Dalia coughed again. It was short and dry, but the third time since we'd arrived at the market place. She insisted she was fine, just the dust we had last night that lingered in the air.
A throng, reeking of unwashed bodies and overripe fruit, was gathered around the stage at the edge of the marketplace, not too far from the fountain which was also filthy and crowded with people. Dalia and I stopped as the crier spoke:
"Smora, daughter of Icto, servant of the Royal House, has been found guilty of the crime of negligence in the fulfillment of her duties resulting in the damage to irreplaceable property. Sentence of one stroke. Mercy in consideration for her long track record of service to the throne."
With that the crier folded his arms and stepped aside. The tormentor emerged, coils of braided leather draped over his shoulder. He approached the frail, elderly woman, who was forced to kneel at the center of the stage, her hands bound before her in iron cuffs that bit into her sagging skin. The marketplace hushed, dust motes danced around her gray hair. Dalia visibly suppressed a cough in the silence. It was just the dust. The same dust that choked he city was catching in her throat. Nothing more. I pressed my hand against her back, trying to still the tremor. The tormentor raised the whip and brought it down in an arc. The crack split the air. Smora's head snapped forward, her frail shoulders lurched, a sob caught in her throat, and a single ribbon bloomed scarlet across her shoulders.
This wasn't the first time. A few seasons ago, I had seen another old one punished on this same stage, a man with a scholar's stoop who met the lash not with a sob, but with a kind of defiant stillness. His crime was never clear to me, nor his name, lost in the crier's drone and the crowd's indifference. Just another lawbreaker, I had assumed.
The crowd gasped in some combination of horror and pity. Close by, an old woman whispered to her husband, her voice cracking, "She nursed the King himself. This is how they repay her? Shame."
Dalia, with tears in her eyes, silently tightened her grip on my hand and pulled me away from the sight. No words, just lowered her head and started walking. I glanced back at the crowd. Most were already losing interest. It was then that I noticed her, a girl at the edge of the throng. Her clothes were plain, but she stood like a rock in the streaming mass of humanity. She wasn't frightened. Her eyes were fixed on Smora, her fingers clenched white around the hem of her sleeve. For half a heartbeat her gaze flicked to mine. I didn't realize I'd stopped walking until Dalia tugged me forward.
I glanced back toward the girl only to catch the crier stepping up again to speak. The crowd stopped dispersing. The crier cleared his throat. "Make way for His Highness, Prince Kareem, Voice of the Future, Son of the King." I held her hand tighter.
From between the standard-bearers emerged the Prince - cloaked in violet and gold. His smile was soft, practiced, disarming. He raised one hand and spoke as though blessing the crowd.
"My fellow citizens," he began.
I had never tasted butter but his voice was as smooth as I imagined it felt on the tongue.
The Prince continued: "Justice, though heavy, has today been swift and fair."
He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to draw eyes. "And now—progress. Let us look forward."
A murmur of confusion spread. Kareem gestured, and attendants stepped forward with scrolls.
"To honor the legacy of our great King—his foresight, his sacrifices, his beauty of spirit—we will soon raise a monument of bronze and stone at the heart of our capital. A beacon of unity. An inspiration to all of us."
He smiled gently, one hand over his heart. "To fund this glorious project, and to share in its glory, I hereby institute a special Civic Beautification Tax, to be collected today from all marketplace vendors." He spread his arms as if expecting applause.
No one moved. The silence turned brittle.
Then the guards began.
A figure in polished breastplate loomed over an old honey-seller. With one hand he yanked open the man's coin pouch; with the other he tipped it until the few copper pieces clattered into a leather satchel at his hip. The seller protested, but the guard only sneered and shoved him aside.
Beside them, a spice-merchant's baskets spilled onto the cobblestones. A second guard jabbed a well-fed finger at her trembling hands. "Beautify or begone," he growled. All around, vendors cowered as the guards passed through.
Dalia's nails bit into my palm.
