A deep breath smoothed Cita's face to bland innocence as he approached the weapons stall.
The winged merchants attended shoppers again when Cita squeezed up to the table. He made a show of looking at the blades on display and then shaking his head in obvious disappointment. The shortest of the merchants approached him.
"Is there something in particular you are looking for?" the man asked, favoring Cita with a close-lipped smile.
"Well," drawled Cita. 'First, let him smell the bait.' "I was hoping to find some replacement arrows. Or something to use in place of my bow. If, you know, I run out. But I'm not seeing anything …"
"We have some of the finest steel-tipped arrows over here if you would care to look."
The merchant led Cita to a different section of the booth. Wooden arrows stood on display.
Cita made a show of inspecting the wares. He concluded by shaking his head. "These arrows are all wooden. I need something stronger."
"Stronger? Why would you need something stronger than wood for an arrow?" the merchant scoffed. "It is to shoot through the air, not to fend off blades!"
'That's it.' "My bow would shatter those in a trice," Cita answered, mimicking the dickering he'd overheard. "They are no good."
The merchant laughed in disbelief. "I will believe that if I see it. Our arrows are the best — crafted by masters and transported here as a courtesy to our dear neighbors. There is no bow that could shatter them without tampering."
Cita pretended to consider. "Do you think so? Maybe they could work…."
"Of course they would! I will make you a deal, boy. I will sell you seven of our finest arrows for a mere five silver half-weights. You can try them out, and if they are to your liking, I will sell you seven more for the same price. You will get no better offer." The merchant looked smug as he folded his arms across his chest.
"Five silver half-weights?" Cita repeated, letting a trace of wonder creep into his voice. 'Still don't know what that means. Whatever. Jig the lure a bit.' "That could work." He paused. "But I don't have coins. Would you accept a trade?"
"If your goods are satisfactory, we might come to an agreement. May I ask what you have?"
"Well, I was outside the township. Several Infected fell upon me," Cita explained as he held up his bag of rough-tanned furs.
The merchant stifled an indrawn breath and tapped himself between the eyes, on his breastbone, and then on his lips.
'What the heck? Nevermind. Focus!' "I managed to defend myself, and I have the skins here."
"A mighty archer indeed," the merchant clapped Cita on the shoulder. "The hides of the Infected are known for their beauty. They are worthless to most here, however, without our clan's special tanning method. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement."
Cita's skin crawled, and he wanted to scream at the man. Instead, he hid behind his facade of country bumpkin. Cita nodded agreeably and started pulling the smaller pelts from the bag. They were stripped and speckled in unusual markings and colors; one squirrel fur now had vertical maroon stripes, while another was patterned like a calico cat. While the skins were stiff and harsh against his hands, the coats were silky and soft. 'But that's small potatoes — the real beauty conceals the hook. I just need to set it,' he thought, stifling a grin. He let the merchant glimpse the fox's silvery fur with its purple mottling.
"Is that…?" The merchant's hands leapt forward before he snatched them back. "May I see that one?" he asked, pointing with his first two fingers on his left hand.
"This one?" Cita asked in feigned surprise, pulling it partially from the bag. "I wanted to save this one for a dear friend."
"For that one," the merchant bargained, "you can have twenty arrows. And your choice of our daggers, to … alleviate your concern about not having sufficient arrows."
"I don't know," Cita pretended to hesitate. Reel him in. "I'm not sure I'll like the arrows, so I don't want that many. And I have daggers already."
"A man can never have enough blades, am I right?" The merchant laughed suggestively. He licked his lips, staring at the coveted pelt. "Maybe seven arrows and a sword? It is an auspicious number."
Cita frowned. 'Easy. Don't yank the hook out.' "Seven arrows are fine. But not a sword. What about that bladed stick there? It looks badass enough to frighten an Infected."
Laughing uneasily, the merchant pulled his hands back and looked at the weapon in question. "The Infected are not frightened by anything. The glaive, though? I." He paused and licked his lips. "I need to speak with Kirili. The glaive … it was his brother's. We bear it home to his widow. But perhaps. Would you wait here?"
The merchant hastened to the man who had sent Bilal away.
"Glaiv na Sando?" Kirili shouted. "Ne možeme da mu dozvolime na nekoj stranec da poseduva svet svetski glaiv!"
[Sando's glaive? We cannot allow a foreigner to possess a sacred glaive.]
