She took a breath. It is only wind. There is nothing other women can bear that you cannot.

The disguise was necessary, and worth any discomfort, for it allowed her to escape the palace and move through the New Bazaar unmolested. She did not fear for herself – few would dare attack her, and more would leap to her defence if any was needed – but the Damajah could not travel without an entourage, and would draw a gawking crowd like scattered crumbs did birds, risking her most precious secret.

Without her dice, she needed her mother’s counsel more than ever, a respite from the wind threatening to snap even the most supple palm.

The New Bazaar of Everam’s Bounty wasn’t yet as big as the Great Bazaar in Krasia, but it grew daily, and would soon rival even that monument of commerce. Abban had put up the first pavilion in the chin village just outside the city proper when Everam’s Bounty first fell to the Deliverer’s forces. Six months later, the New Bazaar had swallowed the village and spilled out into the lands beyond, a focal point for merchants, traders, and farmers throughout the land.

The merchants and their dama masters had spared no expense protecting their wares, laying out the streets in the shape of a greatward, much like the Hollow tribe to the north, with low walls to add strength to the warding, and guards to patrol and keep the streets clear when night fell. In the day, however, goods filled every inch of free space, with dal’ting, khaffit, and chin loudly hawking their wares.

Inevera made her way along the wending streets, occasionally stopping in this stall or that kiosk to add to her basket, looking like nothing more than a simple Jiwah Sen shopping for her family’s evening meal. She fell into the role, haggling over bits of produce and a small block of salt as if she, like most women, had to make every draki stretch. She remembered what it had been like for Manvah, trying to feed four on barely enough money for three. It was strangely relaxing – Inevera knew every woman in the Bounty envied the Damajah, but some days she longed to have her greatest worry be convincing merchants to sell items below market value.

She was almost to her destination when a Sharum guardsman pawed at her behind. It took every bit of her self-control not to break his arm, and several steadying breaths as he and his fellow warriors strode off laughing to keep from killing the lot of them with her bare hands. If she had been in white, she would not have hesitated, and would have been well within her rights. In black, well, who would take the word of a dal’ting over a Sharum?

I should come to the bazaar more often, she thought. I have lost touch with the common people.

Her father stood at the entrance to her mother’s pavilion, calling to prospective buyers in a loud voice. Though there was grey at his temples, the years had been kind to Kasaad. His peg leg was gone, replaced with a fine limb of polished wood, jointed and sprung. He still carried a cane, but used it more to wave at onlookers and gesture to his wares than for support.

Still sober, she marvelled, and when he laughed, a rich booming sound that carried far, it warmed her heart. This was not the jackal laugh he used to share with the other Sharum when they were deep into the couzi. This was the laugh of a man happy and at peace.

So different was he to the man she knew, it seemed impossible this could be her father – the man who had murdered Soli.

Inevera could have breathed away the tears in her eyes, but she let them fall, hidden by the sweat on her face and the thick black dal’ting veil. Why should she hold back tears for her brother, or her father? It seemed both men had died that night, and Manvah had gained a new husband, one more worthy of her, if without a Sharum’s honour.

Her mother’s pavilion had continued to grow over the years, booming into a diversified business that went far beyond simple basket weaving. This was well, as the palm trees that had given her material were now hundreds of miles to the south. There were carpets and tapestries instead, and weavings of greenland material, wicker and corn husk. There was pottery, bolts of cloth, incense burners, and a hundred other things.

Inevera had offered the dice to Manvah more than once, to use as Dama Baden did to keep ahead of his rivals, but her mother always refused. ‘It would be a sin against Everam to use dama’ting magic to fill my purse,’ she had said, adding with a wink, ‘and it would take away all the fun.’

‘Blessings of Everam upon you, honoured mother,’ a boy said as she entered the pavilion. ‘May I assist you in finding anything?’

Inevera looked at him, and her heart clenched. He still wore the tan of a boy not yet called to Hannu Pash, but it seemed she was looking at Soli, or the boy he had once been. Instinctively, she reached out, tousling his hair the way her brother used to do to her. It was an overly familiar gesture, and the boy seemed taken aback by it.

‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘You remind me of my brother, taken by the night long ago.’ When the boy looked at her blankly, she rubbed his hair again. ‘I will look first, but I will call you when I am ready to buy.’ The boy nodded, all too happy to run off.

‘All Kasaad’s sons have that look, no matter the wife,’ a voice said, and Inevera turned to see her mother standing before her. Black robes or no, the two of them could never fail to recognize each other. ‘It makes me wonder if Everam in His wisdom has sent back the soul of my firstborn, taken from me too early.’

Inevera nodded. ‘Your family is blessed with many fine children.’

‘You are the clay seller?’ Manvah asked. When Inevera nodded, she went on. ‘As I told your messenger, your price is too high.’

Inevera bowed. ‘Perhaps we can discuss the matter privately?’

Manvah nodded, then led her through the pavilion to a stone door. A large building backed the pavilion; there the family lived and the most valuable goods were stored. Manvah led the way to a private office with a desk piled with ledgers and writing implements, two greenland chairs, and a small private space for weaving.

Manvah turned, holding out her arms, and Inevera fell into them gladly, sharing a crushing embrace.

‘It’s been years since you visited,’ Manvah said. ‘I was beginning to think the Damajah had forgotten her mother.’

‘Never that,’ Inevera said. ‘If you but say the word …’

Manvah held up a hand to forestall her. ‘The Deliverer’s court does not need to know the Damajah’s father is khaffit, and I have no interest in tea politics and poison tasters. My sister-wives have given me children and grandchildren, and I see my daughter and her sons often enough, even if I must watch from the crowd.’

Manvah clapped her hands outside the flap, and soon a young girl brought in a fine silver tea service, the pot steaming. They ignored the chairs, moving to the pillows in the weaving area and setting the tea tray on the floor. Manvah poured, and the two of them, alone in the office, removed their veils and hoods that they might look upon each other. Manvah’s face was more lined than it had been, and there were streaks of grey in her long hair, bound in gold. She was still beautiful, and radiated strength. Inevera felt something in her relax. Here was the one place in the world she could truly be herself.

Manvah gestured with the spout of the teapot at a pile of pliable wicker strips. ‘It’s not quite the same as weaving palm, but we must all adapt to the new path the Deliverer has taken us on.’