This was impossible. There was food everywhere, and not just any food. There was lahmacun. Shish kebab. Donner kebab. Kofte kebab. Kofte, shish and donner kebab wrapped in lahmacun. Naan bread. Pitta bread. Crisp bread. Flat bread. Keon shook his head in a vain attempt to fight off the fragrances. Their lunch had been light, which wasn’t helping. They hadn’t foraged since the afternoon before. How did anyone expect him not to eat anything, especially when people were giving it away for free?
He held up both hands, almost to shield himself; apologising profusely to a motherly old lady who was offering him pomegranates. He didn’t even like pomegranates, but right now they may as well have been edible gold.
A tall young guy with the longest beard he’d ever seen offered him some kind of overcoat. He didn’t know what the man was saying but he seemed concerned he wasn’t wearing the right clothing for the arid heat. At least, that’s what Keon assumed based on how he kept gesturing to the sky and tugging at his shawl. Goodness, it smelt good too. And the quality. Was that satin? Whatever it was, it felt amazing!
He was suddenly jostled out of his euphoria by Dawit tugging on his arm, gesturing for them to move on. They had to practically drag him away.
Overcrowded market avenues soon gave way to an open square of immaculately cut grass. Keon breathed in the freedom of the silky, smooth air that seemed to permeate all of Underland. They were walking down a path of cream marble that lined the perimeter of the square. Daylight twinkled between overhanging palm trees as they passed, light dancing across the surface of a fruit he didn’t recognise. At the centre of the square, children frolicked around a ringed pool of crystalline blue. Its waters were fed by a pearlescent, marble fountain in the middle, set aside like an island. The fountain itself was shaped as an open book atop some kind of stool with the waters trickling down its gold lined centre into the pool.
“What’s that?” Keon asked, nodding in its direction.
Dawit gave it little more than a passing glance, making a beeline for the opposite end of the courtyard.
“That’s the Kalimat Mithali. Their Codex.”
“They only have the one?”
“Moonlamps Forge from a single, unified Codex. Their legends say that the Kalimat Mithali belonged to the King himself and that, long ago, he gave it to the Intermediary who passed it on to the people. Moonlamps have travelled to Strongholds like this ever since to record its words in their Codices.”
“You ever read it?”
“Why would I?”
“I mean, if it belonged to the King, wouldn’t you wanna read it?”
“It doesn’t.”
“But, how do you know?...”
“Because bro!” Dawit wheeled round, realising he should probably lower his voice, “Because Helel ibn Shakar is the one who gave it to them…not the King.”
He turned and took off, leaving behind a somewhat sceptical Keon.
Something about this place set Dawit on edge. All of them in fact. Except maybe Shem. He didn’t get it. The people seemed oddly every day, save for their dress. Multihued kaftans with golden embroidery. Not the kind of thing you would expect to wear to a dusty market. Everyone dressed like royalty, from the humble man selling purple yams to the old sage, sat on his stool smoking a long pipe; his features practically swallowed by facial hair. Even the kids wore elaborately decorated skull caps (if they were boys) and hoods (if they were girls); probably to save their fancier clothes from the dust, judging by the golden-brown stains lining the bottoms of formally white robes.
As his eyes roamed the square, his gaze fell upon a wall on the far-left side. It was featureless save for an arch breaking its surface like an open mouth, its long throat falling into a deep void.
“Yeah, you don’t wanna go that way bro,” said Kai, startling him out of his preoccupied stupor.
“What is it?”
“That’s the Bedesten. The Mirror Market.”
* * *
They’d been walking awhile when Dawit’s pace began slowing to a crawl. He was getting clumsy, stumbling over every little pebble on the street. Keon came up beside him.
“You alright, Dawit?”
He seemed out of breath, tugging at the neck of his mask; what’s more, his forehead was sparkling with beads of perspiration. Seeing Keon’s concern, he wiped his head with the back of his bracer.
“Must be the heat,” he said, which was odd because a cool breeze had been blowing for the last twenty minutes.
As time went on, Dawit’s uncertain stride diminished to a muddled shuffle. His movements grew more laboured and uncoordinated.
“Quit messing around bro,” said Kai impatiently, but Dawit could barely focus on his face.
By the time they rounded the next corner, he was breathing heavily, leaning on the market stools for support. The mirrors tinkled as he almost lost his balance and Keon rushed to steady him.
“Dawit?”
“I’m fine…I’m fi—”
He lost his grip and hit the ground hard, blowing a cloud of golden dust into the air.
“Dawit!”
