by Kate Elliott
Kiya glanced that way as well before tapping her own chest and indicating his clothing. “It is new. Yes? What is it called?”
“Festival clothes. Tomorrow is Rest Day.”
“Yes, Rest Day. No work?”
He scraped through the words of Efean he was so laboriously learning, for everywhere except with her he spoke Saroese, and it was hard to keep this new language in his head. “No work. You also, no work?”
“I also, no work.” She paused, and corrected herself. “I also do not work tomorrow.”
He hesitated, gathering courage. For all her evident pleasure in seeing him when he came to the market every day after drill, venturing this request made him more nervous than on the day he had slung a pack over his back and left his home behind. He’d always known his fortune would take him away from the hometown where he had no future. But this specific moment seemed portentous, laden with possibility he could not fully believe would ever come to pass.
The commonplace noises of the surrounding market faded until all he heard was the scuff of his feet shifting on the pavement and the creak of the hammock rope as Amayat rocked back and forth.
Kiya waited, her gaze patient and welcoming, and a little puzzled.
He swallowed, and spoke. “Maybe, for Rest Day, you and me, we walk the city?”
Her brows drew down as she considered his words, then snapped up as she grasped them. “Oh! We walk, we see. We walk and see the city. You and me?”
“Yes.” He felt dizzied.
“Yes. I like. We…” She bit her lip, struggling for words. “We come here and we go.”
“We meet here,” he said in Saroese.
She leaned toward him and her voice dropped so low they might have been sharing a secret forbidden to all others, and maybe they were.
“We meet here,” she repeated in a tone of such satisfaction that it felt like the world breaking apart in an instant’s cataclysm and reforming into a place where all hopes came true.
Of course he barely slept that night. He woke before dawn to the roosters crowing and the throaty cry of the dawn heron.
Cahas rolled over on his cot. “Why on earth are you getting up already? This is the one day we can sleep in. I thought we’d all agreed to go for a walk together around the city. Aren’t you coming with us?”
“No.”
Beros snickered. “He’s sneaking off to see some whore he’s been primping for.”
Esladas whipped around and grabbed Beros by the arm. “Never use that word.”
“Ow! Ouch!”
Geros jumped up and gave Esladas a shove. “Let off him!”
The others stirred, woken by the commotion.
Cahas sat up. “What’s wrong with you?”
The rising sun gilded the eastern rooftops, rays of light shining in through the open door like a promise. A prudent person would bide his time, be patient, complete his recruit training, gather his enlistment bonus, and then survive his first six months’ posting before casting caution to the winds.
But not this time.
“Nothing is wrong with me,” he said as he thought of her.
“Good Goat!” exclaimed Cahas. “This is about a woman, isn’t it?”
“I thought on the voyage here you said you didn’t know how to talk to women,” said Beros. “That your mother died when you were a baby and you had no sisters and you weren’t allowed to talk to your older brothers’ wives because it was considered unseemly.”
Geros grinned. “More likely because his ugly brothers were afraid their wives would fall in love with his handsome face.”
Cahas crossed his arms, frowning. “You don’t know anything about women, Esladas. You’ve never even seen one naked, have you? Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Never seen one naked, you innocent boy!” Beros whistled mockingly, and Geros slapped him on top of the head and said, “Neither have you!”
Their puzzled, suspicious, and amused expressions rolled right off him. He gave a preoccupied wave of farewell and hurried down the steps. The gate of the boardinghouse wasn’t yet open for the day although the women of the house were already working in the kitchen. A girl of about Kiya’s age smiled shyly at him as he passed. The older women of the household nodded approvingly; it was clear to him that these hardworking Saroese matrons considered him a good prospect for their daughters and nieces.
A week ago he would have been flattered and elated.
A week ago he had not met Kiya.
The market lay quiet, all its stalls closed up and awnings rolled away. An Efean man pushed a cart past, laden with freshly cut flowers, and Esladas signaled to him and said, “I buy, Honored Sir? I buy one?”
The man laughed at his atrocious accent and, with a theatrical flourish, handed him a beautiful red-and-gold bird of paradise, then hastened on without a word.
It was as if the gods had gifted him.
“Esladas!”
At the sound of her voice a flash of such incandescent happiness swept him that he wondered it did not incinerate him on the spot.
She strode up, and the day grew brighter. “Esladas. We meet!”
“For you,” he said, offering the flower.
She stopped dead and her expression went blank in a kind of shock.
He stammered, in Saroese, “I have offended somehow. My apologies.” Oh the gods! Frustration pummeled him. If only he could ask, learn better, figure out what he had done wrong.…
She shook herself and the smile returned, but it had a sober tint now. “My thanks.”
She plucked the flower from his hand, snapped the stem, and tucked the flower behind an ear. Struck dumb by the careless poetry of the gesture and the way the flower brilliantly adorned her, he could not even open his mouth. Words died on his lips.
“Come! Come!” she said, using her hands to elaborate her meaning. “We go and we see the city. Yes?”
