He reached for one of her hands, giving it a squeeze. “No, Asil. I’m not dead, and as before, I owe you and your daughter a life debt.” His gaze traveled to Gilene, standing behind Asil, the look in his eyes so scorching, Halani sighed inwardly. No man had ever stared at her in such a way—as if everything and anything of value to him resided within her. His next words to Asil only confirmed her thoughts. “You’ve given back to me that which I treasure above all else in the world.”
The Savatar woman who’d thwarted the cutpurse spoke, this time in a language Halani didn’t understand, though she recognized a few Nunari words in the rapid speech and was sure she again heard the word “Azarion.”
He replied in kind, heavy green gaze still on Gilene. He switched to Common tongue then. “You’ll come with me? With us? We’ve taken the grounds just west of the garrison ruins for our camp.”
Gilene nodded, expression radiant. She turned to Halani. “Do you mind? I can stay until the market closes. I don’t wish to abandon you.”
Halani laughed. “First, you don’t need my permission. I’m not your keeper. Second, if I were you and my exceptionally handsome husband, who I feared might be dead but who turned up alive and well, asked me to go with him to his camp, all you’d get from me is a wave and an assurance that you might, might see me the next morning.”
“I knew there was a reason why I liked you the moment I met you, trader woman.” Valdan touched his forehead in a gesture of respect. “Is your uncle here?” Halani nodded. “Tell him he and all his kin are invited to sup with us tomorrow just after sunset. I have gifts to offer and an explanation to give. Look for the round black tents with flags at their peaks. That will be our encampment.”
The invitation extended, he wasted no time in scooping Gilene into his arms and hugging her close before walking away from the stall. The Savatar reformed their redoubt into a pathway, each one bowing as he passed, some murmuring the words “ataman” and “agacin,” while others reached out tentative hands to touch Gilene as if they were supplicants in the presence of something sacred.
Valdan halted and turned when Halani called to him. “Your name isn’t Valdan, is it?”
Asil’s confused “It isn’t?” tail-ended her question. It had been Gilene who’d put the question in her mind. Gilene, whom Halani overheard also calling Valdan “Azarion,” and she doubted the word meant “husband” in Savatar.
His answering smirk confirmed her suspicion even before he replied. “Tell Hamod he’s a guest of Azarion Ataman of Clan Kestrel.” He turned away with Gilene, who gave a short wave before they both disappeared ahead of the line of Savatar who fell in behind them.
Halani didn’t have the luxury of watching them leave. Doing so would put her right back in the unfortunate position of fending off a new pack of cutpurses. She left the task to Asil, who stared at the retreating Savatars, a puzzled frown knitting her brow.
“So his name is Valdan Azarion or Azarion Valdan?”
Her daughter shrugged. “I don’t know, Mama. It sounds like we’ll know more tomorrow. Here, come help me redo the table. The gods only know how many customers we lost with all the commotion that just happened here. We’ll never hear the end of it from Uncle.”
The two women spent the remainder of the afternoon putting the table and stall to rights and hawking their goods. Halani patiently answered Asil’s repeated questions regarding Gilene and Azarion.
Talen, another of the free trader women from Hamod’s caravan, appeared at the stall just as the masses were beginning to thin and business had slowed to a trickle. Her puzzled gaze swept over the pair. “Where’s Gilene?”
Halani blew a stray strand of hair out of her eyes and arched her back to relieve the ache there. “Now, that’s a story to tell.” She removed her apron and passed it to Talen. “Can you man the stall with Mama until the market closes? I need to find Uncle and deliver a message, and I promised to drop off a bottle of that perfume made in Askartown to a rug merchant two lanes over.”
Talen tied the apron to her waist, disgust pinching her features. “They know that stuff is nothing but mule piss boiled with rose petals, right?”
“I told them. Twice. The merchant’s wife doesn’t care. He said she’d bathe in the stuff if she could afford enough of it.”
“I swear, people will buy anything if you pour it in a fancy bottle and give it a fancy name.”
“And I thank the gods for them,” Halani replied. “We eat another day.” She hugged Asil, who kissed her cheek in return. “Help Talen, Mama, and don’t wander off. I’ll see you back at camp.” She tucked the bottle of rose-scented mule urine into a small velvet bag she looped onto her wrist and set out for the rug merchant’s stall and then to find Hamod.
She dreaded what other mischief he’d gotten up to since she left him with the strange claw. Her worry didn’t stem from a fear he’d been gulled into buying something worthless or counterfeit. That ivory was authentic, whatever it was. Possessed of a power with all the markers of earth magic, it both fascinated and troubled Halani.
Navigating the numerous lanes created by the hundreds of stalls and tables presented less of a challenge once the crowds had thinned as the day wore down. Halani delivered the perfume to the delighted rug merchant’s wife and paused at a fruit seller’s stand to buy a bag of stone fruit, as richly purple as the cloth that covered the sorcerous ivory. She intended it for the caravan’s cook, Marata, who would work his own magic and turn the plums into a delectable tart or pudding.
She paused at one more stall to admire a stack of leather-bound books, carefully turning the blank parchment sewn into the binding, imagining what mysterious things a scribe might write on the pristine surface. Halani set the journal down. Such goods weren’t for the likes of her. She could neither read nor write. Purchasing a journal made no sense.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, merchants began closing down their stalls. Halani walked a few more of the market paths, noting which sold goods the caravan needed to resupply their stores, which goods could be resold at more distant markets for profit, and which held those small indulgences she and the other caravan women might want to purchase for themselves or their children.
Except for the stalls selling ale and spirits, most of the market had closed by the time she abandoned her browsing and headed back to Hamod’s camp. A few people wished her a good evening as they passed. Others hurried by, pretending not to see her. Those wearing the official badges of Guild traders raked her with disdainful gazes. She was a free trader, not subject to Guild regulations and, thanks to the Savatar and Goban people, no longer barred from trading on the profitable Golden Serpent.
Halani returned their contempt with a sunny smile, nimbly dodging the stream of saliva one Guild trader spat at her. She expected nothing different and didn’t dwell on it until a voice behind her made her freeze midstep.