Futility of Roses

Quickening

The market in Rose Square was always bustling, but this day heralded crowds so dense it was hard to see your destination, let alone reach it, without being jostled roughly. Some said it was from the weather, a fine day beneath a nearly cloudless sky, inviting the citizens to leave their winter solemnity to inspect fruit and prod chickens. Some thought it was because the harvest had been better than expected, which meant the farmers' wives had money in hand, ready to by the readily available wares.

Some said it was something else entirely.

The stranger stood at the edge of the crowd and watched the people for a long moment with a practiced eye. He was taller than most of the locals, thin, with short-cropped dark hair and bright eyes. His features were soft; his skin held fawn tones that spoke of foreign shores and mixed origins. More than one woman turned to watch him as he stepped into the crowd, which was expected. Tall, lean, graceful in his movements, he wasn't unused to the attention.

He wasn't dressed in wealth. His shirt and breeches were a common enough cut; the color may have been darker than expected, but he looked the part of a peasant in his best. A quick look at his fingernails-fastidiously clean-removed that interpretation from consideration. Tailors might notice the fine, calculated stitches, but it took a trained eye to notice those details and proximity he wouldn't allow. The cut wasn't expensive. His shoes weren't especially fine; there were fastidious scuffs on the toes.

Sometimes even peasants wore black.

There were some who said the crowds gathered not for gossip, not for trade, or for something so mundane as market business, but simply to be there. For it was whispered that an ambassador from Inari would arrive at the capitol with full retinue, and this was the closest that the common populace could get to the main gates to see him arrive.

Inari. How many men had from here had fought against that coastal kingdom? How many women had mourned the loss of fathers, husbands, sons in those conflicts? Though a tenuous peace had settled between the two countries in the last several years, there was no love lost between the two nations, and the gossips that had so carefully dissected and digested the news of the ambassador's visit were at a loss to come up with a reason as to why it was taking place. Surely it was all but suicidal to journey to the heart of enemy territory with no more than a brief truce in an eons-old conflict to safeguard him.

The stranger gazed out upon the crowd. A gaggle of young maids in the livery of house workers passed him by, their bright eyes full of curiosity and flirtation; he flashed his knife-edge smile, which set them to giggling even louder. Predictable beasts.

His fingers danced across a shop wagon, just below the fruit. "How much?" he inquired, quietly, with his sharp consonants. The shopkeeper glanced over him, to the crowd stuck in a reoccurring high.

"Seven," the shopkeeper mulled, eventually. The stranger nodded. He carefully counted seven coins from his pocket, placed them on the cart, and took an apple. He rolled it in his hand, mused its smooth surface, and let the fruit drop, roll, towards a beggar. His feet, as well as the ebb of the crowd, to a tent set apart from the rest. Talismans strung from the poles jingled like wind chimes; a small but colorful sign invited visitors to enter and receive advice from an honest witch. He hesitated a moment, considered, reconsidered, then ducked slightly to clear the low door flap and entered. Heady incense filled the small space. Heavily patterned rugs and tapestries draped over boxes and the floor. A woman sat behind a low table, upon cushions of silk embroidered with stars and reaching branches in front of a tablecloth of the same. Showmanship. There were cards laid out before her, a sphere of flawed crystal, a pile of runic stones.

"You wish for your fortune to be told?" she asked him.

"That depends," he sighed. "Will you tell me what others have?"