They abandoned the camp within the hour. The Bazaar awaited them.

Every hour the snakes slithered, the outline of the bazaar became increasingly defined. Cirin focussed on that distant skyline. Ever since that morning, he’d scarcely crossed glances with the old mon. It seemed almost their entire company, save Toftof, had become distant from the schemer.

Toftof and Taba. The caster did not outright defend the old mon’s actions, but she did use the upheavel to get closer to him. She was already on the same smaller snake as him, now slithering well ahead of the large ramhorn. Cirin surrendered his view of the skyline to scowl at the happy count. His head now balancing chin first on the edge of the snake carriage.

“traitor.” He whispered to himself. His head sunk further. Not that she was ever a traitor. He thought to himself. Or on his side. He pressed his brows together. But she was when they saved the others. He leered at them once more. Disgusted. Resolved.

He would get revenge on Taba, and, if the old mon even cared for her a little, revenge on him as well.

“I’ll win dat duel.” He wagered.

“What duel?”

Cirin blinked, noticing not only Catherine but also a curious Sol staring back.

“W-wit da old mon.” he lied, “He once said I’d neva best him, I will wit a duel.” His voice hushed as Sol came into focus, “I’ll make sure he regrets what he did ta Sol.”

Catherine quieted to that, somewhat reluctant to even try talking at the mention of Azhar. Sol as well.

Cirin returned back to his spot. He remembered one of Manama’s lines she used just after leaving Gin.

A lie becomes truth when dere be no reason ta deny it.

Cirin dug his fingers into his palms. One day he’d fight the old mon. And one day, he’d win.

A little ways before the Bazaar, Salazan had Azhar brought his snake to a heel behind the ramhorn, signifying to the people of the bazaar that the smaller snake contained prisoners.

The Bazaar itself appeared completely different than its distant outline. No longer was it the wonderous collection of giants piercing the heavens. A place of mystery and wonder.

Now it had become no more than a fortress. A shallow wall snaked around the outskirts of the city while a low ditch rested a little ways ahead of that wall. Watch towers sprouted in even sections along that wall, culminating by the one rounded wooden gate the snakes were headed to. Cirin squinted. Every now and then he saw men stationed in groups of two along the wall, each dressed in the bright blue and white design of Salazan’s men. There was a buzz as the first couple of guards spotted the caravan.

One stayed while the other descended. Soon, the ring of bells filled the air.

“They’ve been expecting us.” Straightened Salazan. He gave the others a look of stout suspicion, “What ya about ta see, ya say ta no one.”

A stupendous click echoed from the gates, yet just as Cirin turned to it, the ditch ahead of the gate shifted.

Cirin blinked, scarcely tossing his eyes to the yet to be opened gate to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

“So that’s how it is.” Declared Catherine, slamming her fist against her open palm as if it were a cudgel. “The gate’s a diversion. That is the real entrance.”

Cirin followed Catherine’s pointed digit to where the ditch had shifted. There, in the ditch itself, a blackened entrance had slid open, whilst a ramp formed in front of it. The entrance was just large enough for two pack snakes or one exceptionally monstrous ramhorn.

Two figures appeared out of that entrance. One was of a long haired lanky woman bearing spectacles and the other of an old well built man. The old man seemed to pace faster than his awkward counterpart, keeping his arms held behind his back at all times and his chin arched at an upwards angle. The woman behind him could be no further from his noble posture, choosing instead to precariously balance a scroll and quill whilst she prodded behind the senior.

Both were dressed in fine dark blue robes that clipped to the side to keep it steady. The old man carried a blade on his hip.

The old man stopped a little ways before the first pack snake. Cirin lowered his head, till only the tops of his eyes could be seen. Somehow, the old man reminded him of Azhar. In fact, it might as well have been if Azhar was twenty years older. He had the same angled features, the same eyes, the same build, even the same height. The only notable difference was in his posture, a stern collection of wrinkles and short grey patch of hair.

Then the man drew his blade, choosing to hold it in a way that made Cirin have no further doubt. Sword held in front, free hand to the side. Knees lowered. That was Azhar’s style.

“Where is my son?” hissed the old man.

Befa Salazan could answer. Before he could even make it off his giant snake. A pair of feet crunched against the sand. His consequent steps told of shuffled rocks, until Azhar himself appeared behind the ramhorn.

