So this chapter is quite long, but I couldn't find a good cut point! So let's pretend it's bonus material. 

- Swpoet

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The walk to the market is enjoyable. The air is warm but crisp, carrying a faint smell of salt and brine in from the nearby ocean, and there's a slight breeze that blows pleasingly across my silks. Tyro walks slowly, accommodating my weakened state, but I'd probably have walked slow even if I were well. The scenery that's so familiar to him is fascinating to me.

The architecture is unassuming and blends together after a while; most everything is made of the same dark wood the island is famous for, built for simplicity and utility, not beauty. There's no gilding, or stone columns, or jeweled archways. It's nothing compared to the visual feast of Arzsa, Shikkah's capitol.

But the people- the people make the streets of Kama come alive. They turn the brown and green walkways into a mosaic, their diverse coloring and features creating a moving artwork I can't look away from.

Nowhere else can you see a dusk-colored Yi'ili woman walking hand and hand with a pale Suumari man, or see the same couple holding their child, a creature with wide blue eyes and its mothers' dark skin. Nowhere else do Seramichen-descended merchants haggle with Mirrenovese-looking women over imported Brekkan pottery. It simply isn't done.

But Kama is a country of immigrants, a microcosm apart from usual custom due to its unique history and strategic location. It's the only land between the western continent and the eastern, making it a vital trading post and restocking point for merchant ships.

Tyro leads me to a little shop labeled herbalist. A wrinkled woman inside hands him a packet of seeds, which he pays her for and pockets.

"Are you sure those are the right ones?" I ask.

He nods. "Of course they are."

"I'm only thinking of what Avamir will do to you if they aren't." I joke. "Just imagine."

"You're right," he mutters before he checks the the seeds again, squinting to read the small lettering of their label. "If they were the wrong type she might just kill me and bury me in that garden of hers."

"She doesn't seem the violent type," I joke.

I know the violent type.

My violent, wild Izsaiki. The mirth falls from my face to be blown about by the wind over the Kamai streets. It all comes back to her, doesn't it? I'll always come back to her.

"She's not as weak as she seems," Tyro continues, ignorant of my sudden change of mood. "I know she's small, and meek with strangers, but the woman has steel in her blood. She's the strongest person I know."

"Is that why you wanted me to meet her?"

He nods. "You wanted some strength. And Ava- she has a way with lost things."

"I'm not lost!" I protest, but Tyro gives me a long glance and I have to admit he's right.

"Alright," I concede. "I might be lost."

"She hates to leave the manor, but she goes every week to visit the girls at Mika Dusetton's, and she knows just how to handle them. She's kind, but not so kind as to let them wallow in their misery. She gets them to eat, and brush their hair, and helps them find work. No one who can be around so much grief, so many broken people, could possibly be considered weak."

"Who is Mika Dusetton?"

"I forget you don't know," he replies. "When people are rescued from trafficking, they're given the option to return to their home country. Some do, if they have family, but the ones that stay go to government-funded homes for rehabilitation. Mika Dusetton's a rich woman who handles girls rescued from the southern port, where we are."

"It's the east," I mutter. "They don't take trafficking seriously. We never had these problems in Shikkah-"

"We find plenty of Shikkan women and children bought and sold," Tyro says. "Everywhere has these problems, just not everyone sees them."

"What are you saying?" I ask, piqued.
He shrugs. "You grew up in a palace, Shira. I wouldn't expect you to know much about the world's dark underbelly. That's all."

"I know plenty about darkness," I tell him. "Don't believe otherwise because I have a pretty smile and tuck turtleroses into my hair. Too many men make that mistake and I'm tired of it."

Tyro smiles. "You're like Ava, you know. That's what I've been thinking, since I met you. You look so delicate, like a flower that would shrink from touch, but you too have steel in your blood. I see it plain as day."

I pause, unsure whether to be annoyed or flattered. I settle on silence while we walk to the fabric shop.

"This is what you call a fabric seller?" I mutter as we enter the small shop, looking in distaste at row after row of coarse linen in neutral tones. "This is-"

"Functional." Tyro answers. "The Kamai dress for function, Shira, and that means no silks with draping sleeves. You need proper trousers and a tunic."

My guide quickly picks out bundles of fabric and begins haggling over their price with the merchant. I wonder off and manage to find a softer cotton the color of orchids hidden amongst drab greys and browns.

"This one," I say. "Tyro, this is functional. And it's lovely. It's perfect."

"That's for a woman's summer dress," Tyro informs me. "Not a man's tunic."

"Come on," I protest. "You can't just take me from silks and give me burlap. You have to wean me off of them."

