“Second Market? Good luck.” Swain pointed at the plaster wall over the wagon, marked with soot-darkened curls and slashes. Easy to mistake for the work of a lazy vandal, but the two crossed black thumbprints made a sign Fie would know anywhere.
The lordlings looked baffled. Fie tapped the thumbprints. “This is a Crow mark. And this”—she waved at the wall—“is a map. Here.” She indicated a square capped by a curve on the eastern side of the city. “That’s the Crow shrine. And these”—she traced a series of spikes—“are the markets. Second Market is…” Fie counted the patches of market in each ring and pursed her lips at what she saw. “… bad. Bad for Crows.”
“We’ve got ‘No one sells to Crows.’” Swain ticked off his fingers, reading down the symbols by the market. “Let’s see… both ‘hostile guard’ and ‘bribe the guard,’ so be open to a fair number of options there… And ‘no masks.’”
“I’ll deal with the guards,” Tavin said. “But why no masks?”
Fie sighed. “Draws notice. Just keep your hood up instead.”
“Fie…” Pa started.
“Aye, Pa.” Fie unstrapped her own mask from where it hung around her neck and tossed it into the wagon. She should have known her work was far from over. “I’ll bring the boys back to the shrine after.”
“I’ll go with,” Hangdog said, abrupt. Pa started and stared at him. “At least to Fourth Market. Buy the flashburn and the soap-shells.”
Pa traded a look with Fie. She gave a tiny shrug. She’d already be reckoning with a prince and his fussy pet Hawk. If Hangdog wanted to fuss, too, at least one of them would be useful about it.
The string of naka clinked as Pa slid coins free and passed them over. “Here. Be safe. I’ll see you four at the shrine.”
“The sign says water-lifts are that way.”
Fie scowled, already sweltering under the heat of her black over-robe. But since he’d kept his topknot, Jasimir had to stay covered, so Tavin had to stay covered, and soshehad to stay covered lest she draw notice. Still, she envied the airy wraps and shaved heads of the Cheparok women around them.Theywere dressed for the muggy heat.
“I don’t know what the sign says, cousin,” she said. “And I don’t care. That mark there? That means Crows aren’t allowed. We need to take the stairs. And the stairs are this way.”
Tavin blinked at her. “You can’t read?”
Something in her shrank at his surprise. “I… I know Crow signs,” she mumbled. “Swain does the reading for us.”
“And the Crow signs say we won’t be allowed on the water-lifts,” Hangdog chipped in. Perhaps two and a half days of Fie’s silence had taught him to keep a cooler head, for no resentment smoldered in his voice, only stiff resignation.
“Well, those signs look old. Let’s make sure.” The prince set off down the muddy road.
Fie gritted her teeth and followed. She couldn’t blame him, not truly. The idea of slogging up stair after limestone stair, all the way up to Second Market, made her want to vomit. The water-lifts used the force of the reservoir’s water channels to move cargo and citizens between Cheparok’s tiers with considerable less effort.
The lift attendant looked up from a cotton-heaped cart only long enough to snap, “No.”
For a moment Fie wanted to stand there anyway and relish the faint relief of mist and water splashing down from Fourth Market. Then she remembered that same water had traveled from the Fan, into the city reservoir, and down four tiers of canals and bathing steps, carrying whatever those tiers’ citizens felt like throwing in it. Likely it was as clean as the grime on her arms.
“Come on,” she said, wincing, and headed back toward the stairs. This time Jasimir kept his mouth shut.
Hangdog split off once they’d climbed the three-score steps to Fourth Market. “Luck, cousin,” he muttered to Fie, and gave her a half grin. She briefly debated pushing him back down those three-score steps, but it seemed like an awful lot of work in this dreadful sun.
Instead she looked for a Crow mark for the stairs. One was carved into a signpost nearby, pointing to the opposite end of Fourth Market.
“Do they even know how hot it is?” gasped Tavin, staring at the crowds packing the market. Fie could scarce hear him over the lowing of disgruntled cattle, shouts of vendors, wailing children, and high-pitched warbling from some unholy horn busker.
Holy texts said the Covenant disposed of irredeemable souls in one of twelve hells. Fie wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve this one.
A mother shoved past, dragging a child on each arm. It gave Fie anotion equal parts distasteful and effective. She snatched one hand from each of the lordlings. “Hold fast.”
Then she plunged into the crowd. It was chaos and cacophony, a crush of sweat and flesh and salt-stiff cotton. She lost count of how many people trod on her feet, but she was dead sure that the nails in her sandals repaid that in triple.
At last they reached the end of Fourth Market. Fie staggered to a quiet place between stalls, and the prince yanked free of her, shaking his hand out. She let go of Tavin and swayed in place, catching her breath.
“Let’s never do that again,” Tavin said, tone dark.
Fie shook her head, wheezing. “The way… back.”