Azhar withdrew one of his two hands from his pockets and flicked it away from his head.

“Yo.” He said coolly.

The old man fumed for the briefest moment, but regained his composure as quick as he lost it. He took a step before reassuming his fighting pose.

“Today you shall ansah fa da death of ya sista. Of my daughter.”

“How’s mudda?” continued Azhar.

The old man swiped his blade to the side. His face a tepid red. “You leave us fa two decades, kill ya best friend, ya sister, and ya have da audacity ta ask about ya mudda when ya finally return? How do ya tink she be, eh!? Her only son killed her only daughter. She lost two children dat day. How can ya be sa callous?”

The woman next to him tried to reach for him with her free hand, “C-calm down, T-tafar.” She quivered.

Tafar kept his fuious stance steady. His chocolate eyes burning holes in Azhar.

“Ya could say I’m used ta it.” Shrugged Azhar. He gave Cirin a fleeting glance, “Recently mo sa dan eva. Besides, I’m only guilty of two of da tings ya accuse me wit.”

“Two? Explain yaself boy.”

Azhar reached for his back, making Tafar nearly pounce. With a wisp of the sheath, the old mon withdrew his blade and pointed it directly at Cirin. Azhar pivoted his head back to Tafar. Cirin did the same only to catch Tafar’s speechless expression.

“I can give ya da details latta, but right now I need entry fa dis boy… and da prince Soletio Gel’rave.”

Sol popped from behind Cirin and Tafar sheathed his blade, “Da tird in line to da Galokin trone?”

“Aye, one who’s life is in dangah anywhere else. Will ya let us in or not?”

Tafar nodded to his companion who made some strange signs with her hands.

After a while she gave him a curt nod.

“Come den, da way is open.” Said Tafar.

Azhar wasted no time in making his way in. The ramhorn was quick to follow. Just as Azhar made to pass Tafar, Tafar grabbed his son by the arm.

“I need ta know what really happened ta Hannah.”

Azhar stared at him for the longest time, giving enough time for both snakes to pass them by. Cirn pushed his way to the back of the snake to hear the old man’s response, yet they had been too far away for the boy to listen. Instead he caught a glimpse of Tafar stumble and fall to his knees. What little Cirin saw of his face now buried in his hands. Then nothing.The world flashed to black.

In the distance two lights revealed the earthen walls of the passage. As they passed those lights, even more popped into exsistence, until a neat series of the things could be seen for quite a ways, both culminating and ending at the red-lit exit where the earth met the sky.

Cirin shielded his eyes once the ramhorn slithered out of the tunnel. Boistrous merchants and idle chatter nipped at his ears. He sniffed. The air had been drenched in the familiar allure of spice. The smoke ofcooking flames simmered the air further. He took the view in with one hard look.

It was a crescent shaped market with a glass snake sculpted in it midst. Cirin found himself shielding his eyes once more as dared glaring at the creation. He turned. Far in the distance, the steady stream of sunlight squeezed between two of the four messas landing squarely on the glass snake. From there, the light split in a hundred and one ways in each direction. There, between the messas and the market cresecent, sprang a spattering of sandstone houses.

“Two messas.” Noticed Cirin at last, “We’re in da centa of dis place? Den where’s d towa?”

Salazan let out a knowing laugh, “Look up, boy.”

Cirin craned his head back, gasping as he understood what the bazaar man meant. He hopped off the ramhorn immediately and sped out the market cresecent.

“Cirin wait!” cried Taba.

Cirin dug his heels into the dusty path as the full view of the tower greeted him. His eyes expanded. For the longest time, he’d thought of the towers as monsters, and if not that, the strangest of buildings. Yet this tower defied all others. It had roots, branches, and if not for the clouds, probably leaves as well. It was a tree, a black tree. The roots of that tree bounded over him and dug back in the earth several streets away. The roots were its supports, lifting the massive structure several houses over the marketplace.

“I said wait, you impatient imbocile.” Puffed Taba.

Cirin waited for the count to take in the same view.

“We’re in da Bazaar.” Said Cirin as the count made a telling scan of the tower, “I take it ya haven’t forgotten?”

Taba paused before bowing her head low. “I haven’t. I couldn’t.” She met Cirin’s crimson specs, “Azhar may not be worth anything to ya anymore, but to me, he’s-” she caught herself, “Someting I won’t lose.”

