With a scrape of plaster against her stomach and a damp pant leg brushing her forehead, Naomi pushed through to the street beyond. Exhaling, she rushed into Harvester’s Market ahead of the Crows, who would have to go around yet another block of houses. What she saw brought her running steps to a quick halt next to an empty cart. There were Merchants in the Harvester’s Market, and not just any painter or tailor who may have come for a bag of dates on his way to work. No, standing in a line before half-empty stalls of fruit were twelve men and women whose hands had all been dyed a deep purple by the skilled work they did; a skill which held sway over Ka’veshi, from the docks to the royal palace.
That the Purple Hand were in the market did not bode well for Naomi’s morning. The Purple Hand didn’t go to markets. They had servants and Dogs and other guilds to do such things that were deemed beneath their delicate hands; hands that wove the most beautiful of fabrics and tapestries by methods of magic kept as closely guarded as their wealth. To share a secret of the Purple Hand was to have your hands cut off, your tongue cut out, and the rest of you left on the street where none would dare to lend you aid, not even a Crow.
Speaking of Crows, they entered the open market square from the opposite side and stopped, just as Naomi had done. More eerily unnatural than the Purple Hand being at the Harvester’s Market was the way the Crows fell deathly silent. Behind their wooden stalls of food, the Harvesters waited. A breeze tumbled a scrap of parchment over street stones between weavers and farmers, and in her chest Naomi’s heart pounded. Then, came the rhythmic beat of marching.
Spears.
The Harvester’s came from behind their stalls and stood with the Purple Hand. The Crows slunk back into the safe shadows between buildings. A ram’s horn echoed off plaster and stone as the Spears filed into the square with unflinching precision, at their head a man bearing the royal seal. A Purple Hand more decorated than her guildmates stepped forward along with a Harvester who held a silver sickle in his tight fist. Water stood with the earth, and together they faced the fire.
As the silence lingered like a gathering storm, two things became dismally clear to Naomi. One, she would be going hungry this morning. And two, war was not brewing in Ka’veshi. It had already arrived.
15
“I don’t understand it,” Tobin muttered, followed by a strange scraping noise. “This wood’s dry as an old bone. Should catch fire faster than a cornfield in high drought. I can get a spark, but not a single flame.”
“Did you try oil, dear?” Penna asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Tobin responded then huffed. “How’re we supposed to make breakfast with no fire?”
“Bread and cheese it is,” Penna answered, unflustered by the situation, and the sound of dishes being moved followed.
“Going to get different wood,” Tobin muttered, his voice trailing from the room.
“I like cheese,” Jenny said, her voice much closer than the others. “At least, I think I do?”
Dnara inhaled and opened one eye. Jenny sat on the floor next to where Dnara lay on a pile of hay. Jenny had a washcloth in her hand, which she slowly wrung into a bowl then moved towards Dnara’s forehead. Jenny paused and tilted her head, silver strands of hair catching the light as she smiled.
“Good morning, Miss Dnara,” Jenny said softly, then she raised her voice to the room. “She’s awake!”
“Bless Faedra,” Penna said as she stopped moving dishes about and came closer. “Had us worried again, you did.”
“You wouldn’t wake up,” Jenny added, her face weighted by a frown.
Dnara slowly sat up with Jenny’s help. The hay bed had been topped with a multicolored quilt, softening the scratchy cushion beneath her. The cloak was gone from her back, once again draped over a dining chair. There had been no blanket, but she didn’t feel cold despite the lack of fire in the hearth or her proximity to the cool stone floor. If anything, she felt overly warm.
“There you go.” Jenny smiled softly then brought the rag back to Dnara’s face and gently patted her brow. “I think it’s getting better, Miss Penna.”
“What’s better?” Dnara asked, blinking away the dizziness that followed.
“Your fever,” Jenny answered.
“Jenny’s been tending you this morning,” Penna said and put her own hand against Dnara’s forehead for a moment before nodding in agreement. “Been doing a real fine job of getting your temperature down, she has.”
Dnara lifted a hand to her forehead and found it warmer than it should be, then her eyes refocused on her arms. The scars were covered in welts, some blistered and others broken open. Her gaze shot to the fire where the blight had burned, and the memory of its hideous dying scream echoed through her head. “What happened?”
“Passed out again, you did,” Jenny answered. “Here, let me put more of this on those blisters. Miss Penna says it’s called salve, and that it’ll help.”
“It may sting a bit,” Penna warned. “Your whole body had a high fever last night, the likes of which I’ve never seen. We thought you might actually catch fire, so we all took turns cooling you with water from the brook. One of us took a much longer turn than the rest,” she said with a wistful smile aimed at Dnara.
Tobin reentered with a
