From his lofty height, Ptolem bends all the way down, farther than me even, and looking me straight in the eye, says, “I’ve never been attacked by a girl before. I’ve always wondered what it would be like. Thank you, Mistress Sepora. Now I can move on with my life knowing.”
Tarik bellows his laughter while I try to think of something clever to return to the amused guard. He can speak to me this way, of course, because right now I’m Mistress Sepora, not Princess Magar of Serubel. I am the servant Tarik’s friend; we are both about to set out on a mission in the name of the king. I must admit how vastly refreshing it is to be spoken down to. So vastly refreshing that I waste my precious just-gained breath on laughing, too, and it takes several moments of coughing and sputtering after that to settle my lungs.
After I’ve sufficiently recovered from the trauma of assaulting Ptolem, Tarik extends his hand to me and Patra uses that as her signal to rise and join us. Ptolem picks up his shield and spear—which I hadn’t even noticed he’d discarded—and walks with us out into the sunlight.
“Be careful today, Tarik,” Ptolem says before we board the simple chariot that had been called for us. Tarik takes the reins from Ptolem and then pulls me up into the wooden carriage.
“What’s amiss?” Tarik asks after I’m settled.
“Stay clear of the Strays is all.”
“The Strays?” I ask.
Ptolem nods, handing Tarik a satchel full of what I assume is food and water. “That’s what we’re calling them. The ones who don’t quite know how to behave themselves anymore.”
Tarik sets the chariot in motion, calling over his shoulder, “We’re out to find some Strays, actually, Ptolem. Don’t wait for our return.”
After we’re outside of ear’s reach, I elbow Tarik. “We’re meant to be searching for the Strays? Why? Why not wait until they come to us at court?”
“I want to see how they act outside of an audience. And we must figure out where this curious madness is coming from.”
I try to hide my excitement when I say, “We’re going to visit Cy?”
He gives me a sidelong glance. “Don’t we always? But first, the Bazaar.”
* * *
We find the merchant Cantor haggling with a Middling woman over a silver necklace sparsely decorated with turquoise beads. His good-natured smile never fades, even as his patron throws up her hands at him in frustration. Tarik darts his eyes at me, and with a nod, I silently agree to move closer to get a better listen. Patra stays between us as we approach Cantor’s booth and pretend to inspect his wares. People are wary of Patra, knowing she is the king’s cat and that only he has full control of her. Still, they have seen Tarik in the markets since he was a boy and always accompanied by Patra; they are used to the idea of Tarik taking Patra on occasional walks for the king when the pharaoh wishes to exercise his cat and cannot do it himself. At least, that is what the citizens believe.
“The turquoise hardly calls for such a price,” the woman is saying.
“I understand your concerns, Mistress,” Cantor deflects, laying the piece back in place upon the velvet lining stretched across a plank of wood. “The turquoise is just an accent, and I do not charge for it.”
“Pride of the pyramids, then what are you charging me for?”
“The piece is unique, we can all agree on that, Mistress. But it’s the silver that I must fetch a higher price on, I’m afraid. It’s in its purest form, you see.”
She shakes her head, bouncing her long black curls around, giving them a life of their own. “You act as if the silver were spectorium. Show me a piece with fresh spectorium, and I’ll pay you twice as much as you’re asking!”
Cantor laughs, and remarkably, the woman’s face softens a bit. “Mistress Vera, you’re a most challenging negotiator. Who else but me could appreciate the value in that? And you know how grateful I am to have your business. But with this piece, I must remain firm.” He leans in closer, and I find that both Tarik and I do, too. Cantor sighs dramatically. “You see, my little Itya made it, and I mustn’t sell it for less than what I would pay for it to get it back.”
Tarik raises a brow at me, and my eyes widen. Cantor has just told a lie.
Mistress Vera’s shoulders slump, her mouth twisting guiltily. “Well, why didn’t you just say so, Cantor?” After a long pause, she pulls gold coins and a small chunk of blue spectorium from the stringed purse at her wrist. “Here. And tell little Itya I paid the extra sum for the exquisite workmanship.”
