Markswoman (Asiana #1)(78)
The narrow, dirt-packed streets outside were filled with more people and palanquins, shops and vendors than Kyra had thought existed this side of the Tien Shan Range. How did they all survive in such cramped quarters? She squeezed past people and pack animals, narrowly avoiding being run over by a horse cart. Vendors thrust their wares under her nose, wheedling her to part with her precious coin. She ignored them and continued walking, deeper into the bustling heart of the town, half-dazed by the noise, color, and commotion.
She stopped short at the edge of a vast, dirt-packed square. Row upon row of stalls jostled for space with prospective customers of every hue and garb. Goats and people milled about. At one end of the square was an enclosure for camels; at the other end a strip of sand had been cleared for testing the horses that were on sale. This must be the fabled weekly market of Kashgar. Kyra stood on tiptoe, trying to spot an opening in the press of people so she could join the throngs fingering fabrics and poking melons.
“I wouldn’t go into the crowd, if I were you,” said someone behind her. “Not unless you wish to have your purse cut.”
Kyra’s heart leaped at the sound of that voice. Rustan.
He stood there smiling, holding a covered basket in one hand and the reins of a loaded mule in the other. All the anger and loneliness she had felt at his abrupt departure from Khur evaporated, and she grinned back at him, the first real surge of joy she’d felt in days rushing through her. She was relieved that she had had a bath the evening before and washed her hair. Thank goodness he hadn’t seen her when she arrived in Kashgar, filthy and exhausted.
He was trim and striking as ever, with his black hair cropped short and his blue eyes regarding her with amusement. Even holding a basket of potatoes, he was every inch the Marksman, the symbol of the winged horse on his robe and the unadorned heartwood scabbard hanging from his waist belt. She noticed a circle of space had opened up around him. People backed away after a single glance at his face. How come they didn’t do that around her? True, she hid her scabbard in a fold of her robe, but still.
“Barkav told me I’d probably find you at the market,” said Rustan. “He gave me a list of things to buy, and here I am, at your service once more.”
He gave a mock bow, but the effect was rather spoiled by a half-bray, half-whinny from the mule. Kyra burst out laughing and Rustan straightened, shaking his head in disgust.
“Where have you been?” she demanded, hoping she didn’t sound breathless. “I thought you were away on a mission for the Order.”
Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? I thought I’d never see you again.
Better if you hadn’t.
Kyra blinked, startled. Had they spoken aloud?
But Rustan said, “I was on a mission. I went to Herat to look for Samant, the elder who was visiting the Ersani clan. I found him delirious with fever, lying alone in a hut while the Ersanis waited for him to pass into the spirit world.”
“What?” said Kyra. “Why didn’t they give him medicine?”
“Superstition,” said Rustan. “They think sickness is a possession by the spirits. Fortunately, I’ve managed to bring Samant here for treatment. He should be fine in a few days.” He looked at the square. “What were you planning to buy today? Perhaps I can help.” A teasing note entered his voice. “Thieves will steal the robe off your back if you’re not careful.”
“I only wanted to look,” said Kyra. “I don’t have much coin, and not much time either. The Maji-khan wants me to spend the rest of the day practicing. He said he would duel me this evening.”
She hoped Rustan would offer to practice with her, but he simply nodded. “We shall have to be quick then. Follow me.”
He plunged ahead into the crowd, which seemed to part magically for him and his mule. Kyra hurried after him, a little disappointed. What had she been expecting? Rustan had taught her what he could; Barkav had said as much. His being in Kashgar at the same time as her was happenstance, and she had best not act like a fool around him.
*
Rustan watched as Kyra touched a roll of fabric on the counter of a tiny stall manned by a sharp-eyed Kushan woman. It was Jili silk of the finest quality, spun by silk farmers of the Zhejiang province. It was emereld green in color, much like her blade.
When Samant told him he should return to Kashgar before it was “too late,” he had been mortified, and also terrified he would somehow miss her, that the contingent would have left for Sikandra Fort already, and he would never see her again. But there was no way he could endanger the life of the elder in his care. It was Samant, finally, who had insisted on leaving the Ersani village as soon as he could stand.
Stay alive, Kyra.
She looked at him, frowning, and Rustan blanked his thoughts. She turned her attention back to the fabrics on display, but he could sense her confusion, the disarray of her emotions. She had not expected to see him again and it was difficult for her to hide her feelings. Although, he supposed, he wasn’t doing such a good job of it either. He had known he would be happy to see her again; he had thought of her every day since leaving Khur, and it had seemed like months rather than weeks since he’d last laid eyes on her. But what he hadn’t expected was this fierce desire to take her in his arms.
Rustan winced inwardly, remembering the kiss he had witnessed in Khur. And the inescapable fact of Shurik’s presence in Kashgar.