framework
dipped wicks into the wax, layering tapers, while larger molds held thick candles that hadn’t hardened completely because
the workshop was so stifling. Direc stoked his fires to keep the liquid bubbling, pouring molds as quickly as he could, splashing
them with water so the wax would solidify.
As soon as he had another dozen candles ready, he cracked them free, used a small craftsman’s trowel to whittle away the marks
of the mold and to smooth the curling fern symbol. He had similar candles cooling that displayed the Aidenist fishhook, but
he doubted he’d have time to run to the other side of the city and sell them. Direc na-Taya was having a very profitable day,
indeed. These finished candles would fetch the unheard-of price of a
cuar
each.
Leaving his workshop behind, with vats of wax and tallow bubbling over low fires on stands precariously balanced amongst the
molds, he rushed to the front of his shop and opened the slatted door to find a crowd clamoring for his candles.
“I don’t have many,” he cried. “Only twelve.”
The customers offered handfuls of coins and shouted outrageous prices, which startled Direc. He realized that he would not
be cheating them if they
offered
him that much money. He raised one candle, displayed the unfurling fern design. “Here is the first—who will bid for it?”
Someone shouted, “Two
cuars!
” Another cried, “Three!” The price finally stopped at five, and he took the money, unable to believe his good fortune. He
raised the second candle, listening to another round of bids. At least by drawing out this process, his new batch would have
more time to cool.
He sold the dozen candles and told the customers to wait, promising to return with more as soon as possible. “Please be patient—such
work cannot be rushed. Pray or meditate while you wait.”
Direc closed the door and took the time to lock his embarrassingly heavy pouch of coins in a safe cabinet next to his books
before he hurried to his workshop. By now, maybe some of the tapers would be solid enough, though the thicker candles were
definitely still too soft. But if he gently wrapped them, told the people to be careful, they might serve the purpose…
Wiping sweat from his brow, Direc opened the door to his workshop, and an unexpected blast of furnace heat enveloped him.
A wax block had melted, a brazier tipped over. Aromatic oil had splashed across the bench top, and flames had caught. He staggered
back, eyebrows singed, hair smoking. He drew in a gasp, and the heat burned his lungs. He couldn’t shout.
The back of his shop was crowded against many homes and vendor stalls, and the building quickly became an inferno.
The flames escaped into Ishalem.
8
Ishalem
The soldan-shah relaxed in his residence that evening with his beautiful wife. After enjoying a victory feast and drinking
good Abilan wine, Imir lounged on cushions and stroked Asha’s long hair. The caress tickled her, and she laughed like soft
music. Imir felt languid and content. His wife was sweet and oh so lovely…
Caged songbirds produced a chirping cacophony without regard for whether anyone
wanted
to hear them sing. At least minstrels and court singers could be commanded to withdraw when he wanted a moment of peace.
Roaming freely throughout the Ishalem estate, more than a dozen cats had to be kept separate from the ever-present temptation
of the caged birds. Asha possessed six little dogs that loved to sit upon her lap, trot from room to room behind her, bark
incessantly, and chase the cats.
Then there were the four large and rambunctious hounds kept in a run outside the residence. These hunting dogs barked and
bayed throughout the night, craving exercise, but Asha was no hunter; she simply liked the idea of having them. In a separate
conservatory, a dozen potted mulberry trees fed Yuarej tentworms. Though Asha had silks enough, she delighted in the fluttering
moths that
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