“Do what you please,” Grizel growled. “But leave the rest of us out of it.”
“What was all that about?” I whispered. “And what did she mean, Ladran’s lapdog?”
“Nothing to worry about,” said Mieka brightly. “Look, you go this way and I’ll go that. We’re sure to find something between us.”
I asked several more people, but all seemed reluctant to talk to me about spellbooks at all, let alone the Book Man. Strands of the Hair reached out to several stalls we passed, as if to touch the wares, and I had to keep stuffing them beneath the cap.
“Stop it!” I hissed. “You’re as bad as Baldbeak.”
Just as I was starting to lose hope, I came across a solid, red-faced man selling finely embroidered cloths, the exquisite little pieces looking out of place in his hard-knuckled hands. He seemed like a good prospect to trade information for more of the wares he sold.
“Excuse me,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I’m looking for someone called the Book Man.”
He stared at me with open hostility.
“I can pay you for the information,” I said, gesturing at his table of wares. “I have some embroidered pieces. To exchange for it.”
I wondered how I looked to him—a tall, gangly woman just barely into adulthood, freckled and sunburned from my journey with the Followers, the ungainly bulk of my Hair stuffed unevenly into the ugly knit cap (now made uglier by the fretting and fraying down one side, thanks to Baldbeak’s ministrations). It certainly wouldn’t inspire confidence in my producing the kind of refined, elegant work that he clearly valued.
I was right.
“I’m not in need of any new suppliers, thank you,” he said, the “thank you” carrying a note of condescension.
“Just look,” I insisted, scrabbling in the pockets of the over-sized coat Mieka had given me.
A look of distaste spread across his fleshy features.
“Look, girl,” he said, “I’ve been politer than you deserve. I told you, I’m not looking for …”
I shoved one of the handkerchiefs under his nose, and his voice died away. He took it, seemingly without conscious thought, his eyes following the curve and flourish of the intricate design.
“This is very fine work.” His lips pressed together as he ran the fabric through his fingers, observing every stitch. “Very fine. Where did you say you worked?”
“In a … workroom. A communal workroom. There are many of us.”
“But this is your own work?”
“Uh … yes.”
He looked over my shoulder and made a gesture I didn’t understand. I turned my head to follow his gaze, but yelped when my arms were seized from behind.
“Walk ahead and don’t say nothing,” a voice said, breathing hot and hard against my ear and smelling strongly of onions, “or it will go the worse for you.”
I barely dared breathe. I could feel my Hair wanting to lash out, but I willed it to keep still for now, until I found out exactly what was going on. The stranger frog-marched me through the market, his formidable chest pressed against my back. No one in the Undermarket stopped to help, or even to look at us with curiosity—it wasn’t that kind of place.
We reached a covered wagon, and a brown hand darted out to yank the curtain at the back of the wagon aside, and the man at my back shoved me in. As I fell on my hands and knees, I felt a splinter from the floorboards immediately wedge itself under one of my nails. My Hair writhed under the cap. I covered my head with both arms to keep it subdued.
The man from the market stall climbed into the wagon, meaning I was now sandwiched between three of them: him, the dark-skinned guard, and the immense man who had pushed me in, whom I mentally named Onion Breath. The wagon was dark and stank of strong incense. Crates stacked high on the edges had candles melted to their tops and dried wax dribbling down their sides.
“I don’t have any money,” I managed to say through the tightness in my throat. “Take the silks if you want. Just let me go.”
“I just want to have a little chat,” said the fleshy stall owner, his thick lips spread in a humorless smile. He still held my handkerchief in his hand.
“I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“This is Temple work,” said Fleshy Man, stabbing his finger into the center of the design. “And you tried to pass this off in the Undermarket? I almost admire the effrontery.”
“What? No, it’s got nothing to do with the Temple, it’s all my—”
