“You said it, not me.” Declan winks.
The caravan hums around us as we wind betweenthe tents. Bells jingle from awnings, each with a slightly different pitch that makes the campground sound like it’s singing. Smoke from the roasting of peppers and meats coils through the air, tangling with the earthy bite of incense. Performers brush past, their laughter sharp as broken glass. Two children chase each other around a dozing donkey, shrieking with delight until their mother snags them and ushers them inside.
Tarek points out the community bathing area and the healer’s tent. “Over there”—he points at the spacious section of yurts surrounded by guards—“is where the sister queens reside, as well as the Great Families.”
Declan walks close enough that his arm brushes mine whenever people pass by. Tarek glides ahead of us, his shoulders relaxed, his cheery whistle catching on the breeze. Dav loomed like a guard dog, all threat and jagged corners, while Tarek practically bounces along the path.
“The tents are beautiful,” I say as a couple slips into one, their conversation still clearly audible behind the fabric, “but silk doesn’t exactly make solid walls. Doesn’t everyone hear every private moment?”
Tarek shrugs, casual as ever. “What sorts of conversations would neighbors need to keep from one another?”
A shiver slides down my spine. I lean closer to Declan, whispering, “So basically everybody’s always listening?”
His jaw ticks as he scans the rows of tents. “Then we need to be careful with what we say.”
I nod. “I’m sure they’ll be listening to us, especially since they believe we’re spies.”
“Always assume they are,” he says quietly. “A place like this— We don’t know the hierarchy, the rules, orwho answers to whom. Until we do, we keep our heads down and blend in.”
His gaze remains trained forward as if mapping escape routes. It’s unsettling and steadying all at once.
“I like it better when we’re not arguing.” His hand brushes against mine as we walk, fingers grazing like it’s an accident, but then he lets the contact linger, warm and steady. “Leaves room for other things to happen.”
The words sink straight to my veins, so distracting that I trip over my own feet. I stumble, heat rushing to my cheeks, and cover it with a snort. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
We round another corner, and the aisle opens into a wide square. Camels kneel, allowing members of the kingdom to unload their packs. Baskets of figs and pomegranates land with heavy thumps onto the sand. Sacks of wheat lean against one another, stalks spilling from the open tops, their feathery golden heads swaying in the breeze. Amphorae are stacked carefully beside the tents, and a few of the camels carry bundles of dazzling maroon and gold fabrics with glints of golden pentacles and gleaming candlesticks tucked among their loads.
Actual treasure, my brain shrieks. Like, glittering-loot-you’d-hide-in-a-chest kind of treasure. Land pirates. What’s the word for that? Highwaymen? My inner preteen—the one who used to spend entire summers rewriting dog-eared bodice rippers—lets out a full-body scream.
“Oi, you!” Tarek calls, already halfway to a line of stacked amphorae. He jerks his chin toward a crate filled with iron tools, heavy enough to bow the boards. “Bet those arms are more than decoration.”
Declan straightens, almost eager, rolling his shouldersas if lifting something backbreaking is exactly the kind of distraction he’s been waiting for.
I take the moment of freedom to drift toward one of the camels, silk spilling out of its pack in waves. The maroon folds gleam like wine in the sunlight, rich and heavy, the scent of cinnamon and cloves baked into the fabric as if it’s been marinating in spice the whole way here.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn. “One of your brethren already blessed me with a face full of snot.”
The camel blinks slowly, unimpressed, lashes thick as fans.
A woman in a headscarf approaches, one arm hooked around a woven basket of figs. She nods at the camel’s pack. “Hand, please?”
I reach up and help her unclip one of the treasure-stuffed packs from its harness. “Is all this for the tents?” I ask, eyeing the silks and gleaming candlesticks.
She puffs out an incredulous laugh. Gesturing to the shimmer of gold peeking out from the bundle, she says, “These items are not necessary goods. They’re meant for our performances. For show. Any who want them are able to trade for them at the market.”
“So you only get to use these things while you’re performing? Not to decorate your personal space?”
Her thin mouth twists into a smile. “What with rehearsals and performances and the work of tending to the kingdom, I spend so little time in my personal quarters, there would be no use in decorating it.”
“Where does all this come from?”
“Our queens send their court to Pentacles at the turn of each season,” she explains. “We bring spicesand glasswork. In return, they give us metals, gold, fabrics. Enough to dazzle the crowd during our nightly performances.”
“I didn’t realize everyone performed as their job.” I say, shifting the pack into her grip.
Again, she laughs softly, the sound like sand running through fingers. “No Festival of Flame, no applause. And what’s the point of life without applause?”
The camel snorts as if to agree.
