Slaves of Socorro by John Flanagan

Author:John Flanagan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2014-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

chapter twenty-nine

As they strode through the narrow, winding streets of the town, jostled by the crowds moving around them, Lydia moved up beside Gilan, abandoning the subservient position she had adopted at the gate.

“How do we find the bazaar?” she asked.

Gilan gestured to the milling throng around them. At least half the people were carrying bundles of goods to trade, usually by the simple expedient of balancing them on their heads, tied up in giant rolls. Others were leading donkeys laden with nets of fruit and vegetables.

“Follow the crowd,” he said. “That’s where they’ll be heading.”

They allowed themselves to be carried along with the human tide. It was, Lydia thought, a little like floating downstream in a strong river current. Eventually, they arrived at the market. Stalls were laid out in neat, ordered rows, most of them with green or brown awnings to keep the heat of the sun off the goods and the traders themselves. Fruit, vegetables, meat and livestock were all on display, usually laid out on blankets spread over the cobblestones. The air was alive with voices shouting, arguing, laughing and bargaining in half a dozen different languages, the common tongue being the most prevalent.

Gilan took her elbow and guided her past a row of stalls selling melons, oranges, onions and assorted vegetables. “This is the food section. Let’s find the clothing stalls,” he said. “You do the buying—say you’re buying for your older brothers.”

“Won’t it look suspicious if we buy ten sets of clothes?” Lydia asked.

He nodded. “Decidedly. So we won’t buy them all in one place. The robes are pretty much one size for all.”

“Except Ingvar,” Lydia said with a smile.

“Except Ingvar. He is a size, isn’t he?”

They crossed over three aisles, moving from the food section of the market to the section where clothing and fabrics were on sale. Gilan stopped at a money changer and exchanged some of his Araluen money for dirum, the local currency.

He frowned as he studied the purseful of coins he had been handed. “I think he might have taken advantage of me,” he said.

Lydia raised an eyebrow at him and looked from him to the money changer. He was an overweight, swarthy man, whose eyes were constantly darting about him and whose hands made continual small movements.

“I’m sure he did,” she said.

“Nobody ever got the better of a money changer,” Gilan said.

He gestured at a stall where a trestle table displayed a variety of garments, ranging from the voluminous trousers that the locals wore, to brocaded and garishly decorated waistcoats, to the simple, flowing robes and headdresses they were after.

“Off you go,” he said, handing her a fistful of dirum. “Remember to haggle a little.”

She gave him a pitying look, dropping the coins into a side pocket on her vest. “I’m a Limmatan,” she said. “I was born haggling.”

A faint smile crossed Gilan’s face. “Interesting picture that conjures up,” he said. “Just don’t argue too much or you’ll have women banned from this market as well.”

She looked around. The market was predominantly filled with women of all ages and sizes.

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