“Ser, would you have sea emeralds . . . or the flame rubies from Southwind?”
Cerryl shook his head, wrinkling his nose at the oppressive scent of the cloth thrust practically under his nose and stepping back, bumping into a square-faced woman, who glared at him.
“My pardon,” he said quickly and turning.
“Oil soaps, smooth as a bairn’s cheek . . .”
“Elixirs! Get your elixirs here . . . the best in tinctures of the sea . . .”
The apprentice dodged two thin women who bustled toward Beryal and him as if to separate them, then eased closer to Beryal.
“Where . . . ?” murmured Beryal to herself, rather than to Cerryl, as she strode past a blue-and-cream cart piled high with baskets and into a clearer space in the middle of the circular square.
Cerryl followed, glad to get an uncrowded breath.
A flash of golden-red hair by a green cart caught Cerryl’s eye, and he forced himself to turn slowly, so slowly he felt as though he were barely moving. The golden-red hair belonged to an older woman—one a good decade older than the girl Cerryl had seen but once in the screeing glass and never dared to seek again. The reddish blond-haired woman walked briskly away from a cart where roasted fowl turned on a spit, fowl placed there so recently that the skin was still dun and far from golden, and no savory odor filled the square.
Cerryl glanced sideways at Beryal, who seemed not to have noticed his momentary interest.
“There.” Beryal walked swiftly toward the red cart and a white-haired woman wrapped in a blue woolen shawl.
“Spices, the finest spices . . . spices from Austra, fennel-seed and seristar from far Hamor . . .” The seller stopped as Beryal stepped up to the cart. “Your pleasure, lady? Perhaps some seristar? Or sweetmint leaves?”
“I might be thinking of peppercorns,” began Beryal. “Were they not too dear.”
“The best in peppercorns are those from Sarronnyn, and you are most fortunate, for those I have.”
“I cannot taste the difference. Have you any from Hydlen?”
“They are poorer. See.” The white-haired woman fumbled with the pouches on the cart shelf, then extended both hands. “The dark and round ones—those are from Sarronnyn. The wizened ones . . . from Hydlen.”
“Plump peppercorns oft be soft.”
“These are round and firm. See.” The seller placed one in Beryal’s palm.
Cerryl eased away from the two and toward the gold-and-green cart adjoining the spice peddler’s space. Several knives and daggers were laid out on a cheap cotton velvet cloth of green.
“Be wanting a short blade, young ser?” The man by the cart was built like a barrel and wore only a tunic in the chill sunlight. Blackened teeth marked his too-friendly smile.
Cerryl pretended to study the blades, then shook his head.
“Bronze blades, white-metal blades, iron blades, steel blades—whatever please you,” persisted the seller.
“They look good,” Cerryl said politely, “too good for a poor apprentice.”
“This one”—the big man pointed to a dark iron blade less than a span long—“good for eating, cutting in the shop, takes an edge with ease. Only a silver, just a silver.”
Cerryl shook his head sadly, not that he wanted any sort of iron blade. The darkness within the metal bothered him, for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself.
“As you wish, young fellow.” The peddler turned to a brown-bearded man in faded blue trousers and a sheepskin jacket. “You, ser? A skinning knife? The finest in the eastern lands right here . . .”
Cerryl slipped back toward Beryal, his eyes traversing the square—no sign of golden-red hair. Why did he keep thinking of the girl in the glass? It had been more than a year—more than two—since he had seen her, and only in a glass yet. He shook his head, but he kept studying the traders’ square while Beryal continued her haggling.
“You call that cumin? Looks and smells like water-soaked oris seeds.”
“Alas, my lady, a dry year it was in Delapra.” The seller shrugged. “This is what I have. Five coppers a palm, and a bargain at that.”
“One, and you do well at that,” countered Beryal.
Cerryl let a faint smile cross his face as he slowly surveyed the square and waited.
XXXI
CERRYL WALKED SLOWLY down the lesser artisans’ way. His breath puffed from his lips in white clouds, and he found himself hunching into his battered leather jacket, his hands up under the bottom edge to keep them warm. He should have worn his gloves, but Tellis had been so insistent that Cerryl hurry that he hadn’t dared to go back to his room for them.