Honey, Plums, and Cinnamon

Niyat lets out a low whistle. "That's the third Wazir this year."

I lift the collar of my shirt, speak into the space between cloth and skin to be sure no one can hear. I have no desire to join the Wazir outside the palace gates. "I think the assassination attempt last winter has Raj Mefit seeing enemies in the faces of his friends."

"Raj Mefit should go stick his head in the tanning vats. That might clear his mind."

I muffle a laugh. "Be careful what you say. They'll execute you as a weasel, or a rat, or whatever form you choose to take. It won't matter."

"Careful yourself." He flicks his tail at my chin and then burrows back into my hood before I can swat at him. "Best get to work. The sooner we're done here, the sooner we can tend to your mother."

* * *

It's sundown by the time I've sold enough to consider the day well-spent. I take the long way back, and Niyat doesn't argue with me. They'll be executing the Wazir at the palace gates, and I have no desire to see a man killed. The first time, when I was ten, was enough.

Home is a shrunken hut near the edge of the city, shared with two other families. As soon as I duck inside, the scent of family-love assaults me. It is like sticking my nose over a freshly-baked plum pie, with a handful of cinnamon on top. The smell tickles the back of my throat, but I'll acclimate to it soon enough, and forget it's even there.

Two children peek at me from beneath a blanket on the ground. In the corner, their father wipes dishes clean with a damp rag. He looks up as I enter and gives me a faint smile. To my left, the other family is already asleep, their lamp blown out, all three of them lying side by side. They always wake just before dawn to work at the tannery.

I make for the ladder in the center of the room. It's hard to climb without making too much noise--the wood creaks beneath my weight and my wares clang against one another--but I get to the top without waking anyone. My mother lies on a mattress, her graying hair fanned about her head. I kneel at her side, unload the items I've not sold. Niyat runs down my arm and leaps onto the floor as I work. Mother's skin looks soft and delicate as ashes. I fear if I touch her or blow on her, she will crumble into dust.

I pull forth the pouch of coins and give it a bounce so she can hear the clink of coin. I don't have the heart to show her it is mostly coppers. "I'll have enough money to get you a doctor soon," I say.

She smiles, reaches out, and closes my fingers about the purse. "Keep it. You need it more than I do."

Niyat speaks from behind me. "If she used her Talent to do more than purchase and sell well-loved items, there would be no question of who needs the money more."

I turn to find Niyat shifted into a boy, a little older than the one below. I glare at him and wish he were still a weasel, so I could easily pick him up and muffle his words. Niyat can change into a mouse and be satisfied on a crumb of bread. He can change into people who are not missing their left hands. What does he know?

My mother's fingers curl about my own. "Nonsense. Iyalah should do what makes her happy."

She understands, she always understands. But tonight, as I heat water for her over the lamp and spoon-feed her mashed lentils, it brings me no comfort. My mother has always sought to do what's best for me, and now, when she needs me the most, I cannot think of how to do what's best for her. I don't want to.

When I lay down to sleep, Niyat shifts into a dog and curls at my back.

* * *