“Yes.”
Fabled Saryenia, the great, the noble, the happy. Splendid and rich, the city that has no like in the world. All his life he had heard poetry that sang the city’s praises, and now he saw the truth of it because every view and every vista, the shining sea and the marble edifices, all shone with a magnificence heightened by her presence beside him.
She had never seen the city either, never walked the length of the Avenue of the Soldier all the way from the East Gate to the West Gate, never strolled through the Harbor District with its wharves and ships and gulls. They sat on a wall, feet dangling, overlooking the Fire Sea, and shared a steamed whitefish wrapped in fig leaves she had brought. The blue of the sea gleamed like a vast and precious stone, and the sky in its flawless firmament was their crown.
This was home now, the best home he could imagine, a glorious place where he could spend the day in the company of a young woman with no chaperone.
They loitered outside an imposing complex of marble buildings that they finally decided—after much stumbling over words and a great deal of laughter—must be the famous Archives, depository of all wisdom and books. The Lantern Market was the only market in the city open on Rest Day, an astonishment of wonders almost too extravagant to absorb. People crowded the theaters, but admission looked far too expensive, and he wasn’t sure what the plays were about and if there were special customs about who could sit where; in his hometown women could attend only certain performances and then only with a male guardian in attendance. It seemed prudent just to browse along the many lanes and alleys of carts selling lanterns, jewelry, cosmetics, amulets, and street food, none of which he could afford.
He finally convinced her to sit down at a table in a shady tavern, one where he noticed Saroese men were talking to Efean women. A single mug of beer to share used up half of his remaining coin, not that he let her know that.
She had an insatiable appetite for learning Saroese words, and she recounted the path of their day in her melodious voice. “We walk the avenue. The ship sails. The ships sail. One ship. Two ships. We eat fish. The Archives are
big. This is the Lantern Market.”
“We walk next to where?” he asked, because he was so used to focusing on what came next.
“Later we walk. Now we sit.” Propping her elbows on the table, she rested her chin on clasped hands and regarded him with a gaze of such easy confidence that he felt strangely at peace. No obstacle was insurmountable as long as he could come home to the tranquil sense of assurance that surrounded her. “We sit. We drink beer. We trade words.”
Her gaze shifted past him, and the smile vanished, replaced by a flat expression. She made a slight gesture, fingers waving downward to warn him to stay seated, then herself rose as two young Efean women strolled up. They were attractive, although of course not anything like as beautiful as Kiya. Like her they wore the simple sleeveless sheath gowns common among all Efean women, only the linen fabric of their gowns was so thin as to be almost translucent and, in his opinion, bordering on obscene. They wore white belts, fringes dangling invitingly as they walked up, hips twitching in an exaggerated way that drew the eye.
They halted by the table Esladas had carefully chosen in the quietest corner of the courtyard and with a long look surveyed him top to toe in a way that made his cheeks heat. No woman would ever have measured a man so blatantly where he came from. An urge to shame them for their lack of modesty crawled up his throat. But Kiya spoke to them with a mild question, and he pressed his lips shut over the scolding and disparaging words his father would have said. Better to remain silent and show Kiya that he trusted her.
* * *
Kiya could see by their elaborate braids and expensive silk that these were sophisticated city girls, quite stunning and polished. Just by standing there they showed up how plain her own clothing was and how inelegant her effort to tidy up her hair and clean her face. She had wanted to look her best for him, but these women wore subtle cosmetics and shimmering ribbons as casually as breathing.
“Greetings of the afternoon, Honored Sisters,” she said, hoping a formal manner would hide her stab of envy.
The shorter one snickered, as if politeness was just another sign of her provincial gracelessness.
The taller drawled out a mocking reply. “Greetings of the day, Honored Sister. Where are you from?”
“From up north.”
“Ah, a village girl,” said the taller to the shorter.
“You’ve caught yourself a succulent fish to fry.” The shorter paused for a deliberate double take, running her eyes over his powerful shoulders and broad chest, his square chin and the blunt gaze that to Kiya felt like honesty and truth. Probably the other woman was just admiring the glamor of his deep-set and long-lashed eyes, as alluring as night’s sweet mysteries.
Back in the village she’d never in her life fought over a boy. Why bother? Boys weren’t that interesting, and she liked her friends better. Now it was all she could do not to punch the sly mockery off their pretty faces before their refinement and grace lured him away. Instead she rested a hand on Esladas’s forearm, and he actually twitched from surprise. With a lift of his brows, he looked from her to them and back to her again.
The taller tapped a manicured finger on the tabletop so close to Esladas’s arm that it was like a declaration of war. “Listen, we have ways we do things here that you may not know about. And the first one is—”
“Don’t talk to Saroese men,” she said in a disdainful tone that she hoped conveyed her weariness with this line of argument.
“Whoever says that? Look around, sister. You’re not alone.”
