‘Madame Illyra?’
An unfamiliar woman’s voice called from outside, undaunted by the rope.
‘I’m not seeing anyone this afternoon. Come back tomorrow.’
‘I can’t wait until tomorrow.’
They all say that, Illyra thought. Everyone else always knows that they are the
most important person I see and that their questions are the most complex. But
they are all very much the same. Let the woman come back.
The stranger could be heard hesitating beyond the rope. Illyra heard the sound
of rustling cloth – possibly silk – as the woman finally turned away. The sound
jarred the S’danzo to alertness. Silken skirts meant wealth. A flash of vision
illuminated Illyra’s mind – this was a patron she could not let go elsewhere.
‘If you can’t wait, I’ll see you now,’ she yelled.
‘You will?’
Illyra untied the rope and lifted the hanging cloth to let the woman enter. She
had surrounded herself with a shapeless, plain shawl; her face was veiled and
shadowed by a corner of the shawl wound around her head. The stranger was
certainly not someone who came to the S’danzo of the bazaar often. Illyra retied
the rope after seating her patron on one side of the velvet-covered table.
A woman of means who wishes to be mysterious. That shawl might be plain, but it
is too good for someone as poor as she pretends to be. She wears silk beneath
it, and smells of roses, though she has tried to remove perfumes. No doubt she
has gold, not silver or copper.
‘Would you not be more comfortable removing your shawl? It is quite warm in
here,’ Illyra said, after studying the woman.