The date-seller rumbled as he clutched the coin purse he'd just been forced to empty. At that moment the cough Dalia had been suppressing burst out. Her loss of control had caused her to bump against his stall. A basket of plump, dates tumbled onto the stones, scattering like rats startled by an opening door. The man's face went red; he grabbed Dalia's wrist and barked, "You're going to pay for that, girl. One way or the other."
My body went rigid, ready to shove him away, to put myself between him my sister. But my mind screamed a warning. I could only clench my fists at my side, as I tried to form a placating word.
Before Dalia could apologize, a clear voice cut through the vendor's shout: "Please, sir. She obviously didn't mean any harm." The girl knelt collecting spilled fruit, nimble fingers brushing a stray date back into the basket.
As she rose, I saw silks peek momentarily out from beneath the plain clothes. Her nose was a bit too big, her lips, a little too wide. If not ugly, she was at least not beautiful. The girl put a pouch of money on the vendor's table. "I trust that this will not only pay the tax but more than compensate you for any damage done."
She turned to Dalia. "What's your name, little dove?"
"Dalia," my sister replied. Dalia always carried the little wooden bird I'd made for her. She would hold it in times of distress. Somehow it comforted her. I noticed that it was in her hand, getting cradled.
The girl noticed too. "And what's that?" Her voice was a gentle breeze.
"A gift," she smiled slightly. "From my big brother here." She tugged my arm slightly.
"You shouldn't be out here," she murmured, voice threaded with genuine concern. She pressed a fingertip beneath Dalia's jaw, tilting her head. "You're warm. A cough like this needs rest, not dust." She paused, eyes meeting mine. "And what is your name?"
"Nadim," I responded, dipping my head. "Thank you for your help." Such strange words in my mouth, given to this mysterious, wealthy stranger.
"Take her home," the girl advised sternly. I seized Dalia's arm and turned to go, pulling her beneath the shaded awning of a nearby stall.
As I hurried Dalia home my thoughts about the girl stayed with me. Her words were too clean for her clothes, her hands too soft. But there was no time for puzzles.
Fortunately, once home to our loft, Dalia's coughing settled to a whisper. I couldn't guarantee it would stay that way very long, so once she was settled back in bed, I left.
Panic propelled me to my cave. I searched carefully until I found the medical codex and examined it page by page. Desperation pushed against the limits of my literacy. It would take the rest of the day.
The elegant, yet maddening hand left every line an obstacle course. I muttered over each term—"pneumo…pneumonia?"—cross-referencing with a half dictionary scroll. With every tiny breakthrough, every stubborn phrase that finally yielded meaning, my chest swelled. When the next line slid away, frustration bit . Yet I pressed on, pounding my hammer against ignorance.
At last, beneath a finely wrought drawing, I found it: "lung fever." The description matched Dalia's dry cough and burning cheek perfectly. My finger traced fever, night sweats, brittle breath. A jolt of relief pulsed in my heart, I was making progress.
The codex named the cure which I looked up in the horticultural manual where I could see an illustration. Desert Starsuckle, its pearly petals folding into a star. Hope bloomed in me as I read the brewing instructions: fresh buds, gentle simmer, sour tea to draw out the sap. This was the only effective cure outside of mythology.
But in the horticultural manual, a footnote withered my hope in mid-bloom. "Favorite plant of the late Queen for its aromatic fragrance and simple, dignified appearance. By decree of the King, in honor of his late wife, the Desert Starsuckle has been decreed the official Royal Flower. All the wild specimens have been dug up and relocated to the palace gardens for the exclusive enjoyment of the King and Royal family."
I was frozen in place. My chest tightened, my stomach filled with stone. I closed the manual and reflected glow of the waning daylight, aware all at once of my own insignificance, just a child with a half-learnt alphabet of medicine, pitted against a King's wisdom, power and privilege. Yet, helplessness was not an option when Dalia lay so near death.
I turned my lenses northward, down from the serene, predictable stars and toward the formidable walls of the palace. My gaze, every so often drifting from the heavens, had already caught the rhythm of the walls below, the pulse of the patrols, the timing of the gate changes. The patterns were there, hazy, but memorized. Elias' documents gave me the palace's architecture. Now, starting tonight, I would give them my full attention.