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“Didn’t I read somewhere that Prince Calix also adheres to the Sanctum?”
Jaspar snorted. “Yeah, but he’s just trying to impress people. People respect what he did at Sama, but they can see he isn’t right these days. Leaning on the faith angle probably helps. And justifies why he has become such a recluse. But that’s not why Ms. Securia does it. She says she spends twenty-nine nights a month with Ardor, so she wants to spend just one night a month with Mesti.”
Jaspar laughed, and Teigra gave him a concerned look. “You don’t think there is something beautiful in that? Of not wanting to let distance separate you from your homeland and culture?”
The mid envoy gave her an understanding smile. “Maybe. But I didn’t come halfway across Dynosia to keep one foot stuck in Mestibes. The only way to survive as an envoy is to make this your home.” He held out a hand, his face exuberant. “Come on. Let me show you!”
No sooner had she taken it than he was running, barely stopping to lock the doors. They flew through a flurry of street names and little stories until the air filled with the smell of salt.
Teigra’s mouth fell open.
The agora was enormous—double, no, triple the size of back home. Stalls stretched as far as she could see, hugging the bay, with great ships bobbing against a background of crystal waters and distant green headlands.
But right here, in front of her, the only thing Teigra could see was people. There were thousands of them, all pushing and yelling and haggling. And not just humans either, but the looming shapes of other creatures—giants of all kinds hauling produce, and even a few little kobaloi gnomes, dressed in their tiny tunics, laughing and pinching individual grapes from people’s baskets.
Now that she thought about it, everyone was dressed in tunics. Or even less, with not a toga nor a stola to be seen. This half-undress revealed manly chests and feminine thighs beneath thin, rose-red and deep-green fabrics.
“Isn’t it amazing?” said Jaspar, his eyes going starry as he pulled her deeper into the madness.
The stalls were piled high with the lushest produce she’d ever seen. There were apples the size of fists, crisp cabbages and cucumbers, their stems still dripping, probably only hours from the field. Men sliced honeycombs as long as her arm, oozing the treasure into earthenware jugs.
At several points, Jaspar was greeted by traders, kissing him warmly on each cheek and giving him olives or grains, small pithoi of wine, or wrapped goat’s cheeses. Upon seeing her, they did the same, welcoming her to the polity.
Their names came forward in a cascade, with many familiar from the pile of letters she’d written. Jaspar was right, he certainly seemed to have won over a lot of the smaller traders.
It was impressive but exhausting to see him work, inquiring about families and ailments, speaking fluently about the weather and the many upcoming festivals of the summer.
“You’re very good at this,” said Teigra, as he hauled away two baskets of sample goods.
“Oh, we have to be! Ondocis takes all the big players now. We have to be smart if we want to secure product. And besides, having Ardora as a patron goddess just brings it out in me. It makes everything here so...”
“Boisterous?” offered Teigra, looking up to a young man on top of a carriage, playing pipes to no one in particular. As they passed, he blew her an extravagant kiss, calling down a string of lurid compliments.
“Exactly!” laughed Jaspar, plucking the imaginary kiss from midair, and blowing it back to the musician, who almost fell off the carriage with laughter. “Oh! Quick, quick. There is someone you have to meet.”
They pushed through the sweaty mass for another few minutes, before stopping.
Without having to be told, Teigra could tell that the owner of this shop was someone important—it was the largest stall in the whole agora, and located right in the center of the main roads, such that every shopper would have to cross it at one time or another.
The shop was circular, with dozens of baskets stacked high with flowers. There was wolf’s bane and lygos, daffodil and hellebore, iris and hyacinth, and pile after pile that she’d never seen before, lending the air a thick and shifting sweetness.
And sitting amongst all of this, under a roof made of lambskins, was a creature she’d only read about in stories.
It was centimane—a giant fabled to have a hundred arms. Although, disappointingly, they appeared to only have six in real life.
Each of these limbs was ducking to and fro, pulling together dazzling bouquets at impossible speeds. Teigra hadn’t seen enough giants yet to hazard her age, but guessed her to be young, with hair the color of wheat and skin like sunset copper.
“Gyges!” said Jaspar, ducking between baskets.
“Well, well! ’Ere I was thinking I might never see you again, lad!” said the giant, the bouquets still being made all around her.
“It was only a few weeks! I can’t have missed that much.”
The giant took a long sip of lemon water and shot him a mischievous grin. “Oh? Can’t you?”
“No!”
“Oh, yes!”
