VIII: The Yellow Market

Being Carnelio’s friend wasn’t just tiring. It was soul-draining.

Every morning the prince invited Kestrel to breakfast, where he ranted about his courtiers' intrigues and which ones he hated the most at the moment. Then he dragged Kestrel to the royal tailor, and while the fat old man took his measurements and stuck him with pins, Carnelio fluttered about suggesting fabrics and dispensing his judgment upon various cuts and styles.

Kestrel didn't like giving Carnelio so much control over his clothing, but if he wanted to fit in at court, he had to dress the part. Even so, he drew the line at the prince’s suggestion to throw out the “mountain rags.” While he might never become a soldier, he didn't want to lose his last connection to his past.

Sometimes Carnelio brought Kestrel to an enclosed training pavilion floored in blue glass mosaics of leaping dolphins, and they sparred with various weapons—staves, dual sticks, wooden swords. Kestrel relished the opportunity to move his body, and Carnelio wasn't a half-bad opponent, but he wondered where the prince's interest in martial arts came from.

Then again, there was a lot about Carnelio Kestrel didn’t understand. As long as the prince was willing to be friends, Kestrel might as well try to stay in his good graces. He’d use this to his advantage, just like a courtier should. Although every time he tried to ask Carnelio about the situation in the Mountainlands or the investigation into Mia’s death, Carnelio turned the conversation back to parties, training, or gossip.

It made Kestrel uncomfortable; the prince didn’t seem to have any interest in the business of ruling. But Kestrel never pressed too hard, because he didn’t want to make Carnelio annoyed with him.

At least Aramy accompanied them often, though he tended to stay aloof. He'd sit and watch while the two sparred, fanning himself and nibbling iced grapes, and he'd wait outside the tailor's rooms reading a book. Sometimes he'd meet Kestrel's eyes, a mysterious smile lifting his lips, but he never spoke a single word. Kestrel didn't want to admit how it gnawed at him.

Besides, he had more important matters to think about, such as visiting the waterfall. Unfortunately, his schedule was so packed that even two weeks in, he hadn't found an opportunity. Between Circle sessions and Carnelio dragging him around and getting caught up on the paperwork that had been neglected following Mia’s death, he barely had time to eat and bathe, let alone go off exploring on his own.

Thankfully, no further assassination attempts occurred. Kestrel noticed Royal Guards posted around almost every corner, often watching the ceilings, but their caution seemed unwarranted. Evidently the assassin had been working alone.

Or his employers had a more devious plan up their sleeves and were content to wait and plot.

Kestrel couldn't do anything about it, aside from stay around Carnelio and Aramy and ensure they were safe. If another attack happened...but he hoped it wouldn't. The more often he used his aura, the greater the chances he'd expose his secret.

One hot, bright morning, as Kestrel was reading through a list of petitions from the Mountainlands, he heard a knock from the window. He turned toward the sound, frowning.

Shock jolted down his spine. A small man with purple-streaked hair leaned against the window, rapping on it.

Kestrel fumbled to unlatch the window. Without waiting for an invitation, Ilya slipped inside.

He looked quite different than he did at Circle meetings; rather than heavy ministra robes, he wore a short-sleeved black tunic and trousers, plain as a commoner. He'd also done his hair in a loose ponytail tied with a black ribbon.

"Morning, Lord Knight," Ilya said with a careless wave. "You busy today?"

"Uh, well," Kestrel said, not sure if he was awake or dreaming, "I'm reading these over..." He indicated the papers.

"You can do that later. I'd like you to come with me."

"Come where?"

"You've been here for two weeks, haven't you?" Ilya said, tilting his head. "And you've yet to leave the White Wall. Dracen thought I should show you around the city for a bit."

"The city?" Kestrel's first instinct was to say no. But...he thought about a day spent reading these dull papers, and then about what little he knew of the city. Which didn't amount to much: he'd seen whitewashed buildings crowding the riverbanks during the barge ride that had brought him here, and heard the sounds that drifted across the river, but had never set foot in the city streets.