Cirin made out the figures of Sol and Catherine nearing them, “Den I’ll be doing ya favor by defeating ya.”

“Cirin!” echoed the encroaching parties.

Catherine was the first of the two to reach the boy, “Cirin, what-”

“Wow!”

Catherine traced the prince’s gaze to the monumental tower in the distance.

“A tower!? This is he first time I’ve seen one with roots? But how? There’s nothing about this is Lamanori.”

“Someting tells me dis town ain’t natural.” Noted Cirin.

“Dat’s obvious, degenerate. Even da entrance is guarded. It seems not just anyone can enta dis place.”

“Or just any information can exit. Why is it that we got through?” she questioned aloud.

Cirin rose his shoulders and lowered his head, “Da old mon.” he hushed.

“Yes that’s right. Azhar’s gone with that man to one of the messas. Something about straightening the details.” Catherine tilted her head at Sol, “Sol’s to stay with Manama and Toftof. I’m off to see Kirina. As for you two, well it seems you’ve been given free reign.”

Cirin narrowed his eyes. After all they’d been through ‘free regn’ was not a phrase he was accuomed to. Especially with recent excess of attempts on their lives.

Taba was just as quick to realise this, “Azhar would neva allow dat.

“I suppose then its proof of Azhar’s faith in this town.” She glanced behind her, “I need to go before they leave without me. You two can join us if you don’t trust this town.”

“No.” started Taba. She straightened her stance, “We have someplace ta go.”

Cirin shoved his hands in his pockes and nodded, “We’ll meet back here, Caterine.” He turned to the prince, “Sol.”

“Ok.” Nodded the boy happily.

Catherine seemed a little more skeptical, “You two? Alone? Something really must have happened while we were captured.”

“Noting ya be tinking of.” Warned Cirin, “Just a quick matta we need resolved. Dat’s all.”

“If that’s all, then I’ll see you here later.”

“Agreed.”

Their parting was a quick one. While Cirin had already taken his leave, Taba seemed adamant about waiting a little longer. Her eyes were glued on those two.

Cirin sighed when he was a few steps away from her. He spoke between his steps, “If ya really tink ya goinna lose witout trying, den ya ain’t worth fighting.”

Taba tossed him a furious glance, “You’re da one who’s goinna lose today.”

“I’ll be looking fa a palce ta fight in dis town. If ya still be here by den, I win.”

The next time Cirin peaked over his shoulder, he found Taba pacing just three steps behind him, always scarcely glancing away.

Apart from the messas and the tower tree, the bazaar itself proved exceptionally normal. The streets weren’t crowded nor the houses painted. It was the exact opposite of Gin. Manama once said that a town is reflected by the people who made their home there. If that was true then the Bazaar must have had an excess of law-makers and accountants. There were people ofocurse, but not performers nor clowns. Just people. Cirin found himself smiling as he walked. In some ways he enjoyed that. It wasn’t particularily large either, not compared to Gin.

Soon Cirin’s gaze wandered back to the messas. It was impossible not to stare at them. Those imposing spires had clear stairs leading up until their very tips. There, on the top of it, popped the outline of large ornate buildings.

“I heard about dose.” Started the girl, “Barra… my brudda used ta beg my parents ta go train dere. Dey are da martial temples of da Bazaar, each of da messas has one or mo. One fa each style.”

Cirin spied at her with the corner of his eye, “Dere’s most likely a temple fa ya up dere. One fa ya style, da shifting sands.”

“How do ya know dat?!”

“I watched ya train.” He answered bluntly.

There was a silence.

“How much did ya see?”

Cirin paused, “Does it matta? We’ll be fightin soon anyways. Look.” He pointed at a dusty lot between a trickle of houses.

After a quick scan of the lot Cirin paced a good ways from Taba. His hands curled around both pommels. He levied his eyes on the girl, who drew her own blade. It was now or never. He withdrew his blades.

What commenced amounted to flurry of dusted steps as one dwarfed figure rushed the other. Taba, anticipating the boy’s mad charge began in the opposite direction, keeping her face towards him as she snapped her free hand. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Cirin puffed and lowered his head as he ran on. A few flying rocks was all to be expected. He made sure swat them away as he ran by them. Again she snapped three more times, forming bigger rocks this rendition. Cirin dodged those and at last closed the gap between them.

