We stay together for three dances. When the last is over, Afya curtsies and offers me a wooden coin with a sun on one side and clouds on the other.
“A gift,” she says. “For honoring me with such fine dances, Ilyaas An-Saif.”
“The honor is mine.” I’m surprised. Tribal tokens mark a favor owed—
they’re not offered lightly and are rarely given out by women.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, Afya stands on her tiptoes. She’s so tiny, I have to stoop to hear her. “If the heir of Gens Veturia should ever need a favor, Ilyaas, Tribe Nur will be honored to be of service.” Immediately my body tenses, but she puts two fingers to her lips—the most binding of Tribal vows. “Your secret is safe with Afya Ara-Nur.”
I raise an eyebrow. Whether she recognized the name Ilyaas or has seen me around Serra masked, I don’t know. Whoever Afya Ara-Nur is, she’s no simple Tribal woman. I nod in acknowledgment, and her white teeth flash.
“Ilyaas...” She drops down, no longer whispering. “Your lady is free now—see.” I look over my shoulder. Laia has returned to the dance stage and is watching the redhead walk away from her. “You must claim her for a dance,” Afya says. “Go on!”
She gives me a small shove and disappears, the bells on her ankle tinkling.
I stare after her for a moment, looking at the coin thoughtfully before pocketing it. Then I turn and make my way to Laia.
XXIX: Laia
“May I?”My mind is still on Keenan, and I am startled to find the Tribal boy standing beside me. For a moment I can only stare dumbly up at him.
“Would you like to dance?” he clarifies, offering a hand. The low hood shadows his eyes, but his lips curve into a smile.
“Um...I...” Now that I’ve given my report, Izzi and I should get back to Blackcliff. Dawn is still a few hours away, but I shouldn’t risk getting caught.
“Ah.” The boy smiles. “The redhead. Your...husband?”
“What? No!”
“Fiancé?”
“No. He’s not—”
“Lover?” The boy lifts an eyebrow suggestively.
My face grows hot. “He’s my—my friend.”
“Then why worry?” The boy flashes a grin tinged with wickedness, and I find myself smiling in return. I glance over my shoulder at Izzi, talking to an earnest-looking Scholar. She laughs at something he says, her hands, for once, not straying to her eye patch. When she catches me watching, she looks between the Tribal boy and me and waggles her eyebrows. My face goes hot again. One dance can’t hurt; we can leave after.
The fiddlers are playing a lilting ballad, and at my nod, the boy takes my hands as confidently as if we’ve been friends for years. Despite his height and the width of his shoulders, he leads with a grace that is effortless and sensual all at once. When I peek at him, I find him staring down at me, a faint smile on his lips. My breath hitches, and I cast about for something to say.
“You don’t sound like a Tribesman.” There. That’s neutral enough.
“You’ve hardly got an accent.” Though his eyes are Scholar-dark, his face is all edges and hard lines. “You don’t really look like one either.”
“I can say something in Sadhese, if you like.” He drops his lips to my ear, and the spice of his breath sends a pleasant shiver through me. “Menaya es poolan dila dekanala.”
I sigh. No wonder Tribesmen can sell anything. His voice is warm and deep, like summer honey dripping off the comb.
“What—” My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat. “What does it mean?”
He gives me that smile again. “I’d really have to show you.”
Up comes the blush. “You’re very bold.” I narrow my eyes. Where have I seen him before? “Do you live around here? You seem familiar.”
“And you’re calling me bold?”
I look away, realizing how my comment must sound. He chuckles in response, low and hot, and my breath catches again. I feel suddenly sorry for the girls in his tribe.
“I’m not from Serra,” he says. “So. Who’s the redhead?”
“Who’s the brunette?” I challenge back.
“Ah, you were spying on me. That’s very flattering.”
“I wasn’t—I was—so were you!”
“It’s all right,” he says reassuringly. “I don’t mind if you spy on me. The brunette is Afya of Tribe Nur. A new friend.”
“Just a friend? Looked to me like a bit more than that.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “You never answered my question. About Red?”
“Red is a friend.” I mimic the boy’s pensive tone. “A new friend.”
The boy tosses his head back and laughs, a laugh that falls gentle and wild like summer rain. “You live in the Quarter?” he asks.
I hesitate. I can’t tell him I’m a slave. Slaves aren’t allowed at the Moon Festival. Even a stranger to Serra will know that.