Kai skidded to his side, yanked off Dawit’s mask and tilted his head back to stop him choking on his own tongue. He flicked his eyelids open with his thumbs. His eyes were rolling back, fighting to snap shut. He was running a furious fever, as though competing with the arid heat. The crowds quickly amassed like seagulls to seed.
“Does anyone have any water?!” Keon cried.
“NO!...No!” Kai held up a hand to a young man offering a copper-coloured jug, his wide-eyed expression telling Keon to can it.
“He’s tired, man! He’s just…he’s really tired!” Kai called over his shoulder, without a shred of conviction. He yanked Keon by the hood, “What are you, stupid? Don’t ask for anything!”
“The hell’s wrong with him? Is it the fumes?!” hissed Keon.
“Can’t be. He’s had his mask on the whole time!”
Kai turned his head to the side, watching beads of sweat trickle down his neck.
“He’s been stricken.”
“What? What’s that mean?”
“It means he’s sick!”
He took the strip of garment that was Dawit’s mask, poured some of his canteen over it, squeezed it out and began dabbing Dawit’s forehead.
“Back home, you get sick; it’s from bacteria, yeah? Or a virus.”
Keon nodded.
“Well here, it’s your mindset,” he said, pointing to his temple, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick and a crushed spirit dries the bones.”
Keon had no idea what that meant, but he nodded all the same.
The beads of sweat seemed to form faster than Kai could wipe them. He shook his head, reticent.
“It’s no good,” he muttered. “Bro? Bro! Talk to me. I can’t help you if I dunno what’s wrong with you.”
“I…I can’t…I tried…I’m sorry…”
Kai’s honey-brown complexion seemed to desaturate as the colour bled from his face and his back tensed.
“What is it?” asked Keon.
“It’s doubt. He’s been stricken with doubt,” he said, “We need to get him away from the crowds. Now!”
“Why?”
Kai slid out his Codex and peeled off a strip; eyes fixed on Dawit’s wriggling form. He folded furiously, forging a long bow, from which he tore off a length and twisted it into an arrow. Several of the people dispersed in alarm as though the very act were taboo.
“If we’re not careful, he’s gonna attract something worse.”
“Like what?”
“Stop stopping and get your Codex! I need a blank page from the Appendix.”
Keon scrambled to swing his satchel round, fumbling with the clip. He slid the book out, hesitant. He hadn’t gone near the Appendix since that day.
“Isn’t this risky?” said Keon, eyeing the crowds.
“Doesn’t matter now.”
He popped the pencil out of its pouch and flicked to the back of the book.
“What you’re gonna do is write ‘blue’, attach it to the arrow and set it alight,” said Kai.
“What?”
“Just do it!”
Keon tore out the page, wrote ‘blue’ and poked the arrow through both ends of the paper, attaching it to the shaft. Grabbing the flint and steel kit, he crouched down and began striking sparks over the paper. It caught quickly. As the flames spluttered to life, blue smoke began billowing from the page. He lifted the arrow up to eye-level, his features bathed by the blue glow.
“Whoa…”
“Now, notch the arrow and shoot it up,” said Kai, struggling to sling Dawit’s arm across his shoulders.
“Uh…”
“Bro, it’s not complicated! You’ve watched movies! Just point it up and shoot!”
Keon aimed up, bent the bow and loosed.
* * *
Shem and Avana were walking at a distance that made little sense for two people travelling together. Locals randomly passed between them, making them move quickly to re-establish eye contact. Whenever their eyes met, hostilities would resume. This cycle repeated for ten straight minutes until Shem decided to break it.
“Alright,” he said, arms flapping in resignation. “This is ridiculous.”
Avana slowed to a stop, bolting her arms across her chest.
“I agree,” she replied.
“Why were we even fighting?”
“Because you’re an idiot.”
“You what?!”
“I don’t like repeating myself…”
“Really? ‘Cause you do nothin’ but repeat the same crap, day-in-day-out. It does my head in.”
“Which shouldn’t be hard, given how little’s in there…”
“Alright, listen…”
Shem took her by the arm. He probably intended to be gentle, but wasn’t quite gentle enough.
Instinctively, Avana spun his arm off and shoved him in the chest with the other hand. He flew back two metres, knocked over a stray basket and landed in a giant sack of paprika.
Avana cupped both hands over her mask as plumes of orange-red powder mushroomed into the air around him, breaking into a high-pitched cackle moments later. She doubled over, struggling to soothe her aching stomach muscles as the powder settled, blanketing Shem in a thick layer of spice.
He sniffed a chuckle, dusting off his powdery, orange arms. As he moved to pick himself up, all mirth melted away. Avana traced the path of his stare up into the sky—and to the trail of blue smoke arcing across it.
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