Market Day by grey_gazania

---

Market Day

---

  FA 457

 

Tókhesh stared wide-eyed around the market, clinging tightly to the pack saddle of the goat that walked beside her. She would have been more comfortable holding her mother’s hand, but Khit had no free hands to hold; like the goat, she bore baskets full of finely-woven fabric. Tókhesh, too, carried a covered basket on her back, filled to the brim with skeins of spun goat’s wool.

 

Though she had accompanied her mother to the smaller markets before, where Khit had sold her textiles to the Rikíshim’s southern neighbors, this was Tókhesh’s first time at the large monthly fair. Everywhere she looked, there was something new to marvel at -- here a man selling intricately carved animals no bigger than Tókhesh’s little finger, there a snatch of music or a whiff of an unfamiliar food. If she hadn’t kept hold of the goat, she would surely have stopped to gawk and been lost in the bustle.

 

Many of her own neighbors were there, along with her mother’s people, and the men and women from the Southern Lands, with their long braids and their hats like upturned cups. Most interesting to Tókhesh’s eyes were the Kházad, of whom she had heard but never before seen. As her mother had said, they were small, no taller than Tókhesh herself, but broad in the shoulders and short of limb. Their beards were even longer and fuller than her grandfather’s, set in elaborate styles and adorned with gleaming metal beads, and their hair ranged in color from black to copper and all the way to pale gold, like the sun shining on the river. They were unlike any people she had even seen, and she couldn’t help gaping.

 

One of them caught her gaze, a man in a blue tunic with hair like polished mahogany. He didn’t seem offended by her staring; instead, he smiled and winked one dark eye at her. Blushing, she looked away, and she only barely managed not to step on her mother’s heels when Khit came to an abrupt halt.

“We’re here,” Khit announced, setting her basket down behind the booth and tethering the goat to one of the poles. “Start unloading.”

“Yes, Mamí,” Tókhesh said. She shrugged her own basket off her shoulders and began to lay out the silky skeins, organizing them by color. The fabrics were her mother’s work, but the yarn was her own, carefully spun and dyed under Khit’s watchful eye. It was only in the past year that Tókhesh had become skilled enough with the spindle to make yarn that was of a quality worth selling, and she couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride as she looked at the fruits of her labor.

Beside her, her mother was smoothing a wrinkle from a bolt of cloth, blue-white like the center of a hot flame. “You let me handle the sales,” Khit instructed, “and I’ll send you out later to get us some food.”

Tókhesh nodded and settled herself next to the goat, prepared for a long and busy morning.

 

It soon became apparent that Khit’s fabrics were highly sought. People flocked to their booth, and while Tókhesh had no say in the bargaining, she found herself busy regardless, changing money and translating between her mother and the customers who came from the Southern Lands. One tall, haughty-looking woman purchased three full bolts of fabric, soft gold and daisy yellow and orange with a pattern of black vines, and several skeins of Tókhesh’s yarn as well.

 

Khit measured and cut and haggled, and Tókhesh made change. As the sun climbed higher, their stock of fabric and yarn steadily shrank. Finally, there came a lull in the crowd, and Khit pulled a handful of coins from the moneybox.

“You take these,” she said, tying them into a handkerchief, “and you go to the west side of the market and find a Kházad woman named Bori. She sells cast iron. Tell her that I need a skillet -- and be sure you mention me by name. She’ll give you a fair price. Then get something hot for us to eat and bring it back here. Don’t dawdle, mind you.”

 

“Yes, Mamí.” Tókhesh tucked the handkerchief into the waistband of her skirt, squinted up at the sun, and set off, her empty basket bouncing against her back.

 

It took her a little longer to find Bori than perhaps it should have, because, though she was trying hard to keep track of the different turns she’d taken, she couldn’t help being a little distracted by the hustle and bustle around her. Still, Tókhesh eventually spotted a Kházad woman standing behind a low counter laden with cast ironware, and she trotted over.

 

The woman was just as bearded as any of the Kházad men, with honey-colored hair braided and pinned into whorls and loops. Unlike the men, however, she wore a long, sleeveless dress in place of a tunic, the fabric pinned at the shoulders with matching jeweled brooches.

 

“Are you Bori?” Tókhesh asked when she reached the booth.

 

The woman nodded. “Looking for me in particular, I see. What can I help you with, little miss?” Her accent was unfamiliar, with a heavy cadance that reminded Tókhesh of drums, but she was still intelligible. The Kházad had a secret tongue of their own, Tókhesh remembered her mother saying, one that they never spoke where outside ears could hear it, and so they did their best to learn the tongues of their neighbors.

 

“My mother needs another skillet,” Tókhesh said. “Her name is Khit. She sells fabric.”

Bori’s face lit up. “I know Khit.” Plucking at the neckline of her dark red dress, she said, “This cloth is her work. She’s a fine weaver, your mother is. Is she teaching you?”

 

“A little,” Tókhesh said, for her mother had started her on the small lap-loom a few months ago, just after her tenth birthday. “I’m not very good yet. I can spin, though.”

 

“Ah, you’ll learn in time,” Bori said. “All crafts take practice.” As they spoke, she examined her own wares with a critical eye, and after a moment she selected a medium-sized skillet and pushed it towards Tókhesh. “This should do,” she said. “Two silver wheels and it’s yours.”

 

As Khit had predicted, it was a fair price, so Tókhesh handed over the coins and carefully set the skillet into her basket.

 

“Give Khit my regards,” Bori said as Tókhesh prepared to leave. “And tell her I may stop by later.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Tókhesh said. “Thank you for your help.” She fastened the buckles of her basket, hoisted it onto her shoulders, and went in search of food.