It was true. Although Esladas hadn’t explained why he’d chosen this place to stop in—it was too complex a thought to communicate—the tavern was the first establishment she had seen where Saroese and Efeans mingled socially, unlike the market where they interacted only on business. She’d even noticed flirtation going on, with smiles and laughter and knees touching under tables.
“I thought it was all right for us to sit here together,” she said, “and maybe not get stared at like what happens everywhere else.”
“You are new to town! If you don’t wear the white belt, you don’t fraternize with Patron men.”
“I am not sure I understand you.” Kiya still hadn’t withdrawn her hand, and the feel of his warm skin and taut muscle against her palm made her want to stroke right up to the shoulder. He shifted in his seat as if he could read her thoughts through her touch.
“Oh, you are fresh and adorable,” said the shorter one, and they both laughed in a way that drew the attention of a group of young Efean men sitting at the next table over.
One of them muttered loudly enough that it was clear he meant for Kiya to hear, “I hate seeing beautiful girls like that waste themselves on these cursed Patrons.”
“Hush, Inarsis. What if he hears you and has you arrested for disrespect?”
“Like any of them can speak Efean.”
The taller woman flashed a look at the men. “We didn’t ask you lads to listen in, did we? Keep your business to yourselves!”
Kiya was satisfied to see the young men duck their heads apologetically, as they deserved for speaking out of turn. No village man would have been so impolite as to break into a conversation between women without invitation.
“My thanks,” she said to the women as she reluctantly lifted her hand away from Esladas’s arm. He gave an almost imperceptible sigh that melted right into her heart and made her want to touch him again. But she had to sort out this conversation first, because she was beginning to think she had misunderstood their intentions. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
“The white belt protects us.”
“From what?”
“From abuse, of course. If you don’t wear the white belt you’ll have no recourse if he cheats you the money he owes you, or beats you up. Talk to any of us if you’re interested in the work we do. It’s important to be careful of unscrupulous operators who will haul you off to garrison work. There’s no need to work for anyone except yourself. Don’t let any man take advantage of you.”
* * *
The exchange extended for longer than Esladas found comfortable, but he kept his mouth shut. Anyway, the memory of her hand resting on his arm still distracted him in mind and flesh.
With a final shake of their heads and practiced smiles shot at him like arrows meant to kill, the two women moved on.
“Kiya?” He wished he had more words. But words were like martial skills: you had to learn them one at a time, through the application of discipline and practice. There were no shortcuts. “Kiya? They speak?”
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop with a frown. The Efean men at the next table were flashing them dark looks of disapproval. “You drink. We go.”
He opened his hands in a question and gave a slight tilt of the head toward the women, now walking away, and the muttering men. He desperately wished he could find out what these Efeans had said to upset her.
She leaned closer, her gaze fixed on him like she was about to dare him to leap off a cliff. “People speak. I do not listen. Do you listen?”
He drank half the remaining beer, then offered the rest to her. “No. I do not listen.”
She took the mug and drained it. “Good. We go.”
But as they made their way through the tavern’s courtyard Esladas noticed how everyone was looking at them as they might at donkeys dressed in the gowns of fine ladies. It angered him. Kiya deserved no such looks; of course her behavior would not have been acceptable for a girl her age in the town where he had grown up, but he had left home far behind.
They got caught in a crush of people pushing through the gate into the tavern, all laughing and talking loudly. The tide shoved her against him, and he steadied her with a hand on her back, then stepped around her, meaning to open a path with his elbows.
“Esladas! What brings you here?”
There jostled his Firebirds, coming in just as he was trying to get out.
Cahas went on with the cheerful li
lt of a man who is lightly drunk. “We were told it’s the best place in the Lantern Market to see beautiful women, not that we can afford that kind of thing. But a man can dream of future rewards, can’t he?”
They surged forward in a group as men behind them shouted for the line at the gate to get moving. Esladas caught Kiya’s arm before she was torn away from his side.
The Firebirds surrounded them, and saw her.
“What’s this, Esladas?” said Beros. Geros whistled in a lascivious way that made Esladas feel gratified one instant and the next annoyed him.
“This is my friend Kiya.” He drew her up beside him. “I pray you, show her the same respect you would hope to see given your own sister.”
They stared, so taken aback by his request or her beauty that they had no reply to offer, not even the common courtesy of a greeting.
But Kiya gave each man a cordial smile and said, “Greetings of the afternoon, Domon.”
They gaped at her as if her perfectly comprehensible and exquisitely polite Saroese greeting was gibberish.
Fuming at their rudeness, he introduced them pointedly to Kiya. “This is Cahas. Beros. Geros.” And the other four.
To his surprise it was cantankerous Beros who nudged his twin with a sharp elbow and gave a formal bow. “Well met, Doma.”
The bow and the title of “Doma” made the other men give Beros astonished looks, but he kicked Geros, who repeated the respectful gesture, and the others belatedly and awkwardly copied them in a way that made Esladas deeply uncomfortable, as if they were having a joke at his expense.
Beros added, with a look clearly meant to send a vital message, “Do you want to sit down and drink with us?”
