Free Iron and Blood by Auston Habershaw Page B

That was a wholly pedestrian insult.”
    â€œWhat happened to your face, anyway—­you look like you’ve been kicked by a horse.”
    Tyvian scowled and made a conscious effort not to touch his sore nose. The swelling had gone down, but he knew his eyes were still black and blue and his cheeks puffy. “Are we critiquing each other’s appearance now? Shall I inquire how your quest to become the world’s first spherical man is going?”
    Carlo shrugged. Then, peering through the wall of the coach, he banged on the ceiling. “Here! This is the place!”
    Tyvian climbed out and saw that they had crossed the city to the Cloth Market. Here, concentric circles of colorful awnings spread out from the broad and ornate stone fountain at the market’s center, which frothed with magically heated water. In this fountain—­the Bathsfont—­local launderers washed their clients’ clothing by the ton every day. It was late afternoon and a light snow was falling from a quiet gray sky, muffling the sounds of clothiers and seamstresses haggling price underneath heated canvas. They were situated at the market’s southern edge, and a variety of porters, couriers, and laborers lounged about the entrances to several taverns, watching them.
    Carlo emerged from the coach as well and nodded happily to the bystanders. “There, you see, Tyvian? Very public, very safe.”
    In the distance Tyvian heard the moan of a spirit engine pulling into the depot. Right on time. So long as Artus was in position . . .
    Tyvian frowned and resisted the urge to scan the streets for the boy. He knew Artus would have no trouble tailing the coach through the city, particularly with the seekwand, but he still felt the need to double-­check. He was relying a great deal on that boy to come through with his end of the plan, and it made him uncomfortable. He never liked relying on ­people whom he couldn’t entirely control, and Artus, as an adolescent, was permanently in that category. Suspicious, he allowed himself a brief look around but saw nothing. That was either good or very, very bad.
    Carlo clapped his hands and his two coachmen dragged the snoring Myreon out of the coach and put her in a wheelbarrow, which they then piled high with bolts of linen to conceal her. When they were ready, he motioned for Tyvian to follow him. “Right this way.”
    The Cloth Market was a good choice for a public meeting regarding an illicit transaction, as it was simultaneously crowded and private at the same time. Once within its winding, steam-­choked maze of awnings, clotheslines, and pavilions, one could seldom see more than a few yards ahead while, at the same time, being no more than a few feet from dozens of other ­people. The smell of clean, pressed cotton and the freshness of the falling snow was invigorating to Tyvian, as were the vibrant wares being hawked by effete Akrallian tailors, swarthy Rhondian cobblers, and burly Galaspin furriers. He took a moment to inspect some particularly impressive leather gloves before Carlo hastened him on with a scowl. Tyvian permitted himself a smile; some of his anxiety regarding the upcoming meeting faded. You know what is going to happen , he told himself. Just relax.
    â€œHere,” Carlo said, stopping before a pavilion of brilliant yellow and white stripes. Tyvian looked up and saw the black-­and-­gold pennant of the Kalsaari Empire hanging limply from its central pole.
    Tyvian bowed and gestured at the tent flap. “After you, Master diCarlo.”
    Carlo shook his head. “You’re paranoid.” He flipped the tent flap open and stepped inside. Tyvian followed.
    Inside, the tent was heated by a brazier of glowing hearthstones set to one side of the hexagonal pavilion as well as four armed mark-­slaves. The floor was thickly carpeted with hand-­woven rugs, and there were four piles of cushions that Tyvian had come