 

A mouth-watering smell, spicy and sweet all at once, drew her to a booth where a Southern woman was selling meat pies, and she bought four, nestling them carefully in the skillet so that they wouldn’t get crushed. Then she began retracing her steps to return to her mother. A right turn at the booth with the green-striped canopy, another right near the fiddler who was playing for coins, then a left turn by the man selling roasted nuts…

But she couldn’t find the nut-seller. Either he had moved to another part of the market, or Tókhesh had gotten herself turned around without realizing it. She walked in a circle, checking each nearby booth just to be certain, but none of the merchants here looked familiar. She stood still for a moment, thinking hard, and decided that the best course of action would be to return to the fiddler and start fresh from there. She could hear him over the chatter of the crowd, playing a lively, popular tune, and she followed the sound until she caught sight of him, his bow flying over the strings.

 

“You look lost,” a voice behind her said.

 

Tókhesh turned and saw the blue-clad Kházad man who had winked at her earlier. He was standing beside another low counter, and she walked closer, intrigued by the work she saw. He was selling the most stunning brassware she had ever seen -- bowls and cups and ewers, all elegantly shaped and inlaid with delicate copper lines.

 

“These are beautiful,” she said, momentarily distracted from her plight.

“Thank you,” the little man said, a note of pride in his voice. “It’s always nice to see my craft appreciated. But back to my question: Are you lost?”

 

Tókhesh nodded, feeling her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “My mother sent me to get some food, and now I don’t know where I am,” she admitted.

“She sells here?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

“Yes,” Tókhesh said. “Her name is Khit. She weaves.”

“Ah,” the man said, ‘I know Khit. She’s a fine craftswoman herself.” He gestured for Tókhesh to come around the counter. “Have a seat here,” he said, pointing to a low stool. “I’m Nâr. My brother will be back in a few minutes. Once he returns, I can take you to your mother.”

 

Shyly, Tókhesh complied, arranging her skirt around her as she sat. “Thank you,” she said.

 

Nâr smiled at her and then drew out two cups and a rounded brass flask. “Tea?” he offered, filling one of the cups with steaming liquid.

 

For a moment Tókhesh stared, wondering how the tea could still be hot when there was no place in the market to boil water. But her thoughts were interrupted by a passing Southern man, whose eye had clearly been caught by the flask.

 

“How much?” the man said in his own language.

 

“I don’t speak your tongue,” Nâr said, shaking his head.

 

It was plain from the Southern man’s face that he didn’t understand the language of the Rikíshim, so Tókhesh pointed to the flask and said, “He wants to know how much those cost,”

 

Nâr shook his head again. “These are not for sale,” he said.

 

Tókhesh translated the words back to the Southern man, who dug around in his coin purse and pulled out six silver wheels. Still, Nâr shook his head and, miffed, the Southern man shoved his coins away and stalked off.

 

Curious, Tókhesh looked from the flask to the steaming cup of tea, thinking hard. “It keeps hot things hot,” she said slowly. “Is that right? Is that why he wanted one?”

“It does indeed,” Nâr said.

 

“How does it work?”

 

“Trade secret,” he said, giving her another wink. “I sell these to my own people and no one else -- and certainly not for a price that low. They’re not so simple to make.”

 

“Like how purple cloth is the most expensive,” Tókhesh said, thinking of the hours and hours of labor that went into making purple dye.

 

But Nâr didn’t seem to hear her. He was waving at an approaching man, so alike to him in face that they had to be brothers.

“Hâr,” he said, once the man had reached them, “I need to leave you on your own for a bit. This is Khit’s little girl; she’s lost, so I’m going to take her back to her mother.”

 

“Go on,” Hâr said, flapping a hand at them as he took his brother’s place. “I’m sure Khit is worried.”

 

That was probably true. Since Tókhesh’s older brother had died last year, kicked in the head by one of the goats, Khit had fretted more over her remaining children, and Tókhesh’s long absence would surely have her concerned.

 

Not to mention that the meat pies were getting cold.

Tókhesh followed Nâr closely as he set off, not wanting to lose him between the taller people in the crowd. He led her confidently, and within fifteen minutes Tókhesh caught sight of her mother’s booth, where Khit stood still, her eyes darting around at those who passed by.

“There you are!” she said when she spotted her daughter. “You had me worried. I thought I told you not to dawdle.”

 

“I didn’t,” Tókhesh protested. “I got lost.” Pointing to Nâr, she said, “He helped me find you.”

Some of the tension drained from Khit’s shoulders. “Thank you,” she said to Nâr, shooing Tókhesh back behind the booth. “How have you been, Nâr? Did the mohair work for what your wife needed?”

 

“It did indeed,” he said. “She was quite pleased.”

 

While they spoke, Tókhesh put the change from her purchases back into the money box and pulled the skillet from her basket. Picking at one of the meat pies, she looked around the booth and was pleased to see that all of her yarn had sold. Most of her mother’s fabric was gone, too, and the money box was heavy with coins. She and her mother had done well today, even if she had gotten lost.

 

Nâr soon took his leave, winking at Tókhesh again as she waved goodbye. Khit joined her daughter behind the booth and picked up one of the meat pies. With her other hand, she tugged gently on one of Tókhesh’s curls.

 

“You worried me,” she said. “It’s a lucky thing Nâr found you.”

 

“I’m sorry, Mamí,” Tókhesh said, fixing her eyes on her food. “I didn’t mean to get lost.”

 

“I know, honeybee,” Khit said, relenting. “Maybe next time your aunt will come with us, and I’ll be able to show you around a little better.”

 

Tókhesh looked up at her mother, her expression brightening. “You mean I’ll get to come next time, too?”

 

“We’re selling your yarn, aren’t we?” Khit said, smiling at her daughter. “And when you get older I may send you here on your own. Better to start teaching you early. Now eat your food. We’re almost done here, and it’s a long walk to home.”