Elena ducked underneath an arch brimming with loyarian sparks. The little flecks of light appeared in clusters in dark awnings during monsoon season, like tiny fairy flames. The priests insisted it was an act of the divine, though Elena vaguely recalled a tutor offering a more prosaic explanation to do with moisture and sand.
The Phoenix blesses us, the priests insisted.She sends us a sign of good luck.
As the sparks wafted down, Elena gently brushed them from her hair and skin. Luck was not what she needed right now.
Her hand drifted underneath her shawl to rest above her hip where her holopod was hidden. Though lighter than a sack of tea leaves, it weighed heavily, cold against her sweaty skin. What she needed, what she wanted, was Varun to be as foolish and greedy as he had been the day she had learned about his true desire.
“Phoenix Above, it’s hotter than Her cursed fires,” Ferma said. She pulled at her collar as sweat trickled down her brow. “Are you sure they’re meetingnow?”
“Yes,” Elena said, hopping over a stray shobu sprawled out on the sand. It merely yawned, shaking its lionlike mane before curling back to sleep. On the balcony above, an artisan flapped out a newly dyed scarf, sending droplets of carmine and amber raining down.
“Of course, the fire fanatics picked the hottest time of day to meet,” Ferma muttered.
The Yumi guard pulled her scarf tighter, hiding the trademark hair of her race: thick, long, silky strands that could harden into sharp shards and cut a man’s throat.
Ferma had been trained from infancy to be a soldier. There weren’t many of her people left on the second continent after the Burning of the Sixth Prophet, who ended nearly the entire Yumi race, but the ones who had lived served as army captains and warriors. Only the very best graced the royal halls. Ferma had been her mother’s Spear, as well as Elena’s mentor. She was the one who had taught Elena the art of holding a slingsword between her shoulder blades, how to keep it undetected before brandishing it with a quick flourish of her hips.
When Elena’s mother had died, Ferma had presided over Elena’s studies of history and politics, tended to her wounds after sparring sessions, pressed cool compresses to her forehead when she caught fever. Without a word, Ferma could command a room. Without a sound, she could murder a man.
Elena admired her elegance and her power. But it amused Elena that the one thing Ferma just couldn’t handle was Rani’s heat.
Elena’s lips twitched. She was about to make a joke of it when someone shouted behind them. They both turned to see two black-and-blue-haired Sesharian teens whiz by on floating bladers, laughing as a merchant gave chase. On the bazaar corner, a group of drunk fans let out groans. The floating bank of holos played back the Cyleon goalie blocking Ravence’s shot and winning the Western Windsnatch Title. One fan threw down his drink, spraying the running merchant with beer.
“At least they didn’t pick a boring neighborhood.” Elena grinned. Ferma frowned in return.
Despite the cloying heat and dust, she enjoyed the bazaar’s winding streets and congested alleys. The capital was a jumble of incongruous sounds and architecture, of the stubborn past and marching modernity; tall pillars of blasted sandstone housed storefronts of holo-infused gauntlets and decked-out gamesuits. Merchants wheeled their carts, crying out the prices of the day for saffron, sage, and cloves, parrots from Cyleon, and spangled glass bracelets from the first continent. It was an uproar of hovercars beeping, drivers shouting, and pedestrians calling out as they crossed the road without the faintest fear of traffic; a rush of orphans crying, fathers begging, and businesswomen cursing as they rushed to the hovertrains in their pincer heels; a whirlwind of people rubbing elbows, knees, palms, and dreams. She could feel their collective breath, their sweat, their liveliness that was so unlike the long, cool halls of the palace.
She craved it.
“Dealer!” a merchant called.
Elena turned to see Eshaant pushing his cart toward them. Fresh makhana, sprinkled with ghee and spices, sat steaming in paper cones.
“Merchant.” Elena smiled, face hidden beneath her scarf. “What’s this? I thought you sold jalebi.”
“Ach, the rent for my spot was too high. Fucking Lohan raised the price and kicked me out. I’m telling you, these Sesharians are greedy little—”
Ferma stepped forward, and Eshaant stopped.
“Oh right, right. Sorry. I forgot that you and your friend support the refugee efforts.”
“They just want a home, same as us.” Elena nodded toward his cart. “Those look delicious.”
“Want one? I can throw you three for the price of two. Special deal just for you.” Eshaant winked.
“I’m tempted, but no.” Elena glanced at Ferma. “We have a rally to attend.”
At this, Eshaant’s smile fell. “Don’t tell me you have business with the gold caps, dealer.”
“Business is business,” Elena said lightly, though the words felt cheap.
“Mm-hmm.” Eshaant sniffed. “Be careful. I’d rather deal with a cheap Sesharian than an ass-kisser of the king like Jangir. Ego the size of Palace Hill, balls as big as makhanas.”
Ferma chuckled, and even Elena smiled.
“Bring a chilled pitcher of chaas. Add more spice to the makhana, and give two for one,” she said. “And when it’s too spicy for them, charge them for a glass.”
Eshaant whistled. “Clever. But alas, I won’t be here for long.”
