“Ever heard of personal space?” I mutter over my shoulder. Fennel edges closer until his flank brushes my hip. “Unbelievable,” I grumble.
The handles of the amphora dig into my arms, water sloshing over the rim as my feet sink into the sand. My shoulders ache, and my grip slips. There’s no way I can make it another five feet, much less fifty, without losing more of its contents.
Declan strolls up beside me, not a hitch in his breathing. He eyes the damp streak running down the front of my dress and smirks. “I’m surprised there’s any water left in there.”
I shoot him a look. “This thing is half my size.”
Without asking, he dips down and takes the urn from me like it weighs less than a purse. My arms, suddenly empty, feel like wet noodles at my sides as I trail after him toward Tarek.
“Set them here,” Tarek instructs cheerfully, plunking his own down onto a woven mat.
Declan lowers both of ours while I pretend I’m not panting.
“I appreciate it,” I say, swiping the spilled water from my arms.
He brushes off his hands and flashes a perfect white smile. “I wanted to take it from you from the start, but I figured you wouldn’t like that.”
“Yeah, I, uh, I probably wouldn’t have.”
We stand there awkwardly, not making eye contact, the silence stretching taut while I scramble for something to say next.
I’m saved by Tarek, who vaults between us right as a vendor’s fan comes down hard on his shoulder. “Ow!” he cries, rubbing the spot. “No fighting in the market, Sasha!”
The woman running the stall leans over her table of fruit and swats the air with the same closed fan. “And what of stealing, Tarek?”
Stolen apple in hand, he clutches his chest. “You wound me, madam. I haven’t stolen a thing.” Then, grinning from ear to ear, he takes a massive bite and blows her an exaggerated kiss.
We drift away from the fruit stand and weave through the crowd.
A frown creases Declan’s forehead as he toes the sand. “Where does all the produce come from? It can’t be easy growing things in this.”
“The Everspring.” Tarek holds up the partially eaten apple as evidence. “It’s an oasis a bit of a distance away from camp, but its forest is thick enough to get lost in,soil soft as silk, with fresh, cold springs that bring water up through the ground.” He stares off wistfully before taking another bite and talking around the mouthful. “My favorite’s the lagoon. Perfect for soaking tired muscles after a long day.”
“Help me understand, because from a cost perspective, it doesn’t make sense. All this effort moving goods and people back and forth when you could centralize at the Everspring,” Declan remarks.
“The Everspring is not what it once was. Legend says it used to stretch as far as the sand touched.” He sweeps his arm wide, his gesture taking in the camp. “Great obsidian columns larger than those around the stage stood at its center, and there were no queens, no kings. No one person in charge. Can you imagine?” Shaking his head, he takes another bite. “Who ran the kingdom? The camels? Absolute camelarchy!”
I blink. “Camelwhat?”
“Camelarchy,” he repeats proudly, a goofy grin plumping his cheeks. “A fanciful tale, of course. Fireside fancy. But pleasant enough to ponder.”
His grin falters, and his brow pinches. “That part about the Everspring stretching on and on, however, that’s no tale. I’ve watched it dwindle in my lifetime. Each year the sand creeps farther, and the green yields a little more. One day, it will be gone.” He crunches into the apple, speaking around the mouthful with forced cheer. “But I try not to dwell on such things.”
A sudden swell of whooping and hollering pulls the market’s attention. Two performers burst into the square. Yellow ribbons unfurl from their hands laced with goldcoins that chime and clatter as the strands crack the air in intricate, hypnotic patterns.
The Player strides between them, her blunt black bob stark against the painted slash of crimson across her face. She flicks her wrist and the crowd parts instantly, her frolicking entourage swirling around her like sparks kicked up from a fire. At a spice stall she pauses, selects a small bundle of saffron threads, trades a few clipped words with the vendor, and tucks the prize neatly into her pocket.
Tarek leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret but still grinning as if it’s gossip. “The Player was tasked by the queens with running the troupe. Performers regard her almost as highly as they do the crown.”
I crane my neck, rising onto my tiptoes for a better look.
“So they’re scared of her?” I ask. “Dav looked like he’d rather swallow nails than cross her.”
“Fear, respect—two sides of the same coin, eh?”
The crowd surges back as one, pressed by the Player’s movements through the market, and bodies jostle against mine. I step to retreat only to collide with Fennel’s broad, stubborn bulk. His portly frame takes me out at the knees and sends me pitching backward.
The donkey brays. Cinder yowls, launching herself from his back in a streak of gray before disappearing into a nearby stall with an indignant hiss.
