“… a boy, too … orange turban…” Fragments of the merchant’s voice reach my ears, making me freeze in place.
“Which boy?” The thanedar’s voice is louder, more impatient. “There are about a hundred boys wearing orange turbans here. Did you get a good look at him?”
My shoulders sag with relief when the merchant shakes his head, frustration etched on each line of his face. The thanedar turns away and raises his fingers to his mouth. A whistle, magnified to four, possibly five times its normal volume by magic, cuts through the noise.
“We ask you to remain calm,” he says in a deep voice. “We will have everything in order.”
But even as the officers stalk the bazaar, peeking under tables, questioning stallkeepers, and marshaling a group of rowdy city boys out of their way, I can tell they are too late. The fireflies have begun to light up overhead. The girl is gone.
A girl who, if the insects’ odd behavior was any indication, has whisper magic in her veins. A girl who, whether she was a thief or not, never needed my help in the first place. The realization is like being doused in ice water and scalded by fire all at once.
How could I have been such a fool?
I wipe a hand roughly across my mouth, but the memory of the kiss remains seared into my skin.
A hand clamps over my shoulder, and for a second, I grow still, thinking someone has recognized me from the scene I caused earlier that evening.
“Well”—a man’s voice brushes softly against my ear—“that was quite a show, wasn’t it?”
Latif is finally here.
He holds up a cloth-covered box, its edges crusted with sequins. “I got these for you.”
If the distinct smell of the rose syrup and ghee rising from the wood did not give away the box’s contents, then the burst of moisture at the back of my tongue definitely would have. A box of chandramas. Filigreed dough shaped like full moons, foiled with gold and garnished with rose petals and dried honeyweed seeds, a chandrama is a delicacy made only during the moon festival. I still remember the one and only time I tasted one—or the broken half of one—salvaged from the partly eaten food tossed into the palace garbage heap. An explosion of sherbet and roses in my mouth. A single moment of bliss, followed by an odd sense of loss. Gold eyes flash in my memory. I push aside the thought of the thief’s kiss—the only other taste that left me with a similar feeling.
I look into Latif’s pale, nearly colorless eyes. “What do you want?” I ask. A single chandrama costs no less than twenty-five silver rupees. Boxes like these are even more expensive, worth more silver than I would be able to save in a year. After a year of dealing with Latif, I know that gifts from him do not come without a price.
“Why must I want something?” he asks mildly. “Can I not bring sweets for my friend?”
If my nerves weren’t already frayed by what happened at the festival, I would laugh. Latif is many things. A follower of Prophet Zaal and Sant Javer. A connoisseur of sweets and lateness. A master at invisibility magic. But he is no one’s friend.
I study Latif’s face now—beard, the blue-black shadows under his eyes, his skin so leeched of color that it looks gray in the moonlight. Latif always wears the same clothes when I see him: a long gray tunic with a vest and matching narrow trousers. Gray jootis encase his feet. Unlike most Ambari men, who wear their turbans in tight, practical coils around their heads, Latif wears his gray turban the way the merchants, shopkeepers, and high-ranking servants at the palace do—in elaborate layers, with the edge fanning out from the top left. I wonder at times if Latif’s strange appearance is due to the magic he uses to vanish so often. Or if he’s averse to bathing. But I hold back my questions.
After all, this man has been paying me ten whole swarnas every month for the past year in exchange for telling him secrets about the palace and its inhabitants—an act that could land me in prison or get me executed if anyone ever found out. But secrets can also be used to buy medicine from the black market and mixed into Papa’s morning tea. When you’re poor, secrets can very well be the difference between life and death.
“Tell me.” Latif’s voice takes on the singsongy tone I’ve grown familiar with. “What news of the palace?”
The palace. Or rather, two specific people within the palace.
“The Spider is supposed to be here in a fortnight,” I say.
“What about the Scorpion?”
The Scorpion. General Tahmasp’s—or the Spider’s—right-hand woman, Major Shayla.
“When I saw her this morning, she was crushing a child’s hand under her boot.” The serving boy’s screams were ringing outside the stables. Apart from their stiff backs, none of the other servants gave any indication of having heard them. It might have continued for longer—Major Shayla has a fondness for sadism—if not for the king, who had sent a messenger summoning her to Raj Mahal. “She’s still staying in Ambar Fort.”
Latif looks unsurprised by my comments. The only person Latif never asks me about is the king. Perhaps he knows more than I do, or perhaps he’s simply not interested. The latter seems unlikely to me, but again, these are secrets I am not privy to. Latif gives me a nod and then, as he always does, drops a bag of coins into my hands. Enough for a month’s worth of Papa’s medicine. Latif joins his palms in a final farewell.
The first time we met, it happened so quickly that I missed it. But afterward, Latif always made sure I saw him leave. Tonight, he is even slower than usual, the pointed tips of his jootis disappearing first, and then his knees, hips, elbows, and finger joints. He gets creative with
