Court of Fives

Page 20

As angry as I am, I cannot help but be amused by the sight of several young Efean men loitering nearby, waiting to see if Amaya will look their way. They’re not direct like Patron men. They wait for you to speak first. But Amaya is uninterested in good-looking boys who cannot offer her an advantageous marriage, especially if they are not Patron-born.
“You have an audience,” I murmur as I come up beside her. “We have to go.”
She doesn’t even look at me. “Shhh. I’m about to start bargaining. You owe me for helping you today. This will make us even.”
“Amaya! We can’t take the risk!”
“You should talk!”
Turning her back on me, she begins haggling with the vendor over the pair of gold-sequined cat masks with silver-wire whiskers and tufted, feathery ears. The sky would have to rain fire before Amaya would cease bargaining once she has started, so I decide it will be faster to let her get what she wants and then go.
What if someone we know spots us? I look around, studying the ground as I would a Fives course to identify paths of escape.
On the Fives court, the pace is focused and tight. That’s what I’m comfortable with. Here in the market people relax; they smile; they pause to take a drink of juice or tea. They set down their work and chat for a while with a friend who has come to talk. On mats under awnings, artisans carve and weave. Most of the vendors and artisans are Commoners, as are many of the shoppers. Patron rule has brought prosperity for Patrons and Commoners alike.
In the next stall over, my eye catches on a woman who is embroidering spots on a cloth-and-wire butterfly mask. She considers two spools of thread for her next set of stitches, one a delicate rosebud pink and the other a starker bloodred. Glancing up, she looks me right in the eye. With a lift of her chin she spits on the ground, never taking her gaze off me.
Heat flushes my cheeks as I glance toward Taberta, but the ill-wisher is caught up with Amaya. My sister and the cat-mask vendor have settled into a drawn-out haggle that is beginning to attract attention for its masterful display of competitive bargaining. To show respect to the vendor Amaya bargains in Efean rather than Saroese. Like all of us girls, Amaya speaks the Commoner speech as easily as the Patron language, although never in front of Father.
“The work is exquisite, and far too dear for the likes of me, Honored Lady. I am only a soldier’s daughter. I cannot hope for any such fine vanities as these perfect masks. Yet I cannot help but admire them. They are worth far more than a mere two silver bars. I am ashamed even to mention such a price, for I mean no insult by it.”
“Doma, were I able to give them to you for nothing I would, for they will surely ornament your beauty. Or, I should say, your beauty would ornament their humble craftsmanship. But what can I do? I must pay rent to the Patron lady who owns this stall. I must feed my children and my husband. For all this I am obliged to sell such work for no less than eight silver bars.”
While they haggle I risk a glance back at the embroiderer. She has chosen the thread the color of blood to decorate the butterfly’s sapphire-blue wings. Now I wonder if I imagined her contempt. Am I just being jumpy?
Amaya drops five silver bars into the vendor’s payment bowl and receives both masks wrapped up in cotton batting. She turns to me. “Victory is mine! Are you ready to go yet? I’ve been waiting forever for you, Jes!”
“Where is Coriander?” I ask, ignoring her stupid joke.
Her gaze skips past me to light upon the embroidering woman.
“Honored Lady, that emerald butterfly is so lovely!” she exclaims, stepping around me. “Its beauty reminds me of my mother, delicate yet strong, and in harmony in all ways. The gods have honored you with a gift.”
The woman’s surly frown thaws beneath Amaya’s soothing charm. “My thanks, Doma,” she says in a husky voice as she hands over the one with emerald wings.
“Amaya, we have to go,” I mutter as the woman glances between us, trying to sort out our relationship: Amaya with her straight black hair, eyes with a slight fold as Patrons have, and light golden-brown skin, and me with my coily hair and dark brown skin. It’s my Saroese eyes that give away our sisterhood.
“Won’t Father love to see this on Mother?” She turns back to the woman. “This is so like my mother’s beauty and grace that I could not possibly bargain. Please do not be insulted if I tell you I have only three silver bars left in my purse.”
So the haggling begins.
“Taberta, we have to go,” I say, begging help, but the ill-wisher is looking around for Coriander.