As she turns to leave with her new necklace, Mistress Vera acknowledges us with a nod—it would be considered rude for her not to, as we are clearly royal servants of the Falcon King. I feel a bit scandalized on her behalf and wonder how many people Cantor has taken with this story. My pity stops cold, though, when the mistress’s gaze drips down the length of Tarik and back up to his face, allowing a small smile of appreciation to spread across her features. Tarik is oblivious, or rather, Tarik is very good at appearing oblivious; he returns her smile with a tight one of his own, then places a hand at the small of my back and steers me toward Cantor, who waits for us at the front of his booth.
Against my will, I grind my teeth, wholly aware of the inconvenient jealousy uncoiling in my stomach. It’s nonsensical, I reason, to be jealous over Tarik. We’ve already had our rise and fall, and there are so many sound arguments to be made in favor of not feeling anything at all toward him. I just wish one of them would come to mind at the moment.
“Cantor, old friend,” Tarik says, grinning at the slippery merchant before us. “When did you come in possession of a daughter named Itya? I ask on behalf of the Falcon King, of course. He would want to offer his congratulations.” Dishonest selling of goods is punishable in Tarik’s court. A merchant who makes his wealth from ill-gotten gains could be taxed as little as the amount he swindled, or if he makes a habit of it, as much as his entire booth and livelihood. Tarik tends to be easier on the honest ones who confess straightaway, but the ones who refuse to speak the truth, he punishes severely. He once told me that such merchants, if left unchecked, are like a festering wound to the economy of the Bazaar. If he allowed it to take place, he would allow the demise of commerce in Anyar.
Cantor chuckles. “I did not say Itya was my daughter. I did not say who Itya was at all, in fact. So then, the Falcon King could not possibly tax me on a technicality.”
Tarik picks up a golden ring with a giant square ruby in the middle of it, absently turning it over and over in his palm. I can see on his face that he has already brushed the matter aside. “The Mistress Sepora and I are here to investigate the Stray who caused a scene in the Bazaar a few days ago,” he says. “I understand it was a mere few booths down from you?”
Cantor nods. “It was. At first, I thought the fellow to be jesting. But then he began to get angry.” The merchant scowls. “He upturned the tables, and thieves took their share of Luka’s wares, scrabbling in the dirt for all the jewels while Luka could do nothing but guard his person from the lunatic.” I wonder if Tarik sees what I see, that Cantor is at this moment imagining himself in the same position and finding the idea repulsive. Funny that he should condemn thieves, after what he’s just done to the Mistress Vera.
“Have you noticed an increase in this kind of behavior?” Tarik says, setting the ruby ring back down and scratching at his jawline, running his fingers along newborn stubble.
Cantor’s lips form a thin grimace. “Everyone has. Some are not as brazen as the Stray at Luka’s booth. Most are quiet, resigned to talking to themselves or scurrying about mysteriously, as if the rest of us are out to run them through. They disappear, you know. Their minds, I mean. Hollow as the pyramids, they are.”
“Can you think of any reason why this is happening? Is it contained to just the Middlings? Do you notice the Superiors acting this way as well?” But Tarik already knows the answer to that question; on the way here, he’d told me about all the council scrolls he’d rifled through. The only class not affected
thus far has been the people of the Baseborn Quarters, and Tarik said he suspects that is only because they tend to keep to themselves. Rarely are the Baseborns present in court at all—not even to file a complaint against a higher class. Anku says it’s because they have their own way of governing themselves. I’d decided not to tell Tarik that, in case such a thing could be viewed as treasonous or other such nonsense Rashidi was bound to come up with. I wonder if Rashidi and I will ever tire at this game of tolerance we play and actually become friends.
In any case, why is Tarik asking questions to which he already knows the answers? I’m instantly reminded of a few nights ago, the evening of our engagement procession. He’d already known about Bardo but preferred that I tell him anyway. Is he, in some roundabout way, testing Cantor the way he tested me? And—what would Cantor stand to gain from hiding such knowledge?
“I’m afraid you’ll have a somber report to give the Falcon King, Tarik,” Cantor says. “The madness has no preference between the Middlings and the Superiors.”
