Passenger (Passenger, #1)(116)

The spice merchants and perfumers provided welcome relief from the less-than-savory smells of the city, especially the smells of those occupying it. Herself included. There was nothing quite like getting a lungful of a fruit vendor’s sour breath to remind you how many days had passed since you’d stopped trying to find a toothbrush.

The friendliness of the merchants and local people was unrivaled, and unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Nicholas, through Hasan, tried to negotiate for skins to hold water, as well as less conspicuous clothing. Etta watched the other women around her and hoped she didn’t look as awkward as she felt, standing away from where the men were conducting their business. Nicholas had entrusted the satchel to her, including what gold was left after London. When she handed the sack to him to buy the dried fruit, he shoved it back into her hand and allowed Hasan to carefully count out his own money.

“We’ll give him the gold,” Nicholas murmured, stooping close to her ear. “But to use raw gold and unfamiliar coins so liberally would attract the wrong kind of attention.”

Hasan had clearly come up with some viable excuse for their presence. He negotiated in whispers, with laughter, and the occasional stern look, slowly filling their baskets and arms with necessities. While he and Nicholas examined and debated the merits of several different saddles, she was caught in the path of a roving textile merchant who practically flung his silk shawls at her, extolling their virtues in a language she had no chance of understanding.

Etta didn’t know what it was, exactly. Even as the sweet-faced man draped a beautiful length of gold brocade over her shoulder, following her as she turned, she suddenly had an eerie feeling, almost like a spider walking up the back of her neck. Etta glanced around, her eyes leaping from woman to man to merchant.

There were two bearded men in black robes nearby, at a mercantile stall with cloth stacked so high on crooked shelves that it actually brushed the ceiling. One had the darker skin of the people around them, but the other was clearly a Westerner, his complexion nearly as pale as her own. They weren’t looking at the material they’d picked up and draped over their hands. Their focus wasn’t on Hasan, and it wasn’t on Nicholas. It wasn’t even on her.

They were staring at the young woman standing a few feet behind Etta, tucked against a pillar, who was very clearly watching Hasan. A small section of her golden hair spilled out from beneath the white scarf she’d wrapped around her head. Etta pulled her veil fully aside to see her—to convince herself she hadn’t been conjured out of smoke and dust.

Etta must have made a sound, because the young woman spun toward her, and her own veil fell back far enough to reveal her face. The blue eyes that stared back at her matched her own.

But…how? Hasan had said she’d left days ago. Was she only just leaving now to hide the astrolabe? Or was she returning from stowing it away?

“Rose?” Etta said, voice catching on the name. That was her first mistake.

Running after her when she turned and bolted was Etta’s second.

It was easy to track her progress—they were the only ones pushing against the flow of people moving through the bazaar. Angry words rang out behind her, but Etta barely heard them over her wheezing breath and the slap of her soft-soled shoes against the ground. Her mom was fast.

Reaching out, Rose tore down a display of silver platters, sending dozens of them slamming to the ground, along with the tables they had been artfully arranged on. Etta stumbled, barely catching herself with a sharp gasp. Rose tossed a look back over her shoulder, and Etta had a full, perfect view of her twisted scowl as her own mother threw a small dagger right at her.

It missed Etta’s neck by less than an inch—and only because she had finally tripped, her shoe catching on something jutting out from one of the nearby booths.

“Rose!” she called. “Please, I just want to talk to you—”

The crowd scattered around them—a woman screamed in alarm—but Etta’s whole attention was fixed on that face, the way her expression had sharpened like the finest of the blades in the market.

“You can tell Henry or Cyrus or whoever the bloody hell you work for,” she said, her accent so clipped it was nearly unfamiliar, “that they’ll never find it.”

“You mean the astrolabe?” Etta asked. “I’m not trying to get in your way, I swear—”

A pair of hands lifted her off the ground, and the last thing she saw before her veil was dragged back across her face was Rose—her eyes wide, backing away.

“Let me go!” Etta said, disoriented. She was lifted off her feet and thrown over a shoulder. “Nicholas, stop, it’s her!”

But…she sucked in another breath, the veil sticking to her lips and tongue, blinded by the fabric and her own hair. That smell—Nicholas always smelled like the sea, like soap and cedar. And now, with arms crushing around her legs, keeping her in place, all she could smell was camel—animal.

They veered right just as someone let out another cry of alarm. Wood splintered against the ground, and there was the sound of something shattering a second before Etta heard the call to prayer sound over the city.

Etta’s back was suddenly drenched in heat, and the world burned a fiery red beneath her closed eyelids. Her hands were trapped beneath her, pinned to someone’s shoulders. She thrashed wildly, kicking, her screams muffled by the fabric around her.