Honey, Plums, and Cinnamon

When my mother offered me at Belast's altar, the god plucked out my right eye. It could have been much worse. I've seen Talented who are missing hands, or feet, or entire limbs. I've heard of Talented men, high-voiced, who'd lost their manhood in exchange for Belast's power. I consider the one eye a fair trade for my Talent.

The scent of love permeates the marketplace: new-love, friend-love, jealous-love, even hate-love. It shifts as people move, as their gazes fall in different directions; it mingles with the scent of cumin, paprika, and turmeric. My wares jangle at my waist and over my shoulders--pots, pans, teapots, lamps, and chains. They all smell of old-love, comfort-love. It's deep and sweet, like a river laced with honey.

Niyat's whiskers tickle my ear. "There are easier ways to make money, Iyalah."

I scratch his little head, and use the movement to tuck him back beneath my hood. "We've spoken on this before," I mutter.

"But your mother--"

"Understands," I cut in. I stop, unroll the rug beneath my arm, and set up my wares on the dusty floor of an alley. All of my wares are metal. They have to be, to become so loved and still be of use. "I have a reputation," I say. "I sell only the finest goods." The leather merchant to my left gives me an odd look, but says nothing.

"Your Talent blinds you," Niyat says. "These things are worn." He shifts inside my hood, and his tail slips down the back of my neck, making me shiver.

Amongst the flow of foot traffic, a woman stops to consider one of my bronze lamps. She lifts it, examining the curve of its spout.

"You must face the truth before it's too late," Niyat whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. "Iyalah, your mother is dying."

Perhaps it is the redness of my nose, or the sunken hollow where my right eye used to be, but the woman glances at my face and then sets the lamp back down. The sandstone street blurs in my vision as she walks away.

"I don't say this to hurt you," Niyat says. "I know what it's like to lose a mother. I don't want the same fate to befall you." He shifts into a weasel and drapes himself about my neck, seeking to comfort me the way I once comforted him. I found him years ago as a kitten, mewling his heartbreak outside the palace gates. He did not smell of love until after I'd taken him home, given him some milk, and washed the fleas from his fur. When I awoke, a girl with a missing left hand curled in the corner where I'd left the kitten. But Niyat prefers a male form, so I pretend not to notice that he shifts into a girl when he sleeps.

I wipe the tears from my eye. "She's just sick," I say, though I know, and Niyat knows, it is not the truth. Mother has been abed for six days. "She only needs a doctor. I'll find a way to pay."

"Use your Talent," Niyat says.

"To do what? Become a soothsayer? The only ones unaware of who loves them are heartsick teenagers, and they've little enough coin. Besides, I've done it once before." A secret, blurted out when I was ten years old. A man's wife and her cousin. They did not smell of family-love when they looked at one another.

"Your mother didn't place you on the altar so you could live in poverty," Niyat says.

I open my mouth to retort, to ask Niyat why his mother placed him on the altar, but a commotion sounds from the street. Raised voices, feet shuffling as people run past the alley, and then one voice calls above the rest.

"The Raj's crier," Niyat says. He tries to scramble onto my shoulder, but I push him back down. "Can you hear what he's saying?"

"Quiet," I hiss. I rise to my feet, and turn my head, trying to pinpoint the sound. I can't make out everything the crier says, but I hear enough. "Another execution. Sundown, at the palace gates." I stop, listen again. "The Wazir of Trade."