Windsong, yoxwind, lostwind,
a half day's time to keep.
Hunger and thirst and weariness did not dampen their astonishment at the sights and smells of Kebblewok.
“I didn’t know this many people existed in all Ve,” Marwen said. Maug scowled and started irritably at every sound.
Stalls of merchandise lined the road, bright booths filled with woven baskets and wind clocks, cloth dolls and heavy woven greatrugs. Painted pots of clay and bundles of straw were stacked against the perspiring stone walls of buildings; the bleats and clucks of farm animals in reed-fenced corrals drowned out the merchants calling their wares; and the smell of breads and sauces and roasting meat floated like spirits into their faces. The cooks eyed them morosely.
“There must be people here from all the provinces,” Marwen said, her voice full of awe. “There’s a man with dark hair from Verduma, and there’s a woman from Vaphrodia.”
A tall beautiful woman, with long silver hair like Marwen’s own, walked by them. Marwen was instantly aware of what she herself must look like—her gray spidersilk and her long silver hair covered in the brown-gray dust of the hills, only her flushed cheeks and dry gleaming eyes betraying life.
She could never have dreamed in all her days in Marmawell the prosperity she now witnessed. Finely spun and intricately dyed textiles were held out to those who passed by but snatched back when Marwen and Maug passed. Metalcraft tools, wire and basins were piled in polished order. Leather goods, glassware and food stalls lined the streets, and overhead, wingwands filled the air like clouds of color.
They walked along the market streets, mostly unnoticed and ignored, until they came to a stall that was no more than a little section of tiered shelves, and on the shelves were rows of neat shoes, boots, and slippers. On the greatrug was a bucket of clear water from which a slight black-haired man ladled himself a drink.
“That smells so good,” Marwen said.
The man looked up, glowering. His two front teeth were missing, and his beard was black and prickly except where it grew out of his many moles. Those hairs were white.
“That smell is leather and manure and hard-working people,” he said with a heavy accent. He looked at her poor dress and turned back to his work.
“No, I mean the water,” Marwen said, and she licked her sunburned lips. “It is singing to me, and I can smell it, also.”
The man turned back to her, slowly. His black eyes flickered, but his face was still. He glanced at Maug, who rolled his eyes and made as if to walk away.
“You want a drink? There’s plenty to drink.”
Marwen took the ladle from him with both hands and drank noisily. He gave her more, and she drank again and then offered some to Maug. He frowned and took the water calmly, but his throat quivered as he drank.
“Enough,” the man said. “You wait now, then have more later.” He looked at Marwen closely and at her feet. “You come far. You have a mother? Father? This man is your husband?”
“Me? Married to her?” Maug asked. He snorted.
Marwen shook her head. “No, no husband, and my mother is dead.” Marwen glared at Maug. “But here is my father.” She pulled the ip from her pocket and dangled the reptile by the tail, shaking it at Maug. Maug’s head jerked back and he stumbled.
“Ip! Pru brucht!” the man gasped. “What mean you by ‘Here is my father?’”
“Yes, ip,” she said with a grim smile. “Actually he is not my father. He is my stepfather.” Then her smile faded, leaving dust lines along her nose and mouth.
The Shoemaker came closer to look at the creature. The ip hissed violently at the man, and Marwen pocketed it.
“How is it you are not poisoned by this pet?” he asked.
But Marwen didn’t want to think or talk about the ip, knowing that, though the people often disbelieved the magic, they still feared sorcery.
“You make beautiful shoes,” she said. “I have come over the hills without shoes.”
“You want to buy shoes?”
“No,” Marwen said, stepping back. Somewhere, someone was baking sugar tarts, and she lifted her head to smell them.
“You are hungry. You have money?” the man asked.
“No.”
“You have something for trade?” Marwen did not answer.
The man looked at Maug. “Big boy, you can work?” The man’s eyes fell on Maug’s waist where his tapestry pouch should have been, and then his molehairs bristled. He turned back to his work with a quick shake of his head.
Marwen looked at Maug. He swallowed. There were likely few in such a large city who cared if a strange boy and girl starved before their eyes. The smell of hot buttersoaks struck her. The saliva in her mouth went thin as water.
“Please,” she said, “I have a gift, in spells and charms.” She remembered her vow that she would not sell her magic for shoes as Grondil had done. She could feel her cheeks flushing.
The man turned back to face her. He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, never taking his eyes from hers. “I believe yes,” he said softly. “You smell my water, it sings to you. You have this ip for a pet. I think you have the gift, you are one of them. My name is Crob. Come, help, and I will give you food and shoes.”
Curtly and without looking at them again, the man had Marwen and Maug help him empty his shelves into bags lined with slots into which the shoes fit. He gave Marwen the water bucket to carry. To Maug he gave the heaviest bags and gestured to them to follow him. She was afraid, following this odd-looking man into the heart of a city she did not know, and she glanced back often at Maug, taking a dark reassurance in his presence.
At one point he walked beside her. “Here, you take this,” he said shrugging off one of the bags of shoes onto her shoulder. “It wasn’t my idea to do this.”
“You should be grateful,” she hissed, watching the back of Crob’s head. “He’s right—you can’t work without a tapestry.”
“Shall I tell him what is in your tapestry pouch?” Maug asked quietly.
Marwen looked at him sideways and said nothing. Her back soon ached with the weight of the shoes and the water, but she clenched her jaw and did not complain. She was too engrossed in the city sights to complain.
Wealthy women shrouded in robes made from the wings of wingwands strolled the marketplace with easy haughty steps, their laughter rising like a slap to the impoverished who called their wares. Many of the poorest seemed to know Crob by name. One old woman who huddled before a neatly folded pile of blankets did not call but raised her empty hands to Crob as he passed, as though she held up her poverty as a thing of weight and substance.
“Blankets, good sir? Have need of fine woven blankets?” Her voice was tremulous, her fingers shook and Marwen recoiled, thinking of the Taker.
“No, Grandmother,” Crob said, “not today. But say a prayer for old Crob,” and he passed her a silver bit.
Marwen thought she saw the coin hover slightly above her palm before her fingers closed over it.
“You must be doing well with your beautiful shoes, Crob, to hire help,” the old woman said.
“Politha, for one so blind, you see much,” Crob said gruffly, but Marwen felt the gentle teasing in his voice.
Marwen saw that though her teeth were yellowed and her eyes blind, her smile was beautiful and full of wisdom. “Aye, I see your goodness,” the old woman said. “How is the lad?”
“Not much longer, I think,” Crob said, and he nodded at Marwen as if they shared some secret.
Marwen sensed something magical in the old woman and leaned down to pass her a ladleful of the cool water. She was reminded too well of the Taker to find her tongue and speak, but she managed to smile. The woman drank and passed the ladle back to Marwen.