Free Requiem for the Sun by Elizabeth Haydon Page B

the most foolish thing he had ever done.
    As a young child he had once ventured as far as the Outer Market, the bazaar of merchants and goodsellers from all over the known world, and undoubtedly parts of the unknown world as well. He had found it to be a place of open-air shops and street booths, of exotic animals prowling the areas near shopkeepers’ wares, of brightly colored silks and bags of pungent spice, the scent of incense and perfume mixed with the slick, heavy odor of the peat fires over which meat was roasting. His mother had brought him along with her in a vain search for a tonic to heal his ailing father; after seeing her pay every coin she had for a bottle of glittering liquid that had proved completely ineffective, Slith understood on an innate level at the age of six how the market had gotten its name.
    Never, however, had he been this deep in, this close to the poisonous danger of the Inner Market. He could feel the threat in the air around him; it was
somehow heavier here in these back streets, these dark alleys, where the color and pageantry gave way to hidden alcoves and shadowy porticos. The mudbrick buildings, dried to the color of blood, as all of Yarim was, the kiosks of straw and sheets of oilcloth dotting the streets, teemed with secrets.
    Gone were the merchants loudly hawking their wares, the chanters and the singers and the screaming carnival barkers. The Inner Market was a place of thick silence, furtive glances, where hidden eyes followed every move.
    Slith kept his eyes downcast, as instructed, watching the heels of Bonnard’s hobnail boots. He could feel the gaze of what seemed like a thousand of those hidden eyes on him, but knew that attempting to meet that gaze could be fatal.
    Finally Bonnard stopped. Slith looked up.
    Before him loomed a tall, wide, one-story mudbrick building, dark from the coal dust that had been mixed with the red Yarimese clay when it was fired. Like most of the buildings in Yarim it was in a state of advanced decay, the coal dust clay flaking off the building’s edifice ominously, signaling a deeper rot. The inconsistent patches made the building look like it was bleeding.
    On the door was a crest, the sign of a raven clutching a gilt coin. Slith suppressed a shudder; he had seen the guildmark before, on the day of his indenture, when his mother brought him to the counting house of the Raven’s Guild to be inspected by Esten. The Raven’s Guild in the city center of Yarim Paar was a grand building, housing the largest trade association in the province, a confederation of tile artisans, ceramicists, and glassblowers, as well as smiths of all sorts. The guild also provided an intraprovince messenger service. It was the worst-kept secret in Yarim that they were a formidable coterie of professional thieves, thugs, and highwaymen who ruled the dark hours of Yarim.
    And Esten was their undisputed leader.
    Cold beads of sweat trickled down his neck as Bonnard opened the door and motioned him impatiently inside. He followed the journeyman’s gesture to an alcove to the left of the door, and watched nervously as Bonnard disappeared into the darkness before him.
    Slith blinked rapidly, trying to force his eyes to adjust quickly in the absence of light. The room seemed to have no visible boundaries; the space before him melted into the farthest reaches of his vision. A battered table, rough-hewn from ragged wood, stood a few yards from the door to his right; at least that was what it appeared to be by shape. Around it were mismatched chairs of various heights and styles. He thought he could see a cold fireplace behind the table. The harsh odor of coal and rancid fat hung thickly in the stagnant air.
    â€œYou wanted to speak to me?”

    Slith reared back in shock, a numbing cold sweeping through him.
    Almost as close to him as the air he was breathing was a face, its pale contours blending into the darkness. It appeared disembodied, dark eyes staring