Page 20 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
The market square pulses with life—a kaleidoscope of sound and color that hits me like a familiar storm. Merchants call their wares in voices that carry over the crowd, their words weaving together into the kind of chaos I learned to navigate in port cities across the known world. The scent of roasted nuts mingles with the sharp tang of cured meats and the sweet perfume of overripe fruit, creating an atmosphere thick enough to taste.
Soreya moves beside me with the careful steps of someone still learning to trust her body again after birth, Taran bundled against her chest in a sling Mirath helped her fashion from soft linen. The baby's dark eyes peer out from his cocoon of fabric, alert and curious despite the overwhelming sensory assault of his first market day.
"The spice merchant there," Soreya says, nodding toward a stall draped in crimson cloth, "she knew your brother well. Always gave him extra nabella when he bought supplies for special meals."
I follow her gaze to where an elderly woman with silver-streaked hair arranges small bowls of vibrant powders anddried herbs. Her weathered hands move with the precision of decades spent measuring precious commodities, each motion economical and sure.
"Korrun cooked?" The question slips out before I can stop it, genuine surprise coloring my voice.
Soreya's laugh carries the warmth of fond memory. "Badly, but enthusiastically. He was convinced he could master any recipe if he just followed the instructions precisely enough. Like training routines, he said. Step by step until perfection."
The image forms easily in my mind—my methodical brother treating cooking like another skill to be conquered through discipline and repetition. It fits perfectly with everything I remember about Korrun's approach to life: steady, determined, utterly sincere in his belief that effort could overcome any obstacle.
We drift toward the fabric merchant's stall, where bolts of cloth cascade from wooden frames like frozen waterfalls. Deep blues the color of storm-tossed seas catch my eye, along with earthy browns that remind me of fresh-turned soil. The merchant, a thin man with calculating eyes, sizes up our small group with the practiced assessment of someone who tailors his pitch to his customers' apparent wealth.
"Fine cloth for the lady," he begins, his voice oily with forced charm. "Perfect for winter cloaks, very warm, very?—"
"What's the weight?" I interrupt, running the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. The texture tells me everything I need to know about the weave—loose enough to be cheap, but marketed as if it were premium goods.
The merchant's smile falters slightly. "Weight, sir?"
"Per yard. And don't give me some nonsense about it being the finest available. This is medium-grade wool at best, decent for everyday wear but nothing special." I release the fabric andmeet his eyes directly. "So let's start with an honest price instead of wasting each other's time."
Beside me, Soreya makes a small sound that might be suppressed amusement. The merchant's expression cycles through surprise, irritation, and finally grudging respect as he recalculates his approach.
"You know fabric, sir," he admits, his tone shifting to something more genuine. "Perhaps we can discuss a fair price for fair goods."
The negotiation that follows feels like a dance I learned in a dozen different ports. Give and take, bluff and counter-bluff, all conducted with the kind of good-natured verbal sparring that turns business into entertainment. I enjoy the process—the quick thinking, the reading of micro-expressions, the moment when both parties realize they've found a price everyone can live with.
"You're nothing like him," Soreya observes quietly as we move away from the stall with our purchases. There's no criticism in her voice, just recognition of a fundamental difference.
"Korrun hated haggling," I guess, adjusting my grip on the packages to keep my hands free for whatever comes next.
"He'd pay the asking price rather than argue. Said it wasn't worth the stress when he could afford to be generous." Her fingers stroke Taran's back through the sling, a gesture that's become automatic. "But you seem to enjoy it."
"Different worlds," I explain, scanning the crowd with the kind of casual vigilance that becomes second nature when you've spent years in places where awareness means survival. "On a ship, everything gets negotiated—work assignments, shore leave, shares of profit. You learn to speak up for yourself or you get overlooked."
She nods thoughtfully, processing this glimpse into a life so different from the steady domesticity she built with my brother. "He used to say you wrote about places he could barely imagine. Markets in foreign ports, customs he'd never encountered."
The weight of those letters sits between us—all the stories I shared with Korrun that he must have passed along to her. Evidence of a life lived in motion, always moving toward the next horizon, never staying long enough to put down roots. Until now.
A fruit vendor calls out as we pass, his voice cutting through the general noise with practiced volume. "Fresh tizret! Sweet as honey, perfect for preserving!"
The spiky fruits gleam like jewels in their wooden crates, their tough exteriors promising the tangy sweetness hidden inside. I pause, remembering the taste of similar fruit from southern ports, the way the flesh clings to your teeth and leaves your mouth feeling clean afterward.
"Three tizret," I tell the vendor, already reaching for my coin purse.
"Four coppers," he responds automatically, but his eyes are already calculating, trying to read whether I'll negotiate or pay.
"Two coppers and I won't point out to your other customers that half these fruits are overripe," I counter, picking up one of the specimens he's trying to pass off as fresh. The slight give under my thumb confirms my suspicion—still edible, but past its prime.
His grin acknowledges the hit. "Three coppers, and I'll throw in advice about which ones will last longest."
"Deal."
The exchange happens quickly, smoothly, with the kind of mutual respect that comes from recognizing a fellow professional. The vendor selects three perfect fruits and wraps them in rough cloth, his movements efficient and sure.
"Your friend knows his business," he tells Soreya with genuine approval. "Most landsmen get taken for double what they pay."
