Читать книгу Epoca: The Tree of Ecrof - Ivy Claire - Страница 6

Rovi covered his ears as the sorna horn blasted across the Upper City of Phoenis. Overhead, on the bridge that spanned the river Durna, he could hear the first carts rolling toward the Alexandrine Market. He sat up, his back stiff as usual from sleeping on the hard ground. It was market day. There was no time to waste.

Market days were the best days for stealing, everyone knew that. Which was why merchants tried to hire Star Stealers to be lookouts, paying them with a measly piece of fruit for a whole day’s work. Rovi would never do that. Six hours of standing in one spot in order to get a peach was not good business. And it was boring.

He preferred to steal.

Not a lot, and never from the vendors who couldn’t afford it. He stole only what he needed for a few days. Honeycakes from the baker with the line down the street. A bag of plums from the fruit seller whose stand was so overstocked that he didn’t care when a pile of oranges or figs tumbled to the ground.

But Rovi knew he had to be cautious and keep an eye out. Not just because of the merchants and their lookouts and the red-­turbaned Phoenician guards—members of a severe military order—who patrolled the marketplace, but also because of the other gangs of Star Stealers who might either rat him out to the authorities or steal from the best stalls before he got there. Everyone wanted to catch Swiftfoot, as he was known. Luckily, no one had.

Rovi had been on his own ever since his father had died. His mother had died many years earlier, when he was only two years old, and he had barely any memory of her at all.

His father, once one of the brightest minds in Epoca, had wound up a beggar on the streets of Phoenis, the capital city of the Sandlands region. And once his father was gone, Rovi had become just another lost boy, a Star Stealer, neither Dreamer nor Realist. A missing soul.

It didn’t take long for him to become famous in Phoenis, or rather infamous. From the head of the Phoenician guards to the common street criminals, everyone had heard of Swiftfoot. He had stolen an entire side of beef on its way to the head magistrate. He had stolen a wedding cake made for a visiting Realist princess. He had stolen a crate of fish freshly arrived from the Rhodan Islands. He had stolen a plum right out of the hand of the head of the guards himself and eaten it while running backward to avoid capture.

But today, Rovi wasn’t out to steal food. There was something else he needed—running shoes. His last pair, hand-me-downs from Issa, had worn thin. There was a hole in the sole of one shoe, and the rubber on the other had come unglued and flapped loudly when Rovi ran. And the last thing a good thief needed was to make additional noise.

He rolled up his bedding and stashed it in the archway under the Draman Bridge where he and the rest of Issa’s gang slept. He could hear the carts rumbling overheard as merchants flooded into Phoenis. He gnawed a day-old crust of bread and took a swallow from a canteen someone had filled from a public fountain. For the last time, he hoped, he laced up his battered running shoes.

Today was the final market day of the month—the largest one—when vendors from all over the Sandlands and even from some of the other regions of Epoca traveled to Phoenis. This was the day that the best goods would be available, not just the local crafts, but ones perfected in distant lands. This was the day that the Alkebulan rubber merchant would arrive with his stall of bold and brilliant running sneakers. And Rovi could think of nothing better than a pair of those sleek, gleaming shoes—not a three-course meal, not a roof over his head, not even a bag full of gold coins. He wanted a pair of gold Grana Gleams. And he was going to get them.

It was early, but the sun was already strong. The first merchants and customers had wound their scarves around their heads to protect themselves from the bright glare. A light wind was blowing, enough to kick up some sand from the streets, but nothing like the sandstorms that could shut down the market for hours, driving everyone away from the stalls, choking the air with yellow grit that flew up your nose and into your eyes. Rovi did his best work during the sandstorms, using the sandy tornado as cover to dodge from vendor to vendor, taking what he wanted and slipping away literally unseen.

But there would be no such luck today. The weather was not on Rovi’s side.

