“Oh yes. Many times over.” Reynald turned his head. “There they are.”
I looked in the direction of his gaze and saw four people coming down the street, through the twilight. Three were tall and one short.
“You can stop worrying now, Maggie,”Reynald said, his eyes warm. “The future won’t get the better of us. I promise you, we will win this war.”
PART III
HEART OF AKNIGHT
CHAPTER18
PLANTER17
These aren’t even the right color. They look like they’re sick. What if they poison our food instead of preserving it?” Clover sniffed at the big bright green fungus growing from the clay trays.
“Grums don’t get sick. They’re mushrooms,” the vendor countered. “If you can’t afford them, stop wasting my time!”
“Forty dens for six and no more.”
“Sixty!”
“Forty-five!”
“I have children to feed.”
“Feed them these mushrooms then!”
“They’re not edible!”
Next to me, Reynald in his work clothes and lancer’s coif quietly heaved a sigh.
I had finally made it to the Dog Market.
The Magnars had returned victorious but banged up. Gort had a black eye, Shana had taken a shallow gash to the side, and both Will and Lute came back with cuts and bruises. Filderon had had bodyguards who were in on his scheme, and when the Magnars confronted him, all hell broke loose. Apparently, he was also meticulous about following client instructions, because he’d written the whole Falcon Point plan down. Will found it when they searched the house and pinned it to Filderon’s corpse with the broker’s own knife.
Shana had taken yesterday to rest, but this morning she was back in the kitchen, cheerfully doing scary things like chopping the head off a big fish with one swing of her cleaver. She needed groceries, I needed more soap supplies, and so to the market Clover, Reynald, and I went. Reynald’s menace meter was all the way up, and people gave us plenty of room.
The Dog Market was everything I’d hoped and more. It occupied several city blocks bordered by a wall, and despite the morning hour, it was already crowded. We had gone to get Shana’s groceries first, then to order my soap stuff, and were on our way down the Center Row, toward the gate, when Clover spied the grums. Big, fat, and green, they resembled foot-tall, weird mushrooms growing in pots, and they were highly prized because they somehow kept food from spoiling. According to Clover, we didn’t have any and it was vital that we get some, so she’d launched her haggling barrage.
I didn’t mind the delay. I was having an awesome time.
Most merchants self-segregated by the type of their merchandise, selling their wares in clearly labeled rows. There was a Grocery Row, a Forge Row, and a Fabric Row, and so on. Between the defined rows lay the no-man’s land, where merchants whose goods didn’t fit a specific category hawked their wares.
The Center Row, where we were now, was exactly that kind of place, and I was doing my best not to gawk. It was weirdness. So much wonderful weirdness. Magic amulets, odd trinkets, a stall that sold colorful powders that might have been dyes or spices, jewelry, glass sun catchers, bizarre-looking knives . . . It was like a dozen books from an epic fantasy list had gotten together with some dungeon master manuals, had a drunken party, and thrown up on a flea market.
Across from us, a vendor was selling little beasts that looked like tiny Pomeranians crossed with miniature foxes. To the left, another stall offered hair ornaments, delicate like lace, each beautiful blossom woven from silver wire and studded with tiny gems. So pretty . . . I looked at them for a while, until I finally saw the prices. Ouch.
Past the jewelry cart, a toy-peddler was putting on a show at his stall. He held up two wooden knights with very realistic looking swords and pretended to have them clash as a gaggle of kids watched. The knight in royal purple with a black cloak and a steel crown on his helm was definitely King Sauven, and his counterpart wore lavender and green, which made him Ralinbor of the Wilds.
When it came to the Savarics, good and bad were rather arbitrary. Both half brothers had been terrible people, but one of them sat on the throne and the other was dead. History was written by the winners.
I drifted closer to watch.
This year marked the twenty-fifth anniversary of that battle. Sauven hated any reminder of it, but twenty-five was a number of significance in Rellas. Despite all the “mad king” vibes Sauven was putting out, he wasn’t irrational all the time. He had episodes of paranoia and violent outbursts, but between them, he was calculating and shrewd. As a seasoned political animal, Sauven would make the most of this anniversary. There would be celebrations and festivals . . .
The vendor swung Ralinbor’s wooden sword at Sauven’s chest. Sauven parried. The vendor’s helper, a lanky teenager who was probably his son, hopped out from behind the stall holding a stuffed toy monster with wide wings.
The monster swooped above the two knights. A dursan, one of Ralinbor’s pet abominations, the ones he used to command in battle.
