Lies of Light by Philip Athans Page B

at the boy, and the chickens put up a fuss of their own. The boy didn’t run too fast, and Willem could have caught him easily enough and got his coins back, but he didn’t bother.
    When he looked back at the cobbler’s stall, Phyrea was gone.
    His heart stuttered in his chest, and he whispered, “Oh,
    no.
    He turned his head, unaware that his shoulders twisted at the same time, and he nudged the man with the chickens. One of the crates clattered to the cobblestones, eliciting a loud chorus of complaints from the chickens, and a louder burst of profanity from the man selling the cheap pewter jewelry.
    “Oh,” Willem breathed. “My apologies-” But the man had already picked up his chickens and ignored him.
    “Wait,” Phyrea said, and Willem gasped. She put a hand on the chicken farmer’s arm, and the man looked first at her hand, then only briefly at her face, before letting his eyes pour over her like warm, but stagnant water. “I’d like one of those.”
    “Phyrea,” Willem said, not sure if he should, or even could, smile. “I—”
    “A chicken, miss?” the farmer asked, obviously not sure he’d heard her correctly.
    She dropped the boots she was carrying and dug in a pocket of her cloak for a coin. She handed him a gold piece—too much for a single chicken—and looked at Willem while the man pulled a squawking bird from the crude wooden box.
    “It’s a surprise to see you here,” Willem lied, and by her face she didn’t believe it.
    “I may not be able to make change, miss,” the chicken monger said, pocketing the coin at the same time he held out the bird to her.
    “Keep it,” she told him.
    With some difficulty she took the squealing foul from the man, holding it as he had by the legs, at arm’s length to avoid the furious flapping of wings. On the ground beneath them, the pewter merchant gathered up his jewelry, cursing under a shower of chicken feathers. The farmer arrowed off into the crowd before she changed her mind about the gold piece.
    “Why are you following me?” she demanded.
    “I’m not—” Willem started, but stopped himself before she could interrupt. “I wanted to ask you something.”
    “They’re for you,” she said, her eyes darting down to the cobblestones at her feet.
    Willem looked down and saw the boots.
    “Thank you,” he said by reflex alone.
    “You don’t want to know why I bought them for you?” she asked from behind the still-panicked chicken. People on the street began to give the two of them a wide berth.
    A smile came to him, and pleased with himself, he said, “I was actually more curious about the chicken.”
    Without the slightest change in her stony demeanor, she dropped the black lace parasol to the ground, and squinted in the dim light. Her hand free, she grabbed the struggling bird by the neck and twisted once, hard and fast. It sounded like a twig snapping underfoot. The
    chicken flapped its wings only faster, but not for long.
    “The chicken is for dinner,” she said.
    Willem stepped back from her, and that elicited a smile. She dropped the chicken to the cobblestones next to the boots and retrieved her parasol.
    “They are fine boots,” he said, and found that his mouth was dry, his tongue heavy and sticking to his teeth. Sweat tickled his hair line. “Why are you helping me?”
    “I abhor your taste in footwear,” she said, and Willem blinked at the fire in her eyes.
    Her jaw set tight, Phyrea stared him down. Willem blinked.
    “You know what I mean,” he risked, unable to put as much strength into his voice as he’d hoped to. “You have been talking to people on my behalf.”
    Her lips twisted with undisguised contempt, and she said, “Because they don’t deserve it any more than you do.”
    “I won’t pretend I have any idea what you mean,” he said.
    Something distracted her, and she looked off to one side, listening. Willem could pick out nothing from the background drone of the market.
    “Thank me,” she said,