Angel of Storms (Millennium's Rule, #2)(83)

She looked down the street. It extended further than her eye could see, the details disappearing into dusty air. The view was the same in the other direction, the only difference being the wares on offer in the stalls. Over the top of some low tents to her right she could see the pale stone palace rising above the centre of the market. Tiny distant figures moved up and down the steep stairs leading to the building.

The view must be amazing from there, she mused. Perhaps we could investigate later.

Shouting cut through the noise of the market, drawing Rielle and her companions’ attention to a platform being carried on the shoulders of several muscular men. A woman walking in front of it was bellowing that all should step aside. Looking at the bearers, Rielle’s stomach sank. Were they slaves? She searched their minds and learned they were paid well and competed for the position. The first pair regarded the queue blocking the street imperiously, thinking that the rabble were slow and stupid, mere traders far lower in status than honoured bearers. They should be scrambling to get out of the way. Another was only thinking about his family, to whom he was sending most of his income, hoping they were investing it as he’d instructed.

Two women sat upon cushions piled upon the platform. They were so deep in conversation they hadn’t noticed the queue that slowed their progress. As the waiting drink-stall customers began to move to the side, shuffling back with the wary reluctance of those who have waited a long time and did not want to lose their place, Rielle looked into one of the women’s minds.

Her name was Calo, and she was a minor queen from a nearby world come to visit her friend, Astia, the wife of the market’s owner, who was the closest thing to a queen that this world had.

“… yes, there was a magical battle,” Astia was saying, “and dear Elmed hurried out to demand they stop. But when he got there the battle was over and the victor–you will not believe this–the victor was the Raen.”

Rielle stiffened, cold rushing through her at the title. Calo was simultaneously impressed and apprehensive.

“What happened?” she asked. Shifting to the mind of Astia, Rielle saw the woman’s memory play out in her thoughts.

“The poor fellow–the loser–clutched at his chest and died. Heart crushed from within, they say. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“But, Astia, how did you come to be there?”

“When I heard where my husband had gone, and why, I could not just sit and wait to hear if he was dead or not, could I? I went after him.”

“You’re a braver woman than I.” Calo frowned and her back straightened. “So the Raen is back. How did he regard the market?”

“He showed no disapproval. All he did was order that we record the coming and going of all—”

“Rielle?”

She started and turned to see that Jikari and Hari were a few steps away and the queue had progressed while she had been distracted. Closing the gap, Rielle looked at the queen and her host again, now well past the drink-seller and moving steadily away. She leaned closer to Hari.

“Did you…?

She nodded, her expression sober. “She did not say how long ago he was here.”

“Not yesterday,” Rielle said. “It did not feel so.”

“No,” Hari agreed. “This place”–she looked around the market–“is here only because people can travel between worlds. It is strange that he did not order it closed down.” She said something else that Rielle could not interpret. “We will tell Lejikh. Once we have drinks. We should buy enough for everyone.”

They did not have long to wait. Each laden with two jugs, they headed back to the wagons. Rielle was uneasy now, knowing she was in a place the Raen had recently visited. Seeing the woman’s memory of him killing the man only convinced her that he wasn’t the Angel, despite the physical similarities.

As they neared the Travellers’ stall, Rielle saw a line of people standing outside it. Not until she had passed the strangers could she see that tables had been set up along the street and the people were examining the objects laid out on them. Some were in the midst of bartering. Looking closer, Rielle saw goods the Travellers had bought and sold since she’d joined them, and many others she’d not seen before.

Jikari noted her interest. “Markets are good places to sell what is left over. And what we have made.”

She pointed to the furthest table. Neat and colourful piles of trousers and tunics in the Traveller style had been set out, arranged by size. A customer was holding up a small tunic to the chest of a girl child.

Other items lay beside the clothing. Rielle moved behind the tables to get a closer look. Soft leather bags stitched with coloured thread, baskets woven of fine reeds of two colours combined in geometric patterns, and delicately carved wooden boxes of many shapes and sizes caught her eye.

“This is fine work,” Rielle said in Fyrian, to herself. The meaning must have been clear from her tone, however, as the Traveller serving customers near her smiled. She gestured to five intricately stitched vests hanging on a pole behind her.

“Ankari,” she said.

Rielle examined them, shaking her head in disbelief at the fine stitches. “How does she find time?”

“We…” Hari said a combination of unfamiliar words to Jikari, then turned back to Rielle. “We have travelled faster with you.”