My stomach rumbles; I didn’t have a chance to eat desayuno. “Can we stop for salteñas?”
“You like them?” He sounds skeptical as he offers his hand.
I ignore it and slide off the saddle. “Absolutely.”
“Picante or dulce?”
“Spicy. Definitely spicy.”
We trail behind Atoc as he makes his rounds, smiling and greeting the crowd. Several Llacsans press around our group, some gaping, others not interested. I walk past a plump woman standing in front of a vendor selling freshly squeezed jugo de mandarina, saying, “But where is Princesa Tamaya?”
Another whispers, “She didn’t come—”
“I don’t see her—”
“What do you think happened—”
They sound like they actually care. My ears burn to hear more about the missing princesa. Murals of her likeness are painted on many of the once white walls. Fresh flowers surround her images and several people kneel, seemingly praying for her—ortoher. The princesa is like a goddess among the Llacsans.
Atoc veers toward El Mercado, where vendors line the streets, calling out their wares.
Quince notas for chicken feet!
Diez for a cow’s tongue!
Tres for a horse’s tail!
Three Llacsan children run up to our group, holding out their hands. Their clothing is grimy and tattered. Dirt is caked under their fingernails, dust smudging their cheeks. All three are barefoot.
“Por favor,” one of them says. He barely comes up to my hip. “¿Notas? ¿Agua?”
I shift my feet. “Lo siento. I don’t have water.”
The children run off to another group heading toward the plaza, their hands pressed together to catch water. I sigh. This infernal pretender. What is he doing to Inkasisa? Making the koka leaf a legal export has certainly filled the coffers of the nobles loyal to Atoc, but what about the common Llacsans? The ones actually planting the seeds, living in La Ciudad, trying to eke out a living? Not one of them looks to have benefited from the increase in koka production.
We pass a shop selling sandals, and the scent of leather mixes with the spice of cinnamon ice cream sold across the street. The steps leading up to the temple entrance are crowded with Llacsans selling baskets woven from palm leaves, as well as beaded necklaces and fresh jugo de naranja. A group of merchants are outside their shop doors, girasoles in their arms and motioning toward a mural of the princesa.
I round on Rumi. “Do you hear the chatter about Princesa Tamaya?”
He shrugs, idly nibbling on pasankalla—puffed choclo topped with sugar—and reading painted signs hanging over shop windows. I didn’t see him buy an entire bag. He catches my longing stare and grudgingly drops a handful in my waiting hands. I pop several in my mouth, enjoying the burst of sugar.
The court mingles with villagers crowding the cobbled streets. I never lose sight of Atoc. The guards surrounding him keep their long spears pointed to the cloudless sky.
Rumi nudges my arm. “Over here. Stay close, Condesa.”
As if I needed the reminder. Sentries follow my every move. Dogging each step. Hearing every word. I pray I won’t run into an Illustrian spy. It’d be too dangerous for them, considering the amount of guards surrounding me.
I follow Rumi to the salteña line. There’re dozens of people waiting for one. The smell alone makes my mouth water.
“It’s too long,” I say.
He gives me a look and shuffles to the front. Loud cries of protest follow.
“We were next!” a man exclaims.
“Get in the back!”
“I’m on the king’s business,” Rumi says, squaring his shoulders. “Let me through.”
