"That man is hiding something," she said when she caught him.
He smiled. "We are all hiding something."
"I am hiding nothing!"
"Your true price. Your father sold you cheaply."
She colored, not liking to think of herself as merchandise bought and sold, like almonds and peaches, but it was true, and anyway she was happy her father had neglected to drive a harder bargain. Not that she would tell Anji that. "That's not what I mean. You asked me to use my market eyes and my market ears, and now I am telling you that man-he's called Keshad-is hiding something."
He looked back over his shoulder at the cart, then back at her. "What makes you think he's hiding something? Besides the obvious fact that he is a merchant."
"The closer we come to Olossi the weaker and more nervous he becomes. The whiteness around his eyes betrays fear, and his eyes are inflamed by shed tears."
"Many men suffer the traveling sickness-exhaustion, loose bowels, sick stomach, sore feet."
"I thought so too. But in the days we've traveled from the border, his pace has remained steady, and he eats at night."
"You have been watching him?"
Was that a sharp note in his voice? She chose to ignore it. "I am curious about the two girls in his wagon. They eat enough for three or four. Maybe they're just very hungry. But a prickling between my shoulder blades alerts me."
He grunted thoughtfully, surveying their surroundings.
The carts and wagons of the caravan proceeded along the middle portion of the road, with its paving stones, but she and Anji rode on the margin paths, against the main flow of traffic, crushed stone crunching under their horses' hooves. Farther out a skein of footpaths paralleled the road, and along this walked various locals. Some carried burdens: a grandmother limped along with a baby in a sling at her hip; a girl balanced a bulging reed basket atop her head; a trio of women easily handled massive sheaves of grain that obscured their faces and torsos. A pair of sweating, half-naked men hauled a cart piled with rocks. Other men and women ambled or hurried toward distant fields and orchards with hoes and shovels and rakes in hand. A pair of boys ran, giggling, with what appeared to be a writhing snake in the hands of one.
They had such a different look here, a different shape of skull, a rich, golden-brown complexion in a variety of shades nothing like the folk she had grown up among in Kartu Town. Yet here and there among them walked an old woman with a brown-black complexion and round features like Priya's, or a young man with the bronze-red coloring of the eastern desert towns along the Golden Road. These foreigners always wore bronze bracelets. On the whole, the Hundred folk were taller and more robust than the outlanders who had washed up in their lands, although some among the Hundred kind wore slave marks, just like in Kartu Town: brands, belled anklets, iron collars.
"Good silk," she commented, indicating the bright clothing worn by women moving along the paths. Now and again someone passed by wearing a coarser weave of silk that made the quality of the other stand out in contrast.
"They're wearing a lot of Sirniakan silk," said Anji. "I would wager that the homespun is local silk. Nothing as good as the Sirni silk. It's no wonder they prefer silk out of the south. Yet it makes me wonder how far the sword of the emperor reaches."
Her heart beat faster as she thought of the burning town they had left behind together with three men and nine slaves. "Will we be safe here?"
"We will find out." He pointed. "Look there. A troop of acrobats."
Beyond the foot trails lay cleared ground where lithe athletes, some quite young and others remarkably old, juggled balls and balanced on rope, turned cartwheels and flips, and then did it all again. A woman of middle years strode among them, hectoring and gesturing. Mai tried but could not quite hear what she was saying. The troupers, male and female alike, were dressed in short kilts and tight sleeveless jerkins; some of the men wore no top at all. It was shocking to see so much smooth and handsome skin displayed right out in public. At the roped-off edge of the dirt field, a group of children had gathered to watch. There was even a quartet of small dogs who stood on their hind legs and turned in circles, like a dance.
She turned half around in the saddle as the field fell behind. "I wonder if they'll perform here. If we can attend a show."
When he didn't answer, she turned back. They rode up to the cluster of Qin soldiers who surrounded the wagon in which the prisoner was confined. Chief Tuvi nodded as his captain fell in beside him.
"All is quiet?" asked Anji.
The chief nodded. "It is."
Tuvi called to one of the men riding next to the wagon. The wagon had a scaffolding built over it on which planks had been nailed to form a crude shelter, with a canvas ceiling stretched over the top. The soldier leaned out to release the catch on a plank and lowered it, revealing a window into the inside. Through that gap, Mai saw a slice of the dim interior and a man's face. In that first moment, his gaze was direct, defiant, unashamed, but then he flinched and raised a hand against the light. Tuvi nodded, and the soldier raised the plank and latched it back into place.
"He eats," said Tuvi. "He wishes to keep up his strength."
"I wonder what manner of justice he expects from these assizes," said Anji. "I have spoken with the caravan masters. It seems a court is assembled of men or women from the town who have a certain respectable standing. They hear evidence, and then make a judgment by casting lots."
Tuvi tugged at an ear. "Women? Huh."
"Women listen and observe better than men do," said Mai.
"I dare not argue," said Anji in a way that irritated her.
Chief Tuvi gave her a long, careful look as he scratched at his chin and the straggle of beard growing there. "Maybe so. In the tribe, women rule on women's matters, which are a thing men cannot judge."
In Kartu Town, the bureaucrats of the law courts ruled on all matters brought to their attention, but these were public disputes. Within the family, of course, Father Mei was the arbiter of all decisions and the executor of all punishments. His word was the only law.
"I think I will like to see these assizes," said Mai, "where women sit together with men on the court. And cast lots. And pass judgment."
But she had lost them. The gazes of both men, and indeed those of all of the soldiers riding on this side of the road, had strayed to follow a thread unwinding through the foot traffic. It was almost funny to see men up and down the caravan become distracted at the sight of a tall young woman striding along one of the paths toward town, not more than fifteen paces out from the road. She had a man's casual confidence but a woman's eye-catching sway and shift. She wore white, a stark color compared with all the bright oranges, reds, yellows, spring greens, and jewel blues that ornamented the many women out and about their business. The hem of her white kilted skirt did not brush her knees; her white sleeveless jacket was so short that her belly button was exposed. Even the locals glanced at her with interest, the men with that lift of the chin, that pause of a gaze, that measures a woman's attributes. Her hair was pulled back into a single braid falling halfway down her back. One of her cheeks had a purple bruise high along the cheekbone, a smear that almost reached the fine perfect shell of an ear. She was barefoot, just as all those acrobats in the field had been. Oblivious of the world, intent on her own thoughts, she was holding a reed pipe to her mouth. Her fingers pressed patterns on that slim surface, but Mai heard no tune whistling from the pipe above the rumble and creak made by the caravan's passage.