In low houses circled by colonnades, women and men lou nged on couches, talked, ate, drank and gambled. When Tris glanced down the inner passages of such houses into the courtyards, she saw scantily clad dancers, female and male, performing to harp, flute, or sometimes only drum music. She heard lone singers and groups of singers, their melodies twining among the songs played on instruments. In one courtyard a poet declaimed verses on the art of love. In another, a group of people played Blind Mans Buff.
When her belly reminded her that it was nearly dark and she had not eaten for some time, she found an eating-house whose bill of fare promised a decent meal. The prices would have made her gasp if she had not seen those posted beside houses whose charges were even higher. She chose a table outside, on the stre et, so she could better watch the crowds. She ignored the stares, thinking it was her pale complexion and red hair that drew attention, rather than her youth and the fact that she looked like no pleasure-seeker.
The serving maid brought her a supper of lamb grilled on skewers, lentils cooked with onions and bay leaves, plum juice, flatbread and cheese. Tris thanked her politely, then turned all of her attention on the street as she ate.
Why the yaskedasi? she wondered. Six dead women, all of them yaskedasi why did he choose them? It wasn t for their money, not from what shed heard. And why only women?
Did he choose them because he knew that the arurim wouldnt care about the murder of enter tainers whom respectable folk viewed as disreputable, if not out-a nd-out dishonest? But if that were so, why had he placed the last two so visibly, outside Khapik, where respectable folk would raise a fuss? If he d wanted to be entirely a Ghost, he should have stayed inside Khapik, or even turned to the slums of Hodenekes, where no one would care about another dead body.
He was clever, to make use of the Tharian beliefs about death. Tris had helped Niko often in the past, when Niko had raised a vision from the site of an event that had taken place there recently. That wou ld be impossible in Tharios. The priests always showed up on the heels of the discovery of a body, and erased all magical influences to rid the area of deaths pollution. They made it easier for the killer to get away with his murders.
Staring into the cup that held her plum juice, Tris idly wondered if she could scry for the killer. It was just an idle fancy. Niko had tried to teach all four of them how to scry in water, oil, mirrors and crystals. Daja had succeeded once, but Tris had been the only one to find an image each time. It was frustrating. She only saw scraps of things, many of which made no sense, and there was no way to control what she saw. Following her progress, Niko said her images seemed to come entirely from the present; she could not see anything in the past or future. Now she let her mind drift, her eyes fixed vaguely on the dark liquid in her cup, its surface glinting in the torchlight. Scraps of things began to rise to the surface: Niko talking animatedly to a dark brown man in a pure w hite turban, Assembly Square, a wooden building ablaze as people scurried around it like lines of ants, a small mountain village where a shaggy-haired blacksmith laboured at his forge.
Tris growled and drank her juice, ignoring the beginnings of a headache . She was no better at this now than she had been at Winding Circle. No wonder so many seers had a reputation for being odd, if all they saw was a flood of meaningless pictures. Feeling useless, she returned to her meal.
As she finished, a procession came down the street, led by tumblers and musicians, surrounded by a cloud of orange blossom scent. At its centre, four muscular men carried a woman in a sedan chair. Its curtains were open, framing her like a picture as she reclined on satin pillows. Her blac k hair was dressed in glossy, ornate loops, not the curls of Tharian fashion, twisted through with the yellow veil of the yaskedasi. Her kyten was pure white with golden embroideries, her jewellery gold encrusted with pearls.
s Baoya the Golden,a female voice remarked near Triss shoulder. A breeze carried a drift of lavender scent to the girls sensitive nose. Tris turned. Keths friend, the yaskedasu Yali, lounged against the low fence around the eating-house as she watched the procession. She was dressed much as she had been that morning, though her make-up and kyten were fresh, and she looked the better for some sleep. With her was another yaskedasu, a blonde, dressed northern style with a tumblers shorter skirts and leggings.
s Baoya the Golden?asked Tris.
Queen of Khapik, the most legendary of all the female yaskedasi the blonde said, looking down a short nose at Tris. knows Baoya. She s a dancer. Shes performed for most of the Assembly and all of the Keepers of the Public Good for the last fifteen years.
Yali regarded Tris. are you doing here unescorted, Koria Trisana?
s just Tris. I wanted to see what the talk was about,Tris replied. is it that you do, anyway? You never said.
Yah sighed. sing. Xantha, here, is a tumbler she stays at Ferouzes, too. Look, were due at the Butterfly Court right now. Why dont you go home? Come back with someone who can look after you, like Keth. You re fine here on the main streets, but in the back ways. . . Not everyone in Khapik is as nice as theyre paid to be.
mean like the Ghost?enquired Tris.
Yali and Xantha both made the sign of the Living Circle on their chests. s one,Yali replied. home, Tris. Give that glass dragon of yours a polish for me. The two women disappeared into the crowds, dodging people with the skill of long practice.
Curious, Tris sent a ribbon of breeze after them and called it back. It returned with their conversation.
s teacher! That was the voice of the blonde Xantha. course! Why didnt I realize that? Come on, Yali, if you keep pulling my nose like that, itll be as long as hers!