Free The Crow by Alison Croggon

even in the harshest midday heat, because the stone was kept wet so the flowers would stay fresh. Next to them were the food markets, with their marble counters where stallholders displayed freshwater trout and bream and crayfish caught by the fishers of the Lamarsan Sea, or carefully piled mounds of luscious fruits and piles of greenery.
    But now the markets were desolate and melancholy. The flower markets were completely closed, the stone tables empty, the windows shuttered and barred, and the noon sun struck back harshly from the suddenly naked walls. A few stray dogs nosed down the gutters of the alleys looking for scraps, and those people who walked through them mostly wore armor and strode purposefully, instead of sauntering, as the Turbansk people generally preferred, prepared always to be waylaid by an invitation to gossip over a cup of strong, sweet coffee.
    Hem realized properly for the first time that those who remained in Turbansk did not expect it to withstand the coming attack. A small hope he had been nurturing in his heart shriveled and died; despite Saliman's bleak words, despite what he had seen and heard from the survivors of Baladh in the Healing Houses, despite yesterday's conference at the Ernan, Hem had continued to believe that perhaps all those who stayed in Turbansk did so because they thought they could defeat the forces of the Nameless One now marching against them. But the empty markets told him more eloquently than any words that this was a fool's hope; the thousands of people who now prepared to defend Turbansk did not do so because they thought they would win.
    Why did they stay, then? Hem continued his glum meandering, preoccupied with the question. Why had he stayed? That one was easy: he did not want to be parted from Saliman. But why did Saliman stay?
    Hem paused in the Street of Coffee Sellers and absent-mindedly bought a coffee from the single stall that remained open. As he handed over the copper coin, the stallholder said, in good Annaren, "So you are the young Bard in the Healing Houses?"
    Startled out of his musings, Hem studied the man with interest. He was thickset, with the black skin of a Turbanskian. Deep laughter lines creased his eyes, and his teeth were very white and strong. A shortsword hung from his waistband. Why was he staying? "Yes," Hem said. "How did you know?"
    The stallholder laughed. "Word gets around," he said. "And everyone has heard of your bird. We do not like to use our children in war, and so I know of no others as young as you who will remain here. My daughter, Amira, was very angry when she heard about you. 'Father,' she said to me, 'you send me away, against my will – although I can fight, although I would give my life to save the city that I love – and yet there remains in Turbansk a foreign boy from Annar who is younger even than me.'"
    Hem smiled, and the stallholder continued.
    "I told her, it is the law, but it is also the law of my heart. And I told her that perhaps she will fight anyway in Amdridh, if things go ill here. It did not please her." He laughed, but Hem heard with surprise that there was no bitterness in his laughter.
    "But you are staying," said Hem.
    "Yes," he answered.
    "And do you think we will save Turbansk?"
    At first the stallholder didn't answer. Instead, he pressed a little honeyed sweetmeat into Hem's hand, waving off Hem's offer to pay. Hem put it in his pocket for later. Then the stallholder said, "All who remain here are afraid that we see the last days of our houses. The Bards and the Ernani do not feed us false hopes: they say, the Black Army is very great, and our forces cannot defeat them. Send all that is precious to you – your children, your valuables – to Car Amdridh, where they can be better defended. But they have called for all who can to stay and defend our city, to buy some time for those who flee, and to allow Amdridh to ready its defense and muster all its forces. We will not simply abandon Turbansk, the