He crossed the bridge, darting among carts filled with silky shorts and shirts, handcrafted sandals, woven bags, and hammered bronze replicas of Epic Medals. When he reached the Alexandrine Plaza, Rovi’s nostrils were filled with hundreds of tantalizing smells at once—caramelizing meats, exotic spices, buttery breads, sweet fruits ripening in the sun. His stomach growled. But he couldn’t be careless. If he drew attention to himself too soon, he’d risk being banned from the market for good.

Rovi glanced up at the blue and purple onion-domed turrets overhead just in time to see the sorna player step out onto a balcony. Immediately the next blast of the sorna filled the air, telling the people of Phoenis that the market was open for business.

Rovi ducked into an archway at the eastern side of the plaza. From his lookout he could keep an eye on the Alkebulan merchant setting up the stand. He had to get everything perfect. It wasn’t just taking the shoes; it was taking the right size. And this meant doing something that might expose him—scouting the stand up close.

After an hour, the market had filled up so customers were shoulder to shoulder, bumping and jostling one another. Rovi hoped they wouldn’t notice a kid in their midst, and not just any kid, but one who wore the telltale rags and had the unwashed face of a notorious Star Stealer. A boy who wore neither purple nor blue, who was clearly neither Dreamer nor Realist.

Rovi darted into the crowd and approached the Alkebulan rubber merchant’s stall. There on the front row, just at his head height, were the gold Grana Gleams. They were the most beautiful shoes Rovi had ever seen—delicate mesh that looked like mercury, thick gold soles, and metallic laces that he knew would look like shooting stars as he raced through the streets.

Once, twice, three times he passed by the stall until he spotted his size—the fourth box in the stack. It would be a difficult grab, impossible without knocking the other boxes over. And that would mean drawing attention to himself, causing a commotion. But there would be no other way. He’d have to reveal himself, and then he’d have to run like everything in his world depended on it . . . which it did. To be caught would mean to be taken away to one of the dreaded work-schools where he would spend the next eight years packing sand into bricks for the master builders.

After a final pass by the stand, Rovi was satisfied that he knew exactly which box to take. He headed back to the archway to plan his escape route. He passed a stand where a young woman was grilling skewers of golden beef from the sacred pastures. The smell was too much and he stopped, knocking into a man in front of him.

The man turned and looked Rovi right in the eye. He was short and bald and had the paler complexion of someone from Hydros or Helios, the major cities on mainland Epoca. Rovi froze, the horror of discovery running through him. He’d tried to be invisible, a ghost, someone who slipped through the market unseen. And now this man was staring right at him.

“Are you hungry?” the man asked.

It took all of Rovi’s willpower not to tell him the truth. He was starving.

“I bet if I asked nicely, this young woman might add an extra skewer onto my order for you.”

Rovi bit his lip and shook his head. He clamped his hand over his stomach to silence its growling. “No, thank you,” he muttered.

“Are you—” But before the man could finish talking, Rovi had darted away, back to the shelter of the arch. On any other day, he would have taken the stranger’s offer in an instant. But today was not any other day. Today was the day he was getting his Grana Gleams.

From the shadows, Rovi kept an eye on the market. He watched the man eat his skewers then vanish into the crowd. Rovi darted through the covered archways that bordered the market on all sides. He leaped over musicians and beggars and all sorts of peddlers who were confined to the edges of the action. He made three circles, keeping an eye on the market, searching for the mysterious bald man—the one person who might identify him. Satisfied he was no longer in the plaza, Rovi returned to his spot across from the Alkebulan rubber merchant to wait for his window.

He didn’t have to wait long. A large group of girls swarmed the stand and began examining the Gleams. They crowded the stall, passing boxes around as they sought the right sizes and colors. Soon the stand was in chaos with shoes and boxes all over the place. The merchant was flustered, turning around and around to search his inventory for different sizes and styles for his customers.

This was Rovi’s chance. He knew it. He bolted from the archway, down the line of stalls that led to the rubber merchant’s. There was a hand on his shoulder. He turned and was once again face-to-face with the strange bald man. There was a friendly twinkle in his green eyes. “Rovi,” he said. Or perhaps Rovi had imagined it.