"Yeah, that's what I said. Are you coming or not?"

"Is it okay?" Kestrel said awkwardly. "Your energos won't mind?"

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Dracen's the one who put me up to this. Only reason he doesn't want to go is he thinks he'd slow us down.”

"All right.” Kestrel made his decision. "I’ll be right there.”

The biggest city Kestrel had ever been to was a lowland trading post his classmates often visited on leave, largely on account of its two brothels. Imagine if they could see Azed Court. Just a few blocks into the Yellow District, and Kestrel had already counted six pleasure houses.

Such facetious thoughts were the only way he could keep from getting overwhelmed by the sheer chaos around him. More people than he had ever imagined could exist thronged the streets, swirling in a blur of movement and voices and smells. Dark Coastlanders, pale Midlanders, Flamelanders with wavy hair and brown skin like him, magus guards, commoner vendors, barristers sweating in their black robes, gaudy brothel workers hanging out of windows and blowing kisses, children racing beneath the long shadows of aqueducts.

Every few steps, Kestrel wanted to stop and marvel at a new sight: that toothless old man playing a flute to a dancing snake, the women spreading fish to dry on the flat roofs, an ice cream seller pushing a cart and singing an off-key jingle, the river gulls swooping to snatch dropped crusts. But Ilya didn't stop moving, so Kestrel had to hurry along with him.

"Where are we going?" Kestrel shouted above the ruckus.

"The Yellow Market," Ilya shouted back. "We're in the Yellow District right now, center of Azed Court's commerce. The Market's at the heart of the District, and they've got wares of every kind. Hey, Selman. Passed your exam all right?"

That was the most amazing thing, how Ilya sometimes paused to greet a passerby, who'd greet him back like an old friend. Just how many people did he know?

Ilya noticed Kestrel staring after Selman, a pimply young barrister. "He used to run with a bad crowd, but I got him out of it and into the law inns. There's a lot of people like that. Folks I know from my streetrunning days, kids I help out before they can go down the wrong path."

"How does that work out?" Kestrel asked before he could stop himself. "I mean, you're a magus—"

"Not all magi are born to nobles. Surely you know this, Lord Knight?" When Kestrel smarted, Ilya softened his tone slightly. "I don't remember either of my parents. All I know is that when I turned twelve, I discovered I could manipulate the shadows. The orphanage matron called me a witch and kicked me out. If Dracen hadn't found me, I'd probably be dead in a ditch by now."

He spoke Dracen's name with such soft worship, a caress that made Kestrel's heart hurt. Even if Ilya had a forward personality, he was a proper ministra to the core.

The city became louder the deeper they headed, drowning out even the constant thrum of the waterfall. Then he and Ilya emerged onto a plaza swarming with wooden stalls, and the din of footsteps and voices mingled into a roar so loud it almost knocked him off his feet.

The Yellow Market, they might call it, but the stalls' hemp awnings came in every color of the rainbow. Beneath them Kestrel glimpsed pyramids of pastel-hued soap, glass jars of cosmetics, bundles of dried medicinal herbs, jewel-bright birds flitting inside cages. Sometimes traveling traders set up markets at Shanneray Castle, but they were mere raindrops compared to the Yellow Market's ocean.

Further in, the smells of frying grease and roasting meat thickened the air, and vendors shouted the virtues of their herbal concoctions, the sweetness of their watermelons, the different toppings you could get on your flatbreads.

Kestrel's stomach rumbled. Ilya smirked at him.

"Did we just come here to get lunch?" Kestrel asked after Ilya bought them both fresh melon juices and Flamelander-style lamb skewers, heavily spiced with cumin.

"Hmm? No," Ilya said. "We're going to the Jewelers' Alley. I've got something I need to pick up for Dracen, and you ought to buy something for the Solstice Dance."

"The Solstice Dance?" Kestrel had almost forgotten about it.

"It's a tradition. After a formal dance, you give the unbound ministra you liked the most a little gift as a token of appreciation. The first step in a courtship, some shit like that."

Kestrel's stomach flipped. "Can't I pass?"