He swung his blade forward. A dozen hundred swings of practice giving it force. Here was the enemy he’d swear he’d beat, the one knot in an otherwise straight thread.

Taba spat in the face of that, dodging the blow and responding with her own. Cirin remembered what the odl mon had told him time and time again. A duel was never a turn based thing, but a matter of opportunity that was fractions of seconds in the making.

A low rounding reposte, an expected recoil, and preassumed swing back in by the boy. Taba saw through it all. And when she didn’t, she covered her gaps with quick spatterings of rocks.

Cirin lowered his stance, holding one blade in front of the other. He repeated the words of the voice over in his mind.

Swing left, arch forwards, bring the left back and swing right.

Cirin smiled, Taba was sweating now.

Repeat.

The boy grit his teeth as repeated the mantra faster and faster. So much so that Taba was running out of breath and space. She had given up creating rocks completely and shifted to dodging Cirin’s attacks, instead of countering. Her weakness was showing. He expected as much. No matter what skill she had before, she had no place traveling with them. She was the enenmy. Always the neemy. The others couldn’t see it, but he could.

Cirin could see it all. They weren’t far from the houses. Taba, however could not waste even a second to glance behind her. Just as she reached the end of steady ground, Cirin feigned a swing, and tripped the girl with his momentum.

He had his blade pointed down at her the moment she peered back up.

“It be ova, count.”

Taba clutched her pommel and tossed her eyes to the sky, “Not yet.”

Cirin followed her golden specs to what he assumed was nothing more than a ruse. He lowered his shoulders. He wished he was wrong. Far above, every rock she created during the fight floated in disarray.

Snap

His quivering eyes shot to the Count in horror. She had her free hand in front of her. One distraction had led to another.

Again he reared back to the sky, only to find those rocks angled at him. Ready to fall. Deception. Cirin’s breath grew wavering. Nothing but deception. He swung trust at the girl in a moment of fury. Yet instead of blood, the figure of Taba turned to stone and shattered.

“Dis way, degenerate.”

Cirin shut his eyes.

“Lies. Dis be all ya do, eh?” He held his blades low, “Ya lie when ya talk, ya lie when ya fight. You lied ya way into da old mon’s favor, and fa what? Is dis how ya aim ta defeat me? Enta inta my life and turn dose I trust against me?”

Cirin thrust open his eyes and spun to the girl, waving his rusted blade her way, “I won’t lose ta ya. Eva.” He declared.

Taba mirrored his actions, and the boy nearly flinched as he saw the watery glints in her eyes.

“It must be nice having dose ya turst.” Her voice was quivering.”Do ya know why I changed da rules dat day?”

Cirin puffed, regaining his stance, “Dat’s obvious. Ya knew ya would lose.”

“Dey love ya too much to lose ya!” she balled.

“Love? Me? Ya be too sentinmental, count.”

“Ya dun get it.” She said, wiping those tears at last.

Cirin’s scowl grew harsher than ever before. “Stop imitating da old mon.”

Taba ignored him as her voice grew ever louder, “Toftof, Manama, dey only went wit Azhar to protect you. Do ya even know who you are to dem?”

Cirin failed to answer. His words were caught in throat. He could only focus on her. His sole enemy. This was another of her tricks, another distraction. Those rocks were still aimed squarely at him.

“Well do you?”

Cirin gripped his pommels impossibly hard. There was a way out of this there had to be. His eyes expanded as he counted the steps to Taba. She wasn’t far. He started running.

“Ya da son of bot of deir best friends.” She balled.

That made him slow his steps to a halt, “My parents were scoundrels and tieves. Nobodies dat da world forgot when dey left it.”

“Ya sure about dat?”

Cirin smiled, “As sure as I will defeat ya.”

“My rocks will reach ya first.”

“And you as well.”

Taba flinched, no doubt realising his gambit as the boy made one last effort to reach her. So she made her own. One snap and the rocks she conjured flung towards Cirin. She held her blade with her other hand.

Now it was a race between Cirin to Taba and the rocks to Cirin. If Cirin reached Taba before her rocks reached him, he had a chance of beating her.

Though that chance was almost assuredly a victory. He knew her speed from watching her. He was faster. He would win. This was to be victory against the old mon. Agaianst all that opposed Cirin.