After a little back and forth and much sighing, Tyro consents to buy me the silk. Since we left from Avamir's cottage I don't have my coin purse on me.

We're on our way to the tailor's when a boy of about thirteen almost knocks into Tyro.
"Shattered one, there you are!" He pants out between labored breaths. He's been running.

"And you are?"

"I'm Essen; I work for Mistress Belkau. She sent me to fetch you. The Ambassador's with her now and he wants you to come immediately."

"He's back?" Tyro asks in surprise.

The boy nods. "He's with Mistress Belkau," he repeats. "And requests your immediate presence."

"Thank you," Tyro says, tipping the boy for his trouble. The coin and his eyes both sparkle in the sunlight before he pockets the money greedily.

"Thank you, Xo," the boy answers with a toothy smile before running off.

"Xo?" I ask Tyro once he's gone.

"It's closest translation is 'sir,'" he tells me. "It's a polite address, Xo for men, Xoxa for women."

I nod. "So I suppose I need to go back to the manor, if the Ambassador needs you."

Tyro shakes his head. "You don't know the way and that boy said immediately. I don't want to keep him waiting if it's something urgent, so you'll just have to come along. But here, you hold the fabric, I don't want to be seen with that ridiculous purple color."

"It's orchid," I mutter under my breath, but I take the fabric bundle and follow quickly on his heels. Tyro walks with purpose, taking back alleys and cutting across busy intersections, once almost knocking over a woman carrying a basket of fruits at her hip

"Xaa vohama ni xox revja!" She snarls, holding the basket closer and fixing us with a horrible scowl.

"What did she say?" I ask, struggling to keep up with Tyro's long stride. He notices and slows.

"Oh, just that I'm a diseased cur who needs to look where he's going."

"Goddess," I mutter.

"The Kamai are a vocal people," he tells me with a small smile. The insult rolls like water off his back.

Before long we're standing in front of a beautiful three storied building. It dwarfs the surrounding shops, and the paneling is done with alternating dark and mid-toned wood, giving it visual interest the other buildings lack.

"This is where Mistress Belkau lives?" I ask

Tyro nods as he knocks on the door.

A beautiful woman answers it. Her skin is the smoothest cream I've ever seen and her hair tumbles down her back in luxurious golden waves. Her pretty lips smile warmly, but her bright eyes appraise us with unexpected sagacity.

She's wearing a gown of coral and black silk, cut low enough to show the swell of her small breasts and the delicate curve of her neck. A deep red pendent sits between her cleavage, bouncing slightly as she asks us to "please come in and take some refreshment, because we must be tired."

"No, no refreshments," Tyro tells her, cutting through her coquettish pout with a stern glance. "I'm Tyro'xantaxi Espen, the Head Ambassador's aide, here at his request."

"Oh," she says, raised eyebrows betraying her surprise. "You'll have to excuse me, I'm new here. We are, of course, expecting you. Please come in."

Her demeanor changes from sparkling invitation to something cold and businesslike in between breaths. It's a jarring shift, like watching a performer take off their mask.

She leads us into a sumptuous parlor and leaves us sitting on a grey chaise while she "goes to fetch her mistress." I look around, admiring the gorgeous white linen curtains with the lace edging that hang from the windows. Glass ornaments sit above an ornate fireplace, above which hangs a crystal mirror. The rugs on the floor are woven through with silver thread, so they catch the light coming in through the wide windows.

"What a lovely room," I breathe, captivated by the linen and lace.

"Thank you," a woman's voice says. I start a little, wondering how I failed to notice her entrance. She's dressed in a blue silk gown edged with golden embroidery. Her features are strong and sharp, her skin a deep blue-black, her hair a mass of riotous curls pinned back into an elegant chignon. She's positively regal.

"Hello, Tyro," she says in an accent I can't place. "It's nice to see you. And you've brought me a present, I see. Who is this?"

"Don't start, Mirsi," he warns. "This is Shira Katzuna, a personal friend of the Ambassador. Shira, meet Mirsi Belkau, proprietor of this fine establishment."

Mirsi ignores him, focusing her dark gaze entirely on me. "Well, it's lovely to meet you, Shira Katzuna," she purrs. "Come here, then, and let me have a look at you." She beckons me forward with a manicured finger laden with gold rings. I obey, feeling like I'm being called into the presence of a queen.

She places her hands on either side of my face and tilts it this way and that, muttering under her breath as she examines me. I pull away, thoroughly confused.

"What are you-"

"Hush," she murmurs, running her finger down my cheek and across my lips, tracing the topography of my face. I stand still, paralyzed by her gaze, her presence.

