The two boys left their boarding house, also guild owned and rented, each with a carefully balanced mound of hemp-bound laundry precariously teetering on top of flat, specially woven head-baskets. It had been during one such trek in her early stolen youth when Naomi had decided she would become a cha’narshi. Unguilded. Alone. Free, but at a higher cost, some would say, than even the Merchant’s Guild would deem fair.
She belonged to no one, but no one belonged to her. She answered to no guild, but no guild would be there for her if she ran into trouble with another guild or the city guard. A boy without a guild would be scooped up from the street and conscripted into the Sultanate Guard for a lifetime of service with a sword and bending of the knee. As a girl, Naomi would soon be walking a dangerous path when her flower blossomed and her chest stopped being as flat as those head-baskets.
Naomi looked down at the bright yellow and purple scraps of fabrics wrapped tightly around her chest. Despite her efforts, she knew she couldn’t hold off the cruelty of nature much longer. When she had been just twelve years of age, she had begun to notice the innocent curiosity from boys and the not so innocent stares from men. Now at sixteen and bearing no guild mark upon her cheek, men had more than once tried to grab her off the street to put their own mark upon her, or sell her to the Guild of Roses.
Naomi spat to the side and watched the boys disappear into the congested city streets. She would never join the Guild of Roses and become a pleasure slave, even if those women who rose to the higher ranks in the guild did command a great price and held powerful sway within the city. Some girls, she knew, sought the Roses out to escape life as a washerwoman or harvester. Plush and perfumed as they may be, Roses still bore a mark upon their face that belied the truth to their supposed freedom. Washerwoman or pampered Rose, a slave by any other name remained a slave.
Naomi’s stomach churned and rumbled, reminding her that freedom didn’t mean much if you starved to death. She didn’t bother checking her tent; there would be no food to be found there. Gazing across the city rooftops at the way heat already rose in waves from their white plaster, she considered waiting for nightfall. But, she’d had no luck last night, and not eating for a second day would make her sluggish. Any longer, and she wouldn’t be able to dodge the hands of men as they tried snatching her from the street.
She tightened her brown sash belt to keep up the loose flax fiber pants that were too big but would last a few years yet, then she pulled a yellow scarf from her pocket and tied it around her head to look more like a boy. With a stub of charcoal from another pocket, she looked into a mirror fragment to draw a reasonable looking kima, or guild mark, in the shape of a downward facing dog’s paw onto her left cheek. The pel’janeshi guild of messengers and errand runners were one of the most numerous in the city, and it raised no suspicion to see a dog’s paw marked boy running between guild territories freely without having to pay the business tax or receiving harassment from other guild houses. If there were any guilded in this city who could be considered close to being free, it was probably the pel’janeshi. But even they had their masters, and they were often turned into sacrificial scapegoats when inter-guild cooperation inevitably fell into accusations and bloodshed.
Still, the mark would serve its purpose as long as she kept her head down and followed the lines in the sand, or paradunes as they were called; the ever fluctuating and never physically drawn borders of the guild territories within the Orynthis capitol city of Ka’veshi. Every citizen of Ka’veshi kept a mental map of who owned what street, and rumors spread quick as the summer wind when ownership changed. To lose your way along the paradunes could lead to debt and disaster, even for a messenger.
The dog’s paw was easy enough to draw, and she smiled at her handiwork in the mirror shard. Her rumbling stomach broke apart her self-admiration, so she placed the mirror back into her tent and grabbed the leather messenger bag she’d pilfered from a trash heap. It had only needed minor repairs. The latch on the front had to be held down by a bent metal hairpin and it had a roughly sewn patch on one side, but it functioned well enough and gave more credibility to her being a messenger boy. Tucked inside was a forged message vague enough to be intended for the head tallymaster for whoever’s guild territory she found herself in, should she become mired by some suspicious fool who had no respect for the unspoken laws of the Ka’veshi streets.