Yet a victory it was not. Cirin faltered forwards as a heavy blow to the chest vanquished the air from within him. The moment he hit the ground, he noticed Taba in a similar state.

“I told you two not to fight.”

Cirin coughed. “C-c-caterine?” he wheezed.

“What is this? Flying rocks? Dueling with actual blades? Do you two realise that you are far too young for this sort of thing? Well.” She posed in between them, tapping her chin with one of her glowing fingers, “I suppose I’d be too young for it as well. Either way. It’s far too dangerous.”

“Let us fight.” Spurred Cirin, “We made a deal. If I won she’d leave.”

“And why would she do that?”

“She’s da enemy!” roared a feebled Cirin.

“She’ll be living with you.”

“What?!” bellowed both Cirin and Taba, soon after coughing to the exertion.

Cirin managed to regain his footing at the same time as Taba.

“What do you mean living wit me?” asked Cirin first.

“Well, Toftof went to check on Azhar and when he returned he explained the details of our stay here. I saw him after my visit to Kirina and decided to tell you two in person. I’m glad I did!”

Cirin rolled his eyes at the Catherine. She who had the audacity to watch over them with herh ands on her hips.

“How did ya find us?” asked Taba at last.

“She had mudda Manama’s help in dat.” Conceded the fortune teller.

Cirin nearly jumped to her presence.

“I had Manama follow you just in case. Did you kno she’s remarkably good at the following business?” explained Cahterine.

Cirin found himself staring at Taba, who stared him back. All of it seemed pointless. His feud with Taba, perhaps even with Azhar. He shut his eyes. He’d known the old mon for his entire life. Azhar had taught everything he knew and more so. To think the old idiot would stoop as low as to use Sol as living bait… It was heartless, cruel, but all the same, something only Azhar would do. He sighed.

“Da duel’s off.”

Taba blinked, “Den?”

“You can stay.” Conceded Cirin, “I dun like ya. Dun tink I eva will, but dese two do, and I can’t speak fa dem. Besides, I need ta take care of something else.” He shifted his gaze to Catherine, “Oi Caterine, where da old mon be?”

“Still discussing things with Tafar.”

“Can ya take me to him?”

Following Catherine took them straight to the furthest messa to the west. Ater climbing what seemed a thousand stairs, Cirin grew to understand why Jegga had fashioned a lift instead.

Even still, for what he wanted to do, braving those stairs was only the first of his tribulations. The second came at finding the old mon within the complex resting at the messa’s top.

Luckily, Catherine knew where to go as well as who to talk to in order to grant them accsess to personal rooms of the temple attendees.

The rooms were spotless things, the hallways airy and the walls lightweight. It reminded Cirin of the Grand Valley Inn. Designs of contorted trees and flowers stained the walls, which let the fainstest of lights glimmer through. They were paper thin. A peculiar style to be sure, but one Cirin was not entirely unfamiliar with back in Lamanori.

Every now and then he could see the outlines of some figures still in the room. Then, at the end of the last hallway he picked up a familiar mumbling from beyond the walls. As he got closer, one of the voices proved to be of Azhar. The others were of a woman and a man. Cirin halted his hidden approach.

“Tafar?” he croaked aloud.

“So its tru den” pushed a muffled Tafar, “I didn’t want ta believe ya back in da tunnel, but I rememba a rumor similar ta what ya described a while back. To take her own life… Perhaps I didn’t want ta believe it den eidda.”

“I can,” started the woman, “understand.” She said after a hard breath, “She bore an anguish no mudda could. Da guilt of loosing a child, let alone feeling responsible fa it. I-“ Cirin slumped against the wall as the woman’s word slowly deteriated.

”I couldn’t bear it eida.” She said at last.

What followed was an almost silence, filled only by the quiet sobbing of the woman. It was a mess of gasps and sniffs and finally wails.

“Let it out Alia, my love.” Hushed Tafar. Though it seemed his voice was on the urge of quivering as well.

The woman took three deep breaths and quieted.

“I neva should have let you two leave.” She snapped.

“Even if ya said no, we would’ve left anyways. Besides.” Breathed Azhar, “Hannah enjoyed our travels and even Lamanori. To her dat was its own adventah.”

“Why did you two neva write back!?”

“Hannah did fa a while, but stopped when she got no response. It was not till afta I learned dat Jegga had been interceptin’ da lettas.”