"Just as I thought," she says to me, letting her hands fall away. "You are an uncommon beauty."

I blush, and she laughs. "I am a proprietor of beauty, and I'm not fooled by clothing or paint or artifice of manner. I know what is beautiful and what is not as surely as anyone on this earth, and you, my dear boy, are a jewel. I could wear you around my neck, I could."

"Mirsi, leave off," Tyro interjects. "The ambassador won't like it."

"I'm only telling the boy the truth!" She responds. "A face like that is wasted- well, what is it you do?"
"I- um- I'm a silk merchant's son. I'm training to be one myself," I answer.

She shakes her head sadly. "Wasted, I say. A Shikkan with a face like that, you could fetch upwards of three hundred doxi a night working for me. That's more than you'd make in a month selling silks."

"Mirsi," Tyro warns tiredly. "Let it go."

"What do you do?" I ask her. "But Tyro called you a proprietor, so I suppose I should ask what you own."

"Why, I own this building and everyone in it!" She says with a laugh. "Belkau House is my kingdom, and I am its queen. And you, my dear boy, could be its prince. I know I said three hundred, but truthfully I know plenty who would pay more than that to call you ayadaxa."

It takes me a moment to remember the meaning of that word, but when I do, I start. A courtesan, that word means courtesan. It's what Esato Lyu called me the first time we met.

Tyro chuckles at my reaction.

"This is- this is a house of ill repute, isn't it?" I ask, glaring at him. How could he take me here? How could he not tell me? To be inside one of those pleasure dens we outlawed in Shikkah is... is positively shameful!

"Of course not," Mirsi Belkau says in a voice smooth as honey. "We have the best reputation of any brothel in Kama. This is where the politicians and rich merchants come when they need comfort."

"Comfort," I snort. "Comfort indeed! And you said- you asked me to work for you! I am not a whore!" I seethe, my cheeks burning bright red.

"Not with that attitude," Mirsi quips.

"I- I- Tyro, how could you take me here?!" I ask. "This is shameful!"
"The only shameful thing is your Shikkan prudery," she sniffs. "Such a shame, with a face like that. You'd make such a lovely courtesan."

"Mirsi!" Tyro interrupts loudly while I stand before her, speechless. "Enough! Go get Ambassador Nara and leave poor Shira be!"

"Oh, fine," she says, turning on her heels. "But really, Tyro, it was cruel of you to bring him. To dangle such a pretty thing under my nose when I can't have him, and with him insulting my house and profession to boot with his strange morality! Hmph!"

"Tyro." I mutter when she's gone. "You have brought me to a whorehouse."

He nods. "Sorry, Shira. I completely forgot they're illegal in Shikkah in my hurry to get to the Ambassador."

"And what in Zsavina's name is the Ambassador doing in a whorehouse?!" I ask, then I color even more. "Oh, I-"

"Not that," he laughs. "Irei doesn't pay for it. Now, Esato Lyu, that's a different story. He's an old friend of Mirsi, and strange as she may be, she knows everything that goes on in Kama."

"She's an informant of his?" I ask incredulously. "The madam of a brothel?"

"Who better?" He challenges. "Politicians, ambassadors, rich merchants from here and abroad all pass through these doors, and their secrets come with them. More than one man has been known to say a little too much over a tankard of ale, or in a moment of intense passion."

I shake my head. "This is disgusting. If my mother knew-"

"What's so disgusting?" Tyro challenges. "Mirsi keeps the place clean. Didn't you just say how lovely this room is?"

"It's not the house!" I protest. "It's what happens inside of it. Paying for bodies- it's barely better than the slave trade, Tyro."

He looks deeply offended. "You compare working here to being bought and sold into slavery?" He challenges in a low voice.

I groan internally. I forgot about how personal the slave trade must be to him, after Avamir. "Well, in principal. You're reducing human beings to commodities."

"Slaves live in squalor and have no control of their lives. Kamai prostitutes live for the most part in government-regulated brothels, nice places they're free to leave whenever they choose. The whores here are mostly ayadaxa, courtesans, who make more in a night than most men in a year! It is not the same."

"They must be pushed to it," I counter. "Forced to sell themselves, by poverty, or lack of any other option."

He snorts. "Or drawn by the relatively easy work and high income. I'm sure some turn to prostitution out of desperation, hidden in dark alleys, but those working on the brothels are well monitored. I wouldn't feel sorry for them if I were you."

"Feel sorry for who?" A voice asks. Tyro and I both turn to see the Head Ambassador of Kama blocking the doorway.