“Do you have any money?” I asked Wes. When he nodded, I knelt to inspect the items closer.
Beaded bracelets and woven anklets mixed with rings of every size and design. At the corner of the quilt, dusty from where it hung into the dirt, a braided rope necklace caught my attention. Dyed a patchy black, the thin rope supported a dangling pendant. I turned the pendant over, revealing the inside of a halved fig. The seeds were tiny gold beads, the veins connecting them embroidered violet and pink. The outside of the fig was violet and outlined in gold. I ran my thumb across the fuzzy front.
“How much for this?”
I gave him twice what he requested. I wasn’t stingy with Nizahlan money, and Arin would compensate Wes. I slipped the necklace into my pocket.
“Your taste is terrible,” Jeru said.
The road curved downhill suddenly, sending pebbles skidding to the sides. My heart pounded as a woman with curly black hair disappeared into the crowd. Everywhere I looked, flashes of Soraya stole across the exuberant town. Any of the Urabi or Mufsids could be at the festival. They circled me, predators around a bleeding stag, waiting to see who would be closest when my legs collapsed.
I tried to ease my restlessness by focusing on the task at hand. We returned to the main stage and its crush of revelers. The dancers taking the stage wore gossamer gowns shaped to resemble rochelyas. A strap of fabric wound around their breasts and their hips, representing the rochelya’s long neck. A short skirt flared out at the waist. They kept their hair pinned up to expose the rochelya’s teeth clasped behind their necks, holding up the salacious ensemble. Bare except for the parts the rochelyas covered, the dancers’ appearance on the stage distracted the royals and guards equally.
Sefa, Marek, and I took our leave as they began their sinuous belly dance. The Omalian guards at the palace recognized me, allowing us free entry. If we had attempted this venture in Orban, I had a feeling the khawaga would have rendered our mission obsolete.
“Do you know where Vaida’s room is?” I asked Marek.
Servants streamed up and down the stairs, preparing the rooms for the drunken royals and nobles who would be stumbling into them.
“Third floor, east wing. I will recognize her door by the guard in front of it.”
Marek and Sefa had woken up in the morning with a headache, but none the worse for wear. They refused to speak of what the ghaiba had shown them, and they’d relished my description of Arin’s retaliation at the dinner.
While I had wasted the day walking the gardens with the other Champions and dressing for the festival, they had prepared for tonight.
So far, the plan was moving forward with shocking success. Sefa had asked an Omalian guard where she could deliver the Sultana’s gown for the evening, and he pointed her in the right direction. Marek would be charged with distracting the single guard on duty while Sefa and I rifled through Vaida’s room.
As for what would be done with the ring after we stole it, Sefa offered an unanticipated resolution. It seemed she and Marek had not been idly waiting in Orban while I completed the first trial. They had returned from their trip into Orban’s villages with a scribbled spell from a small apothecary. Three slashes marked the spell, which Sefa explained as the amount of magic a Jasadi would expend using it. I had asked, “Three out of what?” and received a dumbfounded silence in response.
Once we stole the seal and used it to barter for our protection, the spell should theoretically prevent Vaida from reneging on her promise. She would not know it had been cast unless she sought to harm us, in which case she would find herself losing track of the thought.
The servants paid us little attention as we approached, and only a few guards remained in Vaida’s wing, peering enviously from the window at the end of the hall. When we reached the hall with the Sultana’s room, Sefa and I hid around the corner. A Lukubi guard leaned against Vaida’s door, idly adjusting the strings on her vest. Marek rumpled his hair, undid the top laces of his tunic, and swaggered past us.
Her face brightened at Marek’s approach. She recognized him from the Ivory Palace. He aimed a mischievous grin at her, bracing an arm above the guard’s head as he murmured in her ear. She trilled a laugh. Watching Marek wield the appeal that came so naturally to him, I couldn’t help my swell of envy. My personality did not lend itself to romantic musings, even the fleeting kind. Or so I had thought. Recent events seemed to indicate otherwise. But where Marek could be dying from six stab wounds and still find the energy to charm the nearest living creature, I had nearly broken my ankle trying to avoid Arin this morning. I didn’t understand the reactions I was experiencing, so I did what I do best in times of inner turmoil: I ignored it.