“Damn dat Jegga!” cursed Tafar.

“And da boy? Can I see him?”

There was a silence. Cirin straightened his back.

“You can. But only if ya promise ta keep quiet about his past. I am his guardian, noting mo. Understand where dat leaves ya?”

“What a cruel wish upon ya parents.” Sighed Alia, “If dat is how it is. Very well. But no matta what ya do next, da boy stays wit us.”

“I had no intention ta debate dat. He’s da safest here. As fa me, I will leave by da morrow ta track down da Prince’s assasins.”

Cirin flinched to that.

Alia began to speak but cut herself off. After a moment of reflection, Cirin noted the outline of her head shift in the paper wall shadow, “Since ya be leavin tomorrow, would you… would you tell us about her days in Lamanori?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We deserve ta know.” Insisted Tafar.

Azhar’s telling sigh filled the air. He started from the beginning, detailing the travels of three young companions and an unlikely stowaway.

Cirin had nearly planned to listen to it all when he noticed Taba leaning against the wall in front of him. The voices drowned in the back of the head as he focussed on the count.

“How long ya been dere fa?”

“Long enough.” She shrugged.

Cirin shoved his hands in his pockets and bounced to his feet, “I’m done here.”

Taba spoke as he walked away, “Da one dey be talking about, ya know who she is to ya?”

Cirin paused his retreat, “I figured it out back at da valley inn.”

“Den why dun ya tell Azhar? Befa he leaves at least.”

Cirin spied her from the edge of his eye, “He neva told me, sa he doesn’t want me ta know.”

“Ya neva asked him?”

Cirin grinned, “Dere are dose who ya just dun ask why.”

Taba flashed red and glanced away, “Dun eva use my words against me, degenerate.”

Cirin started pacing away, prompting the count to trail after him.

“Degenerate. Degenerate.” He mimicked her words, “Aren’t da ones who concoct da worst misconceptions just as guilty as being degenerate? If not in actions, den in mindset.”

He glanced her way and almost snickered when he found her standing there with one eye quivering. He continued his timely pace, pausing to slide the paper door open.

He kept his eyes on the door as he spoke. “Perhaps being stuck here wit ya won’t be dat bad.”

The moment he passed through the door he realised what he didn’t want to. Azhar was leaving them.

The mere thought of that consumed him. Even as the woman from before, supposedly a vice counciler to Tafar, led Cirin and the others to their respective stops, he couldn’t help thinking about the old mon. That night in his paper walled prison he found himself tossing in his bed. He turned to one side.

Azhar was in the wrong. He put Sol in danger in purpose and Sol almost died.

He turned to the other side.

But if Azhar hadn’t done what he had, Sol would be in constant danger. Doing nothing wouldn’t have changed that.

Cirin kept turning as the arguments kept presenting themselves until he found himself staring at the temple ceiling.

He wondered how the others took it. If they knew even. Azhar had been their de facto leader ever since Lamanori. If Cirin knew, there was no doubt Catherine knew some how. Toftof was the closest to Azhar at the moment and Manama always had some strange way of knowing.

He sprang up from his bed. He needed ar. Each of the rooms of the temple had two doors. One that led to the connecting hallways, and another that opened to the middle garden of the complex. The balls of his feet slid across the hollow panelling. He paused by the door once he got there. He could almost feel the night breeze nip at his neck, almost hear the chirp of hoppers on the other side. His hand lowered to the handle, yet he couldn’t pull. He wouldn’t. As if the door held more than hoppers and cold air on the other side.

He whipped his head back to the bed. The thought of losing sleep that one night didn’t seem as bad. If anything, he might fall asleep once Azhar does leave. If he did, then there would nothing more to lose sleep over. The old mon would be gone. Cirin balled his free hand and slid open the door with his other.

The words of the old mon were fresh from the day prior.

Doing noting risks everyting.

Once more Cirin froze. Not because of the cold air, or the rightly defeaning chirps of hoppers, but because of the man who stood on the other side.

Azhar stared down at him, an expression splayed across his weary muzxzle that the boy had not been familiar with.

“Listen, mouse-”

The door slid shut. Cirin fell on the otherside. He cupped his brow with one hand and waited until he caught the outline of the old mon as he passed by the walls.That night, his first in the Bazaar, Cirin fell asleep huddled by the garden door.