She could only read a few words of the message herself, which was more a good thing than bad. Messengers were as trusted for their illiteracy as they were respected for their quick legs and silent tongues. Reading was for tallymasters and those rich enough to read books instead of worrying when their next meal would come. You couldn’t eat words, as they say, so she was fine leaving her mind to focus on the skills that would keep her alive in a cutthroat world where your greatest crime was being born to parents with the wrong kima on their cheeks.
Pushing aside unwanted, useless thoughts of things past, Naomi sucked in a deep breath of warm air then ran across the flat roof with bare feet calloused and dusted by the very plaster that gave her the grip and speed she needed. With a leap through shadows and sunbeams, she landed on the next roof over then shimmied down a rope used to secure a tattered purple awning. Her feet touched the dirt caked alley and she peered out to the sunbaked street beyond.
“Spears lost the Crown last night,” said the old man stooped in his doorway, his voice as weathered as his wrinkled face. He sputtered through a cough and smacked his dry lips. “And Crows have moved into the Flats.”
Naomi spared him a short glance then stared back at the street as a large-wheeled barrel cart rolled by. “No one wants the Flats after that spat between the Skinners and the Purple Hand, so the beggars are welcome to it. Who took the Crown?”
“Good question, that,” said the old man.
Naomi squinted at him, in no mood for his riddles, even if he was one of the few in this city she may call friend. “Come now, Adibe. The sun grows hot and I have errands to run.”
He gave her a squint right back and let out of a mischievous chuckle before giving her a small shrug. “The Water says Merchants, the Earth says Brokenbacks. Others say the paradunes haven’t yet settled. A wise man says best to stay clear of the Crown until they do.”
“Merchants and Brokenbacks pushing out the Spears?” Naomi muttered, not liking the way her gut became unsettled by the news. “Think there’s another guild war coming?”
“Always is, child,” he replied. He examined her in silence for a moment in the way the old sometimes stare at the ghosts of their youth, then he cast a hand out towards the street. “Best be off, before the sun grows too hot as to melt that charcoal off your cheek.”
She smirked sheepishly, knowing the old man may very well be the only one in the entire city who would care if she did not return to the alley by nightfall. “Thanks, Adibe. I’ll see if I can get you a pocketful of tobacco today.”
“Only if it does not cost you a hand!” he warned as she dashed off down the alley, her bare feet leaving footprints in the dust.
Soap Street held an energy in contrast to the quiet alleyway Naomi left behind. Ox-pulled carts stacked with goods rumbled on wooden wheels over uneven cobblestones that had been laid a thousand years ago and not seen a day of maintenance since. Naomi had to watch her toes as the wheels, taller than she, rolled past. A donkey brayed loudly in an argument with its master about the heavy sacks it had been made to carry, and three Washerwomen, their cheeks marked by a water drop tattoo, unloaded one cart that carried dirty laundry from the Rose Garden. Naomi paused a moment to eye the fancy silks, beaded bodices and finely woven undergarments. They smelled heavily of floral perfume, with an undertone of patchouli incense. Naomi’s nose wrinkled and she darted between two carts. It would be a wet day in the desert before she ever smelled of roses and patchouli.
“Watch it, boy!” a wagon driver angrily called out to her as she sped past his two oxen. “No message is worth getting trampled!”
Naomi didn’t disagree, but a message wasn’t what she had on her mind. With a sliding duck between two men carrying a rolled rug, she took a right at the next junction. If she hurried, she could get to the Harvester’s Market before the Herdsmen took all the good fodder that had gone unsold the day before. She also had to beat the Crows, and those beggars flocked early and in large numbers. If they had truly moved into the Flats, they’d be closer to the market and in prime position to get the less rotten food before the Herdsmen took their pick. Goats may not care if the fruit is more rotten than not, but Naomi certainly did.
She could hear the Crows before she could see them. They spoke loudly amongst themselves, sharing stories and tidbits of rumors they’d gained during the night before. Whereas Herdsmen traded in goats’ milk and Harvesters haggled over crops, Crows bartered in information. Beggars and thieves, the lot of them, but they had earned a place within the city same as all other guilds. Their lips could bring wealth on the winds of a good trade opportunity, or they could bring carefully seeded negotiations to ruin. Catch a Crow alone, and they would cower and beg for a spare coin on a harsh night. Together, a whole flock of Crows stood stronger than an individual Merchant or Spear.
