36 – The Market
Steelwatch’s market district unfolds before us like a living tapestry, each thread a story waiting to be told. The afternoon sun casts long shadows between the buildings, and the air carries the peculiar mixture of dust, spice, and desperation that marks outpost living. Amari’s warning about pickpockets keeps my quill pressed close against my skin, a constant reminder of both possibility and danger in this maze of commerce and survival.
My eyes catch on a wanted poster, and something in my chest tightens. Two hundred quill for the girl with double proths. The artist has rendered me a stranger – sharp-nosed and wild-eyed, like some creature born of nightmare rather than necessity. The resemblance is practically non-existent. The thought of being hunted should probably frighten me, but instead, it kindles something like pride. They fear me enough to hunt me, but not enough to understand what I’m truly capable of.
The textile market opens into a wider square, where vendors have created a forest of hanging fabrics that dance in the afternoon breeze. Amari drifts toward a stall displaying niqabs and modest garments, her fingers trailing over materials with the reverence of someone who understands that clothing can be armor as much as adornment. The colors remind me of Eden’s sunset sky – deep purples melting into rose, blues that hint at evening stars yet to emerge. Each piece she touches seems to hold a story, a possibility of beauty even in hiding.
“This one,” she says softly, lifting a piece in shades of pink and grey that swirl together like morning mist. “It reminds me of dawn over still water.” Her voice carries a note of longing that makes my heart ache.
My own choice runs simpler – a solid black skirt that feels like captured darkness between my fingers. But it’s the jewelry stall that truly draws me in, its displays of copper and brass catching light like fallen stars. A delicate necklace catches my eye, copper vines twisted into an endless dance of leaves and tendrils. Without thinking, I hold it out to Amari.
The sadness that crosses her face cuts deeper than any blade. “It’s beautiful,” she whispers, one hand unconsciously moving to touch her covered neck. “But who would see it?” The question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken pain. Once again, I find myself wondering what marks she carries beneath those layers, what stories are written on her skin in scars she keeps hidden from the world. I want to tell her that beauty doesn’t need witnesses to be real, that strength can look like softness sometimes, but before I can find the right words, Braam’s massive hand closes around my arm.
In one fluid motion that speaks of years of training, he pulls both Amari and me into a shadowed alley, his body becoming a wall between us and the street. I start to protest, but then I hear it – the rhythmic sound of Protector boots on cobblestone, a sound that still haunts my dreams, still sends phantom pains shooting through my mechanical legs.
“Commander Atwood,” Braam breathes, barely a whisper. Through the gap between his arm and the wall, I catch glimpses of the passing patrol – polished boots, crisp uniforms, weapons that gleam with deadly promise. Atwood walks exactly as I remember, each step a declaration of ownership over the very ground beneath his feet. My hands clench involuntarily, remembering every story I’ve heard about his cruelty, every whispered tale of justice perverted into vengeance.
“We could take them,” I murmur, feeling my muscles coil with remembered rage. “Right here, right now. Make them pay for-”
“We could,” Braam agrees, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s calculated every angle. “And then Solomon would send an army to tear Steelwatch apart stone by stone looking for us. Every person who’s shown us kindness would pay the price along with all the innocents.”
The truth of his words settles in my stomach like cold iron. We wait until the sound of boots fades into memory before emerging, our shopping enthusiasm dimmed by the reminder of what hunts us.
As darkness settles over Steelwatch, Amari guides us to a rooftop tavern she knows. Stars pierce through the night like tiny holes in dark fabric, each one a distant echo of possibility. The rooftop transforms everything – from here, Steelwatch becomes something almost beautiful. The grime and desperation fade with the day’s light, replaced by the poetry of lanterns being lit one by one, like earthbound stars answering their celestial cousins.
Braam chooses a table against the outer railing that gives us a clear view of the street below – once a Protector, always a Protector. The height offers a different perspective on the city, and I find myself studying the patterns of movement below, the flow of people and purpose that makes up the lifeblood of any settlement. The evening breeze carries hints of cooking fires and the metallic tang that seems to permeate everything in Steelwatch, but up here it feels cleaner somehow, more honest.
When the server arrives, Amari and I ask for water while Braam orders krum and takes charge of our meal choices. The confidence in his voice reminds me of Papa, that same certainty born of years of experience.
“How do you know what we want?” I challenge, not bothering to hide my annoyance.
“Trust me, Neeka. My nose and gut are in perfect harmony. I can tell you the skitterer is burnt and the root veggies have gone bad. Just saved you from disappointment.” His smile carries the weight of countless meals in countless taverns, and something in me softens despite myself.
Braam downs his krum in one long swallow, then reaches for our waters. Before I can protest, he’s dumping mine over the side of the building. The liquid catches moonlight as it falls, transformed for a moment into a cascade of silver.
“What the bobblegash!” The words escape me in a burst of indignation that echoes off the surrounding buildings.
His only response is a conspirator’s smile as he reaches into his coat and produces a bottle of Isaiah’s raspberry-infused kiju. The rich aroma rises between us, sweet and complex, like memories of better days distilled into something you can taste.
Amari’s first sip draws out a soft sound of pleasure that makes us all smile. “This is delicious,” she whispers, as if sharing a precious secret. In this moment, her eyes above her niqab shine with a joy that makes me wish she felt free enough to show her whole face to the world.
“Isaiah had a couple more bottles hidden in a crate on the airship,” Braam explains, looking comically offended as he settles back in his chair. The wooden slats creak beneath his weight, a sound that somehow adds to the comfort of the moment. “Can you believe he hid it from us, like we might steal it or something?”
“But you did steal it,” I point out, fighting back a smile that wants to become laughter.
“Yeah, but it’s still insulting.” He pulls out his a newly-purchased pipe and a canister of swampweed, the sweet aroma soon mixing with the night air. The smoke forms perfect rings that drift up to join the stars, and for a moment, I’m transported back to evenings watching Papa on our small porch, the same ritual played out in a different life.
When Braam offers me the pipe, I hesitate just for a moment, hearing Papa’s voice in my memory warning me away from such things. But I’m not that girl anymore either.
The first inhale makes me cough, the smoke harsh and sweet at once, but the second goes down easier. It tastes of burnt sweetness and possibilities, of choices made and paths taken. I offer it to Amari, who declines with a gentle shake of her head. The weed makes everything feel softer, as if the night has wrapped us in velvet, as if the stars themselves have come closer to hear our secrets.
As we talk, the night deepens around us, and Braam reveals pieces of himself I never expected – a marriage ended by Solomon’s laws, a wife who loved books more than her own safety. The cruelty of making Braam oversee her survival ceremony in the Dread Wastes lands like a physical blow. I want to ask what happened to her, if she survived, but some questions are better left in the shadows where they belong.
The stars wheel overhead in their ancient dance as we sit in comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts. It’s almost possible to forget the danger, to imagine we’re just three friends sharing drinks and stories. The city below has transformed into a tapestry of lamplight and shadow, each window a glimpse into other lives, other stories playing out beneath the same stars.
Then the alarm splits the night like lightning, and screams rise from the streets below, shattering our moment of peace. The sound of panic spreads like ripples in still water, growing larger, more urgent with each passing second.
“Baldagaar!” The cry echoes off the buildings, bouncing between walls until it seems to come from everywhere at once. “Baldagaar inside the walls!”