Page 8

The Merchant’s Bazaar arrives with little enthusiasm. Aunt Meena and I start early, tendrils of orange light seeping through the tree canopy our only indication of sunrise. The Bazaar used to be held in the village square, but with the heavy presence of the chopping block ever-looming, the market has since migrated to a long, wide walkway closer to the outskirts of town. Aunt Meena and I set up a small table at one end.

“Saints,” she huffs, sliding off the bag of books strapped to her back.

“You might have enchanted them to be lighter,” I say glibly. My own bag glows purple and I set it lightly on the table.

“Whatever for?” Aunt Meena wheezes. “I did just fine.”

“Indeed.”

The last of the night’s fireflies dance around us as slits of daylight break through thetrees. Along the walkway, a few other merchants finish setting up their stalls—three werewolves and one siren. I help Aunt Meena stack the books, showcasing their spines or intricate leather covers, but my eye continues to wander down the rest of the stalls.

“So few,” I murmur.

Aunt Meena says nothing, but the corners of her mouth tug down, and she gives a brief shake of her head.

Years ago, the Bazaar had been one of my favourite times of the month. I would eagerly await the arrival of the merchants, who travelled so far from their homes to do trade with Mossgarde. Our ability to produce food year-round drew many merchants, especially the werewolves from Swordstead and the dragons from Coalsburgh. Both of their climates are harsh and uninviting so they relied on imports from Mossgarde for a time. It takes great skill to catch our swamp fish or harvest the fruit from our towering trees. Skill that left with the witches when the king’s royal law passed twenty-five years ago.

A middle-aged werewolf sets up his stall next to us, carefully arranging his wares across the table. He has shed his usual furs for a simple merchant outfit with a dark blue hood draped across his shoulders. Like most werewolves, he towers two heads above me.

I am close enough to smell the pomanderhanging around his neck. Werewolves are sensitive to smells and believe different scents begat different results. I take a subtle sniff—he wears lavender to repel swamp insects and siren musk to ward off illness. A heady combination.

“Good morrow,” the werewolf grunts.

“Good morrow, Darragh.” I incline my head. “A fruitful journey for you, I hope?”

Darragh gives me a flat look under thick eyebrows and continues setting up his stall.

“Ah. We shall speak no more of it, then.” I indicate to our stall, the table legs creaking under the weight of the books. “Can I interest you in any of our wares today?”

“Got no use for fancy paper, Shivani.” Darragh glances up. “I don’t suppose you have any of that croca meat?”

“The last croca farmer left just a month past,” I say with an apologetic smile. “His daughter was nearly of age.”

Darragh says nothing but his shoulders tense. Sweat glazes his brow and he pulls out a small, thin cloth to mop at his face. He turns back to his stall, pulling out snowberries and sharpened knives carved from the bones of mountain bears. My eyes fix on the berries, so small and few. I think back to when Darragh used to bring bowls full of them, along with moonfruit and salted goat meat.

I cast my eyes down the walkway at the few other merchants who arrived for the Bazaar.Two other werewolves, cloaked in merchant blue, heads down. One siren from Frostalm, her deep indigo skin dulled by the low light as she unpacks her wares.

Not many traders hail from the Roaming City— they, after all, have access to many ports and all the fish they can catch. But at least one scholar faithfully arrives at the Bazaar each month. I suppose knowledge can be found anywhere, not matter how dire. The gaps between merchants grow with each passing month. I turn back to Aunt Meena’s stall and move the books around to make them look as appealing as possible. With the dragon texts displayed proudly at the front, I stand back with my fists on my hips. With any luck, the display will catch the eye of the siren merchant.

Coalsburgh may refuse to trade with us, but Frostalm is where the coin is and no good scholar can pass up a valuable book. Mossgarde sits close to the Glass Sea, the calmest of the Three Great Oceans, so Frostalm would send traders via their smaller boats to the Bazaar often. Their merchants made up most of the Bazaar. Or they used to, at least.

“Very good, Shivani,” Aunt Meena murmurs, nodding at my display.

Her gaze fixes on the full purse hanging from the siren merchant’s hip. She raises her voice and says, “After all, these arevery rare dragon books.”

The siren glances up with red eyes, intrigued. I turn to begin arranging some of the books at the back but walk into something solid.

“Oof!” I bounce back, arms windmilling, when an arm darts out to catch me. I look up to see another werewolf grinning down at me.

“Steady,” he says, pulling me back to my feet. He does not wear merchant blue but instead a red hooded cloak. The colour of Swordstead warriors.

“Eoin,” I say, letting him help me up. “My thanks.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fallen for me.” Eoin winks and laughs.

“We both know that is your ego skirting past reality.”

He clutches his chest in mock offence.