Naomi gave the flock a wide berth but paused beneath a shaded awning when she heard a loud, most likely drunk, man boast of being in the Crown the night before when the Spears fled. Despite her rumbling gut and better judgement, Naomi crept closer, ducked behind a stack of empty baskets and peered around the corner. There were ten or more Crows cawing at one another, each trying to be the center of the tale they wove.
“I’ve never seen Spears flee so fast,” said the man through a rotted grin.
“I wouldn’t have stayed either, be I them,” said an old woman in tattered black rags.
“A truth there,” a different woman agreed, her mouth more gums than teeth. “What’s one to do when Brokenbacks and Merchants both come to bare grievance?”
Both? Naomi could scarce believe it. The Merchants Guild ruled over a dozen smaller guilds from the higher casts of Ka’veshi, from artisan guilds like the Purple Hand and the Silver Loom, to opulent guilds like the Bards and the Roses. Brokenbacks represented lower casts, those who broke their backs to make a living like the Harvesters, the Herdsmen, the Washerwomen and the Skinners. Just one week past, there had been a brutal battle over the drying flats between the Skinners and the Purple Hand. A few people had died, and in the end no one successfully claimed the territory. Merchants and Brokenbacks hated each other as much as they each hated the Spears. To think of the Merchants and Brokenbacks setting aside their differences sounded like the outlandish boast of drunk old Crows.
“Earth says war be brewing,” the old woman advised.
“Water, for once, agrees,” said a toothless man sucking on a tobacco pipe. “What says the Fire, I wonder?”
“Why don’t you go find out,” suggested a younger man looking equally as ragged, with eyes reddened and speech slurred by the opium younger Crows often smoked in a futile attempt to forget their lot in life. Brokenbacks may represent some of the lowest casts in Ka’veshi, but Crows were so low they remained outside the larger fold. It had probably been the opium that got the young man the black feather on his cheek in the first place, if not his parent’s debts, or both.
“Pah,” tutted the toothless man as he tapped clean his pipe. “You’re young. Why don’t you go ask the Fire?”
“I’m young,” the man replied. “But I’m no fool.”
“Let fools burn,” the group cawed in a chorus as they began walking in the direction of the Harvester’s Market.
Naomi cursed herself for wasting time and hurried after them. They were sure to be the first of many Crows making their way from the Flats before the sun rose beyond the eastern tower. Unlike other guilds who had tallymasters, no one knew exactly how many Crows there were. Transient by nature, the number of Crows in the city at any given time fluctuated with more irregularity than even the paradunes. A handful or a boatload, they’d pick the best fruits clean all the same.
The group of ten turned left. Naomi turned right down a much more narrow alleyway that looked to be a dead end. Just before the wall of broken plaster and a faded mural that had been baked monotone over a hundred summers, Naomi turned left into what seemed an impossibly small space between two houses where only a line of drying clothes hung lengthwise overhead in a futile hope that a breeze should find its way through the tight squeeze. Naomi sucked in a breath, knowing she’d soon outgrow this shortcut. But, not this day.
With a scrape of plaster against her stomach and a damp pant leg brushing her forehead, Naomi pushed through to the street beyond. Exhaling, she rushed into Harvester’s Market ahead of the Crows, who would have to go around yet another block of houses. What she saw brought her running steps to a quick halt next to an empty cart. There were Merchants in the Harvester’s Market, and not just any painter or tailor who may have come for a bag of dates on his way to work. No, standing in a line before half-empty stalls of fruit were twelve men and women whose hands had all been dyed a deep purple by the skilled work they did; a skill which held sway over Ka’veshi, from the docks to the royal palace.