Tarik nods. “My father once told me that adversity can cause such a madness in people. That sometimes, people are unable to handle their lot in life, and they lose touch with themselves over it. What do you make of that?”
Cantor shrugs. “I suppose I could agree with that. Though I can’t fathom how that could come into play here. Life is as it’s always been. Births, deaths, marriages, and annulments. Selling, buying, eating, and drinking. Nothing out of the ordinary, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps the citizens of Anyar are worried about something? Perhaps, for instance, they’re worried about the Quiet Plague? Or perhaps they’re worried that the Falcon King is not capable of executing his royal duties?”
Cantor, of course, has no idea how personal Tarik’s line of questioning is. Only I notice how Tarik’s voice carries with it an underlying turmoil, something unsettled at the core. I wonder how long he has been doubting himself as king. And I wonder if it has anything to do with me.
Cantor’s face melts into a fatherly smile, full of reassurance and comfort. A smile I’ve never seen on my own father’s face. “I’m quite certain that is not the case, Tarik. The people love the Falcon King. They always have. I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for this source of adversity, if it exists at all.”
I’m grateful to Cantor then, because Tarik visibly relaxes, no doubt hearing the truth behind the merchant’s words. The people do love Tarik. And he is a good king. After all that has happened between us, there is no denying that. He loves his people, makes sacrifices for his people. It’s not healthy for him to begin doubting himself now.
Still, the truth is, Tarik may be correct about the people and their burden of worry. But it has nothing to do with his ability—and I can’t allow him to think it does. “Perhaps,” I offer with a small smile, “the people are not happy with his choice in queen. After all, he is planning to wed the daughter of his longtime nemesis. It can’t be an easy thing to accept.”
That Tarik does not disagree bothers me. But Cantor merely laughs off the suggestion. “Mistress Sepora, where would you conjure up a notion such as that? Many of the citizens of Anyar have watched the Falcon Prince grow up and turn into the fine Falcon King he is. We all had hoped he would have an advantageous marriage someday, and now of course, we’re even more elated that with his arrangement, he has secured his own happiness. He and the Princess Magar seem quite enchanted with each other, if the engagement procession was any indication. Not to mention the peace that will arise from an alliance of our kingdoms. What more could we ask for?” he says, nearly incredulous.
If I open my mouth at this point, I will surely stutter. Exactly what kind of impression did I give during the engagement procession that day? Enchanted with each other? Surely this merchant is turning Stray. Sethos had said something similar, but I’d dismissed his words as incessant teasing.
Tarik scowls down at me before looking at Cantor again. Crossing his arms and clearing his throat, the king says, “So the Princess Magar. The people approve of her?”
“If our wise Falcon King approves of her, then certainly the people will.”
“The people don’t know her,” I cut in quickly. “And they’ve hardly seen the pair together to make any assumptions about them.”
“Ha!” Cantor slaps the top of his thick leg. “Perhaps love is a difficult thing to sort out in our own minds, Mistress Sepora. But recognizing it in other people is quite the easy task. Those two royals are as in love as you and Tarik are.”
“Er, Cantor, that’s not exactly—” Tarik begins, shaking his head.
“Tarik and I aren’t—” My tongue trips over the words.
“That is to say, Cantor,” Tarik sputters, “our friendship is a mutual—”
“Respect,” I finish for him, not unaware that my cheeks are so hot, steam is most assuredly emanating from my face.
Cantor bellows even louder, and the crowd behind us glances over curiously. I feel their eyes switching from Tarik to me, and I hear their whispers despite the breeze and the distance between us. They think we’re negotiating with Cantor for marriage jewelry. And a few of them think we are well matched.
“Very well, then,” Cantor says. “You have a friendship. Which of course means that the two of you haven’t kissed, hmm?”
Saints of Serubel, but my face is melting. Tarik’s is, too, by all accounts. One of us has to spew the lie, though. One of us has to put an end to this intrusion into our privacy.
“Of course we haven’t kissed,” I say as Tarik says, “Only once.”
