SMOKE RISES ABOVE the gate lion’s head. Olus drops his wool basket. He grasps my arm and we run toward the market.
A stiff wind hurries us along. I fear that the wind will fan the flames, but it dies when we get close. We race around the edges of the stalls. Although the smoke is thick, Olus seems to know where to go.
The timbrel player shrieks as he rolls on the ground, afire. Flames shoot up from the meat brazier. A woman slaps at her burning sleeve. The cook’s straw cushion and several baskets are on fire. My feet dance up and down. I don’t know how to help. Flame creeps up a bamboo awning pole. If the awnings catch, the whole market will go.
Liquid pours down on the pole and the cushion and the baskets. I look up. The plum-juice vat is in the air above us, dumping its contents.
The water trough flies above the burning musician. It tilts. His garments sputter and hiss.
The fire is out. I look for Olus and see him rolling a length of carpet around the arm of the woman with the burning sleeve. He seems to be concentrating only on her, but I know better. This masma saved everyone.
A wind blows the juice vat and the trough away from the market onto the King’s Road, where they clatter down harmlessly.
Someone cries, “A miracle!”
A woman shouts, “Admat saved us!”
A man’s voice rises, singing,
“Merciful Admat,
Who loves his people
More than he loves
His righteous fire.”
Many voices chant, “Thanks to Admat.”
I chant too, but I also think, Thanks to Olus, Admat’s masma.
Pazur runs to me. “Mistress! You are safe!”
“And you?” I ask. There is soot in his hair. I notice ashes drifting down, soot in everyone’s hair.
“I am well. We should go home now.”
People are chattering to each other. No one has heard of such a marvel as has just taken place.
“I haven’t finished,” I say. “Mati knows I’ll be here all day.” I start for the weavers’ stalls. As I walk, I stuff my ball of golden wool into my tapestry sack.
Pazur follows me to a rug stall, where I go to a pile of carpets. I study the top one carefully, then lift it off and study the next. The workmanship isn’t as good as mine, but I pretend to be interested.
Around me the market is settling into its ordinary state. Vendors resume their cries. Even the timbrels and drum begin again.
Pazur sits on a low stack of carpets. In a few minutes his eyes close. His head lolls sideways against an awning pole. I move to the next stall, where a merchant displays his yarns.
“You won’t find wool as fine as mine here.”
Olus is at my side. He has his wool basket again.
“I want to see your yarn in the light.” I lead him past the sleeping Pazur, through the market aisle, and out into the sunshine.
We walk several yards until we are beyond earshot of the shoppers but still in plain sight.
“Olus, can you fly?”
“No, but I can ride my winds.”
His winds?
“I can lift you, too. Would you like to ride my winds?”
I would like to ride Admat’s winds. I nod eagerly.
“Would you like to visit Akka?”
I could live a full span of years and never see more than Hyte. “Yes, I would like to see Akka.” But I can’t simply go. “Wait. I’ll be just a minute.”
I run back to Pazur. “Wake up!”
His eyes open. “I’m awake, Mistress. I wasn’t asleep.”
“Pazur . . .” I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. “Tell Pado and Mati I’ll return—at the latest—when all the figs are ripe.”
He jumps up and seizes my arm.
I pull away. “Don’t touch me!”
He drops his hand.
“Tell Pado and Mati about the miracle here. Tell them I’ve seen a sign.”
His mouth drops open. I leave him. In a moment I am with Olus again. “Where is Akka?”
“In the north. Beyond the hills.”
Will everyone see us fly?
Clouds blow in and cover the sun. This masma is powerful! Thick fog covers the King’s Road and the market.
“Ready, Kezi?”
“Yes!”