That the Purple Hand were in the market did not bode well for Naomi’s morning. The Purple Hand didn’t go to markets. They had servants and Dogs and other guilds to do such things that were deemed beneath their delicate hands; hands that wove the most beautiful of fabrics and tapestries by methods of magic kept as closely guarded as their wealth. To share a secret of the Purple Hand was to have your hands cut off, your tongue cut out, and the rest of you left on the street where none would dare to lend you aid, not even a Crow.
Speaking of Crows, they entered the open market square from the opposite side and stopped, just as Naomi had done. More eerily unnatural than the Purple Hand being at the Harvester’s Market was the way the Crows fell deathly silent. Behind their wooden stalls of food, the Harvesters waited. A breeze tumbled a scrap of parchment over street stones between weavers and farmers, and in her chest Naomi’s heart pounded. Then, came the rhythmic beat of marching.
Spears.
The Harvester’s came from behind their stalls and stood with the Purple Hand. The Crows slunk back into the safe shadows between buildings. A ram’s horn echoed off plaster and stone as the Spears filed into the square with unflinching precision, at their head a man bearing the royal seal. A Purple Hand more decorated than her guildmates stepped forward along with a Harvester who held a silver sickle in his tight fist. Water stood with the earth, and together they faced the fire.
As the silence lingered like a gathering storm, two things became dismally clear to Naomi. One, she would be going hungry this morning. And two, war was not brewing in Ka’veshi. It had already arrived.
15
“I don’t understand it,” Tobin muttered, followed by a strange scraping noise. “This wood’s dry as an old bone. Should catch fire faster than a cornfield in high drought. I can get a spark, but not a single flame.”
“Did you try oil, dear?” Penna asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tobin responded then huffed. “How’re we supposed to make breakfast with no fire?”
“Bread and cheese it is,” Penna answered, unflustered by the situation, and the sound of dishes being moved followed.
“Going to get different wood,” Tobin muttered, his voice trailing from the room.
“I like cheese,” Jenny said, her voice much closer than the others. “At least, I think I do?”
Dnara inhaled and opened one eye. Jenny sat on the floor next to where Dnara lay on a pile of hay. Jenny had a washcloth in her hand, which she slowly wrung into a bowl then moved towards Dnara’s forehead. Jenny paused and tilted her head, silver strands of hair catching the light as she smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Dnara,” Jenny said softly, then she raised her voice to the room. “She’s awake!”
“Bless Faedra,” Penna said as she stopped moving dishes about and came close
r. “Had us worried again, you did.”
“You wouldn’t wake up,” Jenny added, her face weighted by a frown.
Dnara slowly sat up with Jenny’s help. The hay bed had been topped with a multicolored quilt, softening the scratchy cushion beneath her. The cloak was gone from her back, once again draped over a dining chair. There had been no blanket, but she didn’t feel cold despite the lack of fire in the hearth or her proximity to the cool stone floor. If anything, she felt overly warm.
“There you go.” Jenny smiled softly then brought the rag back to Dnara’s face and gently patted her brow. “I think it’s getting better, Miss Penna.”
“What’s better?” Dnara asked, blinking away the dizziness that followed.
“Your fever,” Jenny answered.
“Jenny’s been tending you this morning,” Penna said and put her own hand against Dnara’s forehead for a moment before nodding in agreement. “Been doing a real fine job of getting your temperature down, she has.”
Dnara lifted a hand to her forehead and found it warmer than it should be, then her eyes refocused on her arms. The scars were covered in welts, some blistered and others broken open. Her gaze shot to the fire where the blight had burned, and the memory of its hideous dying scream echoed through her head. “What happened?”
“Passed out again, you did,” Jenny answered. “Here, let me put more of this on those blisters. Miss Penna says it’s called salve, and that it’ll help.”
“It may sting a bit,” Penna warned. “Your whole body had a high fever last night, the likes of which I’ve never seen. We thought you might actually catch fire, so we all took turns cooling you with water from the brook. One of us took a much longer turn than the rest,” she said with a wistful smile aimed at Dnara.
Tobin reentered with a split log and a handful of tender. “Don’t think that boy caught a single wink of sleep last night.”
When the Wind Speaks (Starstone Prophecies Book 1) Page 12
