The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [27]
More footsteps approached and Zhirin paused diffidently in the doorway. “Am I disturbing?” The cook slid a pan of dough over glowing coals before retreating to give them privacy. Zhirin waited till the slap of her sandals faded, then moved closer.
“I’ve sent word to Jabbor. We’re to meet tomorrow, near the Kurun Tam. I’m sorry it can’t be sooner—”
“I understand,” Isyllt said, lips quirking. “Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”
The girl shifted her weight, slippers rasping on tile. “I’m going into the city today, meliket, to look for a costume for the festival. I thought perhaps you’d like to come.”
“Yes.” Relax, she told herself. Play the tourist. With less wine. “Yes, I’d like that.”
Market Street was wider than most in Symir, more of a plaza, and packed nearly wall to wall with people. Assari and Sivahri voices tangled together as vendors haggled and hawked their wares. Silks and spices, brass and silver and steel, screeching birds and lazing lizards—Isyllt saw barely half the offered merchandise as she kept up with Zhirin, trying to find the rhythm of the crowd. Her height gave her an advantage but made her conspicuous as well. At least Adam had gone elsewhere to look around; an armed shadow would have drawn even more attention in a place like this.
She struggled not to flinch away from the careless brush of shoulders and arms. Erisín had its share of crowded places, but even the worst recognized the need for personal space. This was a thief’s playground. Or an assassin’s.
Zhirin led them out of the press eventually, into a narrow second-story shop. The crowds opened enough to move without touching anyone and Isyllt drew a grateful breath. Bolts of cloth piled on tables and shimmering swaths draped the walls.
“What sort of costumes do you wear to the Dance?” Isyllt asked, taking in the riot of colors and textures.
“Traditionally, people dress as spirits, to honor those that bring the rain. We give the masks to the river afterward. Though it’s not as traditional as it once was.”
“Selafai celebrates the winter solstice with a masque. It’s meant to keep the hungry ghosts from finding you when they crawl through the mirrors that night.” She smiled as Zhirin’s eyes widened.
“Do you have so many ghosts in the north?”
“In Erisín, at least. The city is built on bones. I don’t know your spirits—what do you think I should wear?”
Zhirin glanced around, turned toward a bolt of rough white silk. Rainbow luster danced along the edges as she lifted a fold. “You would make a good kixun.”
“What are they?”
“Spirits of moonlight and fog. They take the shape of foxes or women in white and lead men into the forests at night.”
Isyllt cocked an eyebrow. “And eat them?”
“Sometimes. They’re not very kind.”
Isyllt stroked the silk; it ran cool and slick as water between her fingers. “What does that say of your opinion of me?” The girl flushed and Isyllt chuckled. “I’m only joking—”
She broke off as someone bumped into her. Immediately a steadying hand closed on her elbow.
“Excuse me.”
She turned to face an Assari man, his hazel eyes crinkling in consternation. Automatically, her hand twitched toward her purse; his lips quirked as he caught the motion.
She gave him a crooked apologetic smile. “No harm—”
Thunder crashed outside the shop, rattling the floor. A scream followed, then another, till Isyllt’s ears rang with panicked cries. Someone jostled Zhirin on their way to the window and the girl fell into Isyllt. The Assari man caught her shoulder, holding them both steady. Another crash followed and dust and plaster drifted from the ceiling.
Isyllt twisted, pushing Zhirin into the man’s arms as she moved toward the window. With a whispered word she chilled the air around her, until the spectators retreated from winter’s bite and gave her room. She pushed aside the mesh curtain and leaned out.
Smoke billowed from a building across the street and flames licked its doorway. The cacophony of the crowd nearly deafened her as shoppers fled, tripping over one another in their haste. Already people in the room were