But Rovi was in the zone now. Nothing was going to distract him from his task, not even a stranger from the mainland who seemed to know his name. This was what Rovi was born to do. He had imagined it so many times, it was as if it had already happened. He could already see himself doing it—see himself taking the shoes, tucking them under his arm. He could see the path that he would take between the stalls. He wouldn’t have to think as he darted between customers and vendors. It would be like a dance. His feet would lead him. They always did.

Without skipping a beat, he shook off the man’s hand and kept moving toward the rubber merchant. Some of the girls had squatted down on the ground to try on sneakers. Boxes were piled all around them. Others were shouting sizes, styles, and colors at the merchant even as he handed over more and more boxes.

Rovi took a deep breath. Without looking, he already knew where all the Phoenician guards were stationed. He knew the best escape route—a small gate behind the archway at the northwestern corner of the market that led to a narrow flight of stairs, which would take him to the maze of the Lower City where he could lose himself in the tangled streets. And from there back to the bridge and down to the river where he could finally put on his Grana Gleams.

Now. Now, Rovi. His inner voice was speaking, telling him the time was right. His inner voice was never wrong. It knew.

Rovi leaped through the clusters of girls and grabbed the shoebox. “Sorry,” he blurted as he knocked the boxes over and sent the girls tumbling into one another. Then he turned and ran. As he expected, his feet led him, finding the perfect path between two stalls, the best way to jump over a giant basket of melons. Behind him he could hear the Alkebulan merchant ringing his bell, crying, “THIEF! THIEF!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rovi could see the guards leaving their posts. Their red turbans always gave them away, allowing Rovi to track them from a distance. Today was no exception. Except that there were more of them—ten as opposed to five turbans closing in on him from different corners of the market. He would need to alter his course.

So instead of heading straight for the covered walkway, he ran deeper into the market, into the thick, chaotic center where the vendors were jammed together so close it was sometimes impossible to tell one stand from another. Even in the crowd and commotion, Rovi’s feet never faltered, always finding the narrowest passage through which he could move.

Still, the turbaned guards were closing in. But they didn’t have the skill of a ten-year-old boy for disappearing. He could see one of them ahead of him signaling to one out of sight that they had him cornered. Rovi glanced from side to side. There was a low tent under which a tanned, creased old man from the Rhodan Islands was smoking fish over low coals. In an instant, Rovi was in that tent, trying not to choke on the fishy smoke. He could see the guards’ red boots passing back and forth outside. He couldn’t stay in the tent much longer. Either the guards or the fish vendor would find him.

So before that happened—he bolted again. Out the back of the tent, away from the center of the market, moving quickly, but more haphazardly than usual, knocking over baskets and barrels as he went, drawing more notice than it would be possible to outrun. Suddenly everyone was on the lookout for Swiftfoot.

Rovi gripped the shoebox to his side and took a deep breath. He was special. He knew that. He could do this. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew. He just had to make it out of the plaza.

He could hear merchants calling out to one another to stop him. He could hear his nickname being shouted across the marketplace. Swiftfoot. But somehow he stayed ahead of his pursuers. He could see the archway. He was almost there. Just a few more steps. He was going to do this. He was going to make it.

He stepped out of the plaza into the archway, kicking a drum that an old Sandlander woman was banging for spare change. He leaped over a snake charmer. He jostled a juggler. Finally! He’d reached the gate to the stairs.

And there was the bald stranger blocking his path. Rovi skidded to a stop, his heart in his mouth, his stomach sinking to his feet. He was caught. He dropped the shoes.

The man stooped, picked up the box, and handed it back to Rovi. “Go,” he said. “Quickly. Don’t look back.” The short bald man with the twinkling green eyes opened the gate. And Rovi raced down the stairs, clutching his Grana Gleams, into the maze of the Lower City where no one would ever find him. He didn’t look back.