Page 22 of Needed in the Night
I feigned a stumble. “Ouch,” I yelped, and fell against Mikas’s side as if I’d turned my ankle or tripped.
Reflexively, he caught me and set me back on my feet, his massive hands wrapped around my forearms with surprising gentleness even though I’d startled him. The strength and heat of his grip was instantly reassuring.
“Are you all right?” He scanned the ground, plainly wondering what had caused me to lose my footing.
“I’m fine,” I said, with an embarrassed laugh and a glance around, as if to confirm my mishap hadn’t been noticed. “I’m just clumsy.”
His grip tightened ever so slightly, and then he let me go. “An uneven walkway,” he said, his gaze searching my face. “We must watch our step.”
“Definitely.” Wincing, I steadied myself on his arm and rubbed my lower leg. “Mind if I take your arm for a minute? I twisted my ankle.”
“Of course,” he said automatically, but the crease remained between his thick eyebrows.
Could he tell I’d faked that stumble so I could hang onto his arm and talk more quietly to make listening in more difficult for Scar? I suspected so—just as he’d probably seen me palm that dagger in the bar.
He studied me for a beat, his vertically slit yellow eyes scanning my face as if trying to read something there that might reveal my motives for this trip to the market, and maybe hoping for something more, like the truth about why I’d come to Fortusia. I’d had the sense for a while that he didn’t buy my cover story—at least, not all of it.
He’d been a soldier. He probably recognized training when he saw it, and was better than most at seeing through myhelpless human female act. He had to be wondering why a singer who liked pretty dresses not only carried weapons but knew how to use them.
I opened my mouth to bring up the dagger…then thought better of it. I couldn’t be sure we wouldn’t be overheard even if I whispered and we were in a crowd.
My heart ached when I opted to stay silent. But why? What was it about Mikas that compelled me to trust him when I’d rarely trusted another soul?
We made our way slowly through the market’s arched gateway and onto the promenade. Even this late at night, it was busy.
“Sorry about this,” I said, hanging onto Mikas’s forearm. “I’m sure my ankle will stop hurting soon.”
“I am sure it will,” he said, and that time his tone sounded almost…amused. But when I looked up, his expression was as inscrutable as always.
Since his size encouraged others to move aside, I let him guide me through the crowded market. Tourists and locals alike shopped here for everything from food and drink to pets, medical supplies, employment opportunities, clothing, and more, including fortune tellers and recruiters for private militaries. Even after a dozen visits to the market, it remained a sensory overload of competing voices, odors, sights, and loud noises.
A merchant selling imitation Fylorian tapestries argued loudly with a customer over price as we passed their shop. In the next stall, a Bacorian monk-gastronomist was cooking vegetables on an open-air grill and chanting blessings on the food. My stomach growled. Hopefully Mikas couldn’t hear that over the din.
In addition to the lure of the market’s many shops, street performers had set up throughout the main promenade and the web of walkways that led to smaller courtyards with fountainsand gardens. The performers sang, danced, performed acrobatics, and in one case even demonstrated precision tricks with blades, enticing shoppers to drop credits or coins in their collection bins.
One female singer in particular drew my attention. I didn’t recognize her species, but she was tiny and almost birdlike, perched on a tall chair near the perfume shop, singing in a high, clear voice that made me misty-eyed with its crystalline beauty. The crowd around her appeared enthralled—so much so that several listeners held credit sticks or coins in their hands but seemed rooted in place instead of coming forward to drop their tips in the little box in front of the singer’s chair.
Mikas startled me when he covered my hand on his arm with his own. I couldn’t recall a single time he’d touched my hand before this.
He bent so his mouth was near my ear. “Isla, do you weep?” he murmured, his voice rough.
I blinked away my tears. “Her voice is perfect,” I whispered. “Gods, I’ve never heard anything like it.”
“She is one of the Sirrah,” he said very softly. “They are prized for their voices.”
I went cold. “Prized?”
Mikas nodded, his expression solemn.
Prizedmeantwanted,target for kidnapping,desirable for ownership.Prizedmeant misery and suffering. I hated that word with every fiber of my being.
I bit my lip and turned my head away, hoping to hide my reaction, but it was too late. More tears spilled over—this time, in anger. The Sirrah’s singing had made me uncharacteristically vulnerable, and then Mikas had unwittingly made the situation worse.
He rubbed my fingers. “This one is free, though,” he said, his tone gentle. “You see, she wears no collar or cuff.”
No, she didn’t have any signs of being someone’s property,but nausea surged at the thought of this beautiful little singer in a cage. I clenched my jaw. A little sound escaped that sounded perilously close to a whimper. Mikas’s expression darkened.
Hoping to distract myself, I reached into my bag and took out a handful of local coins. To my surprise, my companion scooped them from my hand, combined them with some of his own from his pocket—alotof his own, in fact—and left my side just long enough to drop them into the singer’s box. Without missing a note, the birdlike woman dipped her head in thanks.
