of the aproned lads behind the counter.
‘Three seeded loaves. The largest you have. And something to carry them in.’
The lad tossed the loaves into a bag of twine netting and held it towards him. ‘One-and-a-half marvels,’ he informed him. ‘Plus a quarter for the bag. That’s one-and-three-quarters.’
It was an extortionate price, no doubt a result of the festa and the countless pilgrims, though he handed over two marvels and plucked the bag from the youth’s hand.
‘That’ll be an extra quarter.’
‘For what?’
‘For providing change.’
Someone shoved into Ash from behind as they tried to get closer to the counter. He shoved back without looking, restoring the inch of space around him. ‘You want me to give you a quarter, so you can give me a quarter back in change?’
‘I don’t make the rules,’ the lad said impatiently, already looking to the next customer before him.
Ash blew the air from his lungs. He waved the business away with his hand then pushed his way clear of the stall before he lost his temper with it all. He started back the way he had come, but he saw the two auxiliaries coming that way towards him. Instead he turned and walked for the other entrance at the opposite end of the market, wishing only to return now to the seclusion of his rooftop, where he could enjoy his breakfast alone with his own company.
‘Ken-dai!’ came a shout that stopped him in his tracks. ‘Ho, ken-dai!’
Ash turned swiftly, and instantly spotted a dark face above the passing heads, barely a dozen paces from where he stood; a man from Honshu like himself.
The man was looking down at him from where he sat upon a sedan chair borne by two muscled slaves, a scented kerchief held to his nostrils like a white blossom. When their eyes met the man raised a hand in greeting. Ash glanced around, pulling the scarf a little higher over the bridge of his nose; watched as the figure clambered down to the ground. His two armoured bodyguards were already clearing the vicinity by shoving people out of the way.
‘Ken-dai!’ the man exclaimed again in their native Honshu, while one of his bearers snapped open an umbrella to hold above his head.
Ash replied with a curt nod.
‘You’re wise to travel about like that. They’ve been arresting many of us in the city for questioning.’
Ash said nothing, and there was a moment of awkward silence between them. The stranger was of a similar age to Ash, and dressed in fine robes of Honshu silk. He was a little overweight, and Ash could not help but notice the many glittering rings of gold and diamonds upon his fingers. A silk merchant perhaps, drawn to the Midèrēs on the silk winds long ago; or perhaps even a political exile like himself.
‘How is the old country?’ the merchant asked in obvious hope that he would know.
‘I couldn’t say,’ Ash confessed. ‘It’s been many years now since I was there.’
The man’s nod was heavy with meaning. ‘Yes, such a voyage as that should be made once in a lifetime. I can’t imagine how these sailors do it, coming back and forth, playing such odds as that.’ He sniffed beneath the dripping umbrella, raised the kerchief to his nose again. As he did so, Ash saw the tattoo on his left wrist – a circle with a single eye within it.
‘You were with the People’s Army?’ he blurted.
The merchant saw what he was looking at, then dropped his hand as though guilty of something. ‘What of it?’
Ash looked at the rich clothes and jewels that he wore; at the slave holding up the umbrella, hair lank in the rain; at the other bearer still standing behind the sedan, eyes downcast; at the two armed thugs paid to do his bidding.
‘You have fallen far,’ Ash drawled.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, levelled again in anger. He looked to one of his guards.
‘Grab this one!’ he snapped.
Ash was already moving, though, pushing his way through the crowd in the direction of the exit. ‘Bring him back here!’ he heard the man shout, and then Ash was dashing through a clear space between the stalls, his bag of bread swinging in his hand and people cursing in his wake.
He slowed as he neared the exit; stopped entirely as he found himself trapped by the Thief Toll that blocked it – a line of caged turnstiles with slots for quarters.
He was struggling for his purse when one of the bodyguards made a