from the edge of the roof, and lay on h
is back against the shingles for a moment, letting the feeling sink in. There was something here that wanted to hurt someone. And, in Fox’s mind, it felt an awful lot like the Desolata. Sick, and powerful, and hungry for death.
If he could find it, whatever it was, he could send Topper to find the men. Farran, at least, would have no problem with it. And even Wick seemed a capable fighter. But if it was anything like the Desolata, there was no part of Fox that wanted to fight it on his own.
He motioned to Topper to stay silent, and then began to belly-crawl across the roof, away from Lord Camerontine and his adoring masses. Closer and closer they grew, until Fox could hear something, hidden behind the now-distant cacophony of the Nightmarket. A growling, spitting language, in many voices. Whatever Fox was hunting, there was more than one.
Fox let himself be led to a dilapidated rooftop, partially obscuring a narrow alley. It was tucked in a less-crowded corner of the Nightmarket. Here, the colors of the Symbol were faded and water-stained. The alluring smells of foreign soaps and spices and fresh-baked bread were gone, replaced with the sharp, sickening scent of stagnant grease and sweat.
Below, in the light of a crude lantern that popped and sputtered, a group of men were conversing in that strange tongue. Only, they weren’t quite men. As Fox leaned carefully over the edge of the rooftop, peering down at the little group, he thought their faces looked a bit too pointed. Their chins and cheekbones were overly pronounced, and the skin that stretched across them was pockmarked and a strange shade of brown that was almost red. They wore their blueblack, matted hair in braids down their backs, or else piled in knots and horse tails on top of their heads. But even more than that, Fox’s eyes were drawn to their weapons. Ugly, roughly wrought things that were not designed for smooth slices; they were designed to decimate a body on the way in, and out.
Fox scurried back from the edge, far enough that they would not be able to hear him as he whispered, “Go find Farr – Donovan. And your uncle. Get them back here.”
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 37