At Ferouze’s, Xantha, Poppy, Ferouze and the four musicians were in the courtyard, talking. Keth went to his room. Tris and Chime settled on a step, watching Glaki and Little Bear stretch their legs in a game of chase.
Xantha, relaxing as Poppy combed her long gold hair, began to hum, then to sing, her voice a sweet soprano. Poppy joined in to sing the counterpart in her lower voice. From overhead they heard the sound of a Namornese balaka, a plaintive, sharper version of a lute: Keth descended the stairs playing it. Ferouze and one of the men fetched common lutes to play. One musician brought a recorder, another a set of graduated wooden pipes, while the fourth backed his deep bass voice with a harp. One song passed into another, as naturally as the late afternoon breeze flowed through the galleries around the courtyard.
It was the kind of time Tris had never expected to find in Khapik, like the evenings when her foster-mothers, sisters, and brother all sat in the main room of their cottage, working on projects and singing, talking, or telling stories as the sounds of Winding Circle drifted through the windows.
As Tris watched the players, sparks appeared in the air’s currents. She thought they might be part of a picture, but when she strained to see them, they disappeared. At last she gave up, relaxed and drifted.
The gathering broke up as the shadows lengthened. Everyone but Ferouze, Keth and Glaki had to work. Keth, seeing that Tris was not inclined to move, took Glaki and Little Bear to the Lotus Street skodi to fetch their supper.
That night the three of them ate in Yali’s room, washed their dishes, and settled in for an evening’s study. Keth pored over a book of glass magic Tris had borrowed from Heskalifos. Tris continued to read Winds’ Path. When she caught Kethlun yawning, she ordered him off to bed. Glaki was already asleep — she barely twitched when Tris changed her dress for a nightgown and tucked her in. Little Bear curled up beside the child. Tris napped, exhausted by her day, but she woke some time after the clocks had struck midnight, the mix of lightning and tidal strength in her veins fading but strong. Her magic told her that dawn was still hours away, but she was no longer sleepy.
She went to Ferouze and made the same bargain as the night before, that the woman would stay with Glaki. She barely trusted Ferouze, but Keth needed his rest. With Ferouze to watch over Glaki and her lightning-sparked payment, Tris went out into Khapik. Once more Chime rode on her back, as fascinated by the changing worlds inside the district as Tris.
Tonight there was a festival in which yaskedasi dressed as butterflies, their wings huge creations of gauze and bamboo painted in a variety of designs. They paraded around the streams and islands in a soaring of flutes and the silvery tones of bells and hand cymbals. Guests and other yaskedasi showered them with confetti, dancing around the butterflies.
When Tris tired of the noise and crowd, she turned down one of the quieter streets, venturing into Khapik’s darker areas. She came upon two women taking a purse from a drunken man. Tris considered putting a stop to it. She finally decided that if the man were fool enough to get so drunk that he could be separated from his friends and robbed, perhaps the missing purse would teach him a lesson he’d remember. The women looked at Tris, eyes glittering, as if they considered doing something about her, but when she walked by silently, they left her alone.
The encounter made her wonder again about what manner of person the Ghost was. He must look normal enough, to come and go everywhere with no one the wiser. He was clever, to turn the city’s dislike for the dirtier side of life to his advantage. That he loathed the female yaskedasi was obvious. Did he want to be caught? Given that he left his victims in public places, it would seem that he did — or was that due more to his contempt for the city as a whole? Perhaps he didn’t hate just the pretty, shady entertainers. Perhaps he hated all Tharios.
Tris shook off her musings. Thinking about what drove the Ghost, while fascinating, was Dema’s job. If she was to help, if she was to do more than shepherd Keth as