Markswoman (Asiana #1)(24)
Nineth’s face went bright red and her eyes widened in hurt.
“Shut up, Akassa.” Kyra glared at the apprentice. “Or I’ll send you back to the caves right now.”
“Let’s go buy some pies,” said Elena hurriedly, before Akassa could snap back at Kyra.
Akassa didn’t want any, as expected. So the three of them joined the queue in front of one of the carts. The woman who was tending it gave them one quick glance and averted her eyes, obviously recognizing them. She handed them three potato pies and waited with discomfort as Elena counted out six bronze coins.
Kyra wished she could pat the woman on the arm and tell her there was nothing to be afraid of. They were just a group of friends out to have fun at the festival.
But that would not have gone over well. The Order of Kali had ruled the Ferghana for centuries, acting as peace brokers, protectors, and executioners. The Mahimata ensured that her Markswomen followed the law scrupulously, but as far as the villagers were concerned, they held the power of life and death over everyone else in the valley.
Kyra and her friends took their pies and stood beside the Marvels and Magick tent to eat. Akassa wandered away scowling, pausing to inspect a peddler cart stacked with colorful wares with such scorn that she scared away several potential customers.
“Mmmm, this is good,” said Kyra, biting through the crispy shell of the pie to the buttery center.
“I could say that myself,” said a deep male voice from somewhere over her left shoulder.
Kyra jumped and veered to face the speaker, a stocky young man who was leaning against a tent pole. He had full lips, blue eyes, and reddish hair, and was passably handsome, apart from his too-prominent teeth. He bowed and doffed an imaginary hat. “Hattur Nisalki at your service. What are three such lovely ladies doing outside my tent?”
“This is your tent?” Nineth gazed at the garish lettering on the white canvas flap. “What are the marvels and magic inside it?”
Hattur flashed a toothy grin. “In answer to the first question, dear lady, the tent and its wonders belong to my father, but I take care of day-to-day business. As for your second question, why not come in and see for yourself? One silver coin each and I’ll toss in a personal tour for free.”
Nineth’s face fell. “We don’t have that much money to spare.”
Kyra had already turned her attention back to the potato pie when Hattur drawled, “Oh well, seeing as I’m in such a good mood, how about a kiss instead?”
Kyra almost choked. How dare he. No one talked to the Markswomen of Kali like that. She glared at Hattur’s grinning face, wishing she could break a few of his gleaming teeth. But their instructions were quite clear: they must not draw attention to themselves during the festival.
“Let’s go,” she muttered, tugging her companions along with her. Hattur shouted a cheerful apology after them, but she ignored him.
They wandered around the field, jostling shoulders with ordinary folk, light-headed with freedom. There were all sorts of goods on display, from wooden toys to love potions, perfumed soaps, and mulled wine. There was even a tent that offered massages to cure every possible ailment, from infertility to rheumatism.
They caught glimpses of other groups of Markswomen, and once they saw the four novices, hurrying after a scowling Felda, who was striding along as if the entire field belonged to her. Akassa kept her distance from them, which was a blessing.
As evening deepened into night, a full moon sailed into the sky. Lamps winked into existence at every tent and cart, their oily smoke mingling with the aroma of roasted kebabs and pilaf. The crowd became even more densely packed, especially around an impromptu stage where a riddling contest was being held.
The girls bought sweet buns stuffed with walnuts, and Elena delighted them with a silk scarf each—green for Kyra and blue for Nineth, to match the color of their kalishium blades—having failed to find a snakeskin that was to her satisfaction. Akassa sniffed in disdain at the scarves, but Kyra could tell she was irritated that Elena did not buy her one too.
For herself, Elena replenished her stock of black silk ribbons to tie her plaits. She always wore her long black hair parted in the middle and neatly plaited—unlike Nineth, whose brown hair was always falling in front of her eyes. Makes me think you’re trying to sleep during class, Felda had told her once in a waspish tone. Nineth had mumbled an apology, pushed the hair away from her face, and widened her blue eyes at Felda in an attempt to look interested in the laws of motion. It hadn’t worked; Felda had seen through her and set her extra problems.
They made their way to the rivulet, munching the buns, Akassa following slowly with a sour look on her face. Soon it would be time for the unmarried girls of the village to float their flower offerings, and they would have a perfect view of the ritual right on the banks. For now, though, the area was deserted, and the peace and quiet were a relief after the noise and smoke of the crowds at the other end of the field.
They had settled down on a dry patch of grass when a familiar voice spoke up behind them: “I see you lovely ladies did not forgive me after all.”
It was Hattur Nisalki. Kyra suppressed her irritation. A lone lamp hung from the branch of an old chenar tree above Hattur, highlighting his half-earnest, half-jesting expression.
He bowed deeply. “Dear ladies, please accept my humble apologies for my forwardness earlier this evening.”