I glare up at the boy king. He shrugs, looking squeamish under my scrutiny. “Well, we did,” he says finally, looking at Cantor. “And, it was quite the disaster. We vowed never to do it again.”
Cantor raises a brow at me. I nod, baffled as to what exactly I’m admitting to. “You know,” the merchant says, adapting a wizened tone, “first kisses are almost always a disaster. Kissing is an acquired skill, something that takes time to master. Why don’t you give it another go?”
I feel my jaw slacken. Tarik and I exchange panicked glances.
“That is not necessary,” Tarik says. “If the inclination presents itself again, I’m sure we’ll … manage.”
Cantor chuckles. “You may go inside my tent for privacy.”
“Perhaps another time,” Tarik says, already grabbing my wrist to pull me away from the booth. “We’re here on official business of the king, after all.”
Cantor’s gut-shaking laugh can be heard all the way down the row of tents as we hastily pass them by.
12
TARIK
Cy leans back in his seat, his face twisted in a scowl. It’s not an expression Tarik wants to see from his brightest Healer. “It could just be a coincidence that they’ve all been treated for the Quiet Plague,” Cy says. But he doesn’t believe it, Tarik can tell. “After all, the Quiet Plague has struck far and wide in Anyar. There are few who haven’t been affected by it.”
Tarik folds his hands on the wooden table between them. Cy makes a good point. “What else could it be? The nefarite? It’s the Great Judge, after all.”
“You’re suggesting that the nefarite brings out the worst in people?” Cy ponders over this, drumming his fingers along the armrests of his chair. “I wonder how one would test that theory.”
“But if someone is truly good, wouldn’t it enhance the good in someone as well?” Sepora offers. “Surely not everyone is inherently evil or irrational.”
Tarik nods. “Possibly. But my court would not be filled with complaints of good deeds. I only see the terrible and absurd presented in the scrolls. I’ve no idea of anyone acting excessively kind.”
A silence settles over the three of them then. It is unlike Cy, Tarik thinks, not to babble on over possible theories and solutions; either the boy Healer does not think it to be a healing matter, or he simply has nothing to offer in the way of help. Tarik has come to rely on Cy for problems such as this, and he must t
emper his disappointment by remembering that Cy’s healing abilities are limited to what he has experienced in his thirteen years.
“Perhaps you could take the matter to the other Master Healers,” Tarik suggests softly.
Cy straightens in his seat. “Of course.” If he feels slighted, he does not let on. “We’ve only now begun to understand how the mind works in relation to the body. Perhaps this illness of the mind we’re seeing is actually an illness of the body?”
Tarik nods. “We must broaden our understanding of what is happening, I think. The Falcon King would much rather send the Stray court cases to the Lyceum for treatment rather than prison for sentencing. See that you have a place to receive these new ones, and that they are studied in excess and well cared for. The palace is willing to fund any added expenses for this, of course.”
“I’ll call the council of Master Healers immediately with this new request. How else can I be of service to the king?”
“He will send word if he requires more of you, friend.”
Sepora sighs, standing. “A madness, a plague, and an impending war. The king and his queen have much on their plate at the moment. Perhaps a grand wedding ceremony should be delayed until some of these issues are resolved.”
Despite the new developments with the Great Council, Tarik is happy to hear that Sepora considers the problems of Theoria as her own problems; there is no malice behind her words, only a sense of exhaustion. Too, it is her words that speak to her preference. Sepora would avoid a lavish ceremony if she had the choice. But Rashidi is set upon the thing, and Tarik cannot bring himself to stay the efforts of his old friend. He gets the feeling the adviser is not doing it for Tarik and Sepora, but rather for King Knosi, who would have wanted only the best for his son. And besides, his father was always one to uphold Theorian tradition.
Still, a grand wedding amid all of this does seem cumbersome. Surely his father would have understood that. And, a grand wedding at all seems unlikely at this point. As it is, he is not looking forward to the ride home with Sepora this evening. He’ll confront her about her lies, her deception about the other Forgers. Perhaps he should put it off. Perhaps he should wait until he knows what the Great Council will do.