Cita's heart raced as he watched the argument. 'What language is that? Where is that echo coming from?'
A youth stepped up to the table beside Cita. He was Cita's height, but with long braids at the side of his face. He wore an open leather vest and matching tan suede pants. He studied the arrows, lightly touching a finger to the sharp metal points.
**Don't worry about the echo. It's sleeping. Mostly.**
"Huh?" Cita turned to the youth.
**Don't look at me! Watch them!** the youth hissed. **And watch your back.**
"What do you mean, watch my back? Who are you?"
"SHH! Geeze, do you not know how to be discrete? You're gonna get us both killed at this rate," the youth grumbled.
The merchant grabbed Kirili's arm and pointed toward Cita.
Cita glanced around, avoiding eye contact, and did a double-take. 'Wait, where did that guy go? He was just here!'
"Krznoto — vredi deset glaivi!" the merchant hissed. "I toj ne mora da go napušti ova mesto so glazurata na vašiot brat."
[Fur — worth ten glaives. And he doesn't have to leave this place with your brother's glaive.]
Kirili froze and stared at Cita with hostile eyes. They were quickly hidden under a mask of unctuousness.
Cita's skin crawled, but he smiled as both men returned. Just a little more.
"May I see the fur you wish to trade?" Kirili asked without preamble.
Cita pulled the fox fur from the bag and held it out for both merchants to inspect.
They ran reverent fingers through the soft, colorful fur.
"You are interested in the glaive, in exchange for this fur? You must understand the glaive is precious," Kirili explained. "If we choose to bestow it on you, you would have to swear to return it to our people if you ever forsake it. And if death comes for you, as it comes for us all, the glaive must return to us."
Prickles crawled up Cita's spine. He nodded slowly. 'Is that their usual bargaining tactic?'
"If you had the glaive, what would you do with it?"
Cita paused before answering. Almost there. "If I owned the glaive, I would treat it respectfully, and seek a teacher to guide me in its use." 'And it's not a lie. But the glaive won't be mine.'
Kirili weighed the answer. His eyes drifted to the other merchant before he nodded.
"The glaive for this fur is an acceptable trade," Kirili pronounced. "If you return tomorrow before the market opens, I will have names of those who might be willing to instruct you in its use."
"The fur for the glaive and seven arrows, as we discussed before," Cita pressed, drawing the fur back.
Kirili glared at the shorter merchant but nodded in agreement.
"I swear that if I forsake the glaive, I will return it to one of your people." Cita accepted the firm handshake. 'Yes! It's in the net!'
"The arrows can be carried through the market without issue. The glaive will need to be wrapped, and it must remain wrapped until you have left the market, or it is subject to confiscation by the lord's guards. If that happens, it will join Lord Blaah's collection." Kirili gestured, and another merchant wrapped the glaive.
"Understood, and thanks for letting me know." Cita gathered his bag and weapons before turning away from the stall. Red haze drained from his vision, leaving his view of the market unobscured.
'Who's useless now?' The grin crept back as he walked and sang sotto voce.
His grin faded as he fought through the crowd, burdened by his purchases. The arrows were awkward without his quiver. He struggled to avoid striking people with the glaive. His left wrist protested the abuse. He limped along until he came to a T-intersection in the booths.
'Which way did Bilal go?'
*Brilliant. You pinned all your hopes on one person — a stranger, at that — and then let him get out of sight.* A flick of shadow spun around Cita's head.
Cita could have kicked himself. His nostrils flared and his rapid breathing rang in his own ears. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his heart began to beat faster. People swirled around him, pushing him as he swayed in place.
**
"In a fight-or-flight situation, the body is flooded with the hormone adrenaline," the tutor droned in a monotone, sucking the life from his lesson.
Cita rested his head on the desk in the dimly lit room and ignored the wads of paper bouncing off his hoodie.
"Blood flow increases to the brain and muscles, and the body is prompted to produce sugar to provide quick energy. This prepares the body for whatever comes next." With a cartoon-ish click, the next slide popped up. "After the emergency passes, the body experiences what some call an adrenaline crash, characterized by shaking hands and weakness. This is linked to the drop in blood sugar associated with …"
**
Cita shook his head, discarding the image that didn't fit with his present. Before he could turn to look for the pennant that marked the line of retreat, he felt someone deliberately brush against his elbow. He jerked away, struggling not to overbalance in the press. He looked down.