and women with weapons in hand were waiting for her in the cavern, demanding justice, demanding retribution. Mahtra prepared to defend herself, but Father told her no, and faced the angry mob himself. She heard herself called terrible things that day, but Father prevailed, and the mob dispersed.
When they returned to the hide-and-bone hut, Father took her wrists firmly in his hands and said cavern children were allowed one mistake, no matter how serious, and that he’d persuaded the others that she should be granted the same grace, because being new was like being a child. Then, holding her wrists tight enough to hurt, Father said she must concern herself with the born-folk who were their neighbors along the shore of the underground water. She must not endanger the whole community with her curiosity; she must stick to the path she’d paid for, else he himself would be the one to banish her and nothing her makers had given her would protect her from his wrath.
Father had come into Mahtra’s mind then, as a warning, not as her mentor. His face was more terrible than her own and there was a horror he named death burning in his eyes. She was powerless before him. She learned a meaning of fear and had stayed on the paid-for path.
After more than six years, the early-risers of the elven market knew her by name and sometimes hailed her as she hurried on her way.
“Mahtra! Mahtra!” a woman called from behind, a dwarf by the deep pitch of her voice and, considering where Mahtra was on her path, most likely Gomer, a trader who specialized in beads and amulets.
Mahtra stopped and turned. Gomer flashed a smile and beckoned her. With a glance at the rooftops, alleys and the other places where her invisible escort might be lurking, Mahtra backtracked to the dwarf. Gomer sold her goods from the inside a boxlike stall along Mahtra’s paid-for path. The enforcers wouldn’t object—not if she saved a bit or two for the runner who’d surely show up, demanding a share of Gomer’s trade, before Mahtra left this precinct.
“What’ve you got in your sack? Got yourself some cabras, eh?” Gomer knew Mahtra didn’t talk much; she didn’t waste precious time pausing between questions. “So they’re starting to show up in the markets? Have to go out and get me some, maybe. Unless we could make a bargain, you and I. That’s a lot of fruit you’ve got there. Make you sick, it would—even you. But I’ve got something here you’d like better than cabra—cinnabar!”
Gomer’s meaty, powerful hand wove delicately over the compartmented trays set out on her selling board. She plucked up a carved bead about the size of her thumb’s knuckle and the same color as Mahtra’s fingernails. The sight of it made Mahtra’s mouth water. She liked cabra fruit, but she craved the bitter-tasting beads carved from red cinnabar.
“Thought you’d want it, dearie,” Gomer chuckled.
She closed her fingers over the bead, shook her hand and blew across it, as if she were casting dice in a high-stakes game, and then opened her fist one finger at a time. To Mahtra’s dismay, the bead had vanished.
“You do want it, don’t you?”
Mahtra nodded vigorously. The dwarf chuckled again. She made extravagant motions with her hand, and when she showed her palm again, there were three red beads nestled among the calluses.
“I should charge you a silver, that’s what they’re worth, you know—especially since you won’t resell them—but give me two of your cabras and I’ll let you have them for a half-disk.”
Mahtra would have made a bad bargain to acquire the beads, but Gomer’s offer was ideal. She fished the extra fruits out of her sack and five ceramic bits out of her coin-pouch. Gomer dribbled the beads into her hand. They were pretty little things, with leaves and flowers carved all over two of them and a strange animal she’d never seen before carved in the third. But it was the cinnabar itself that excited her. Her hand began to warm as soon as the red beads touched it.
“Have fun, dearie,” Gomer said.
The dwarf balanced one of the husky fruits against her thigh and smashed it open with a blow from her fist. Red juice sprayed her tunic, looking for a heartbeat like blood. Mahtra didn’t like blood; it was something old and deep within her, from beyond the spirals of her memory. An inner voice told her to run, and she did, though she knew the