licker-orange light from the far side of the dunes. In that moment of illumination, Spyder could see a line of silhouettes moving along the edge of the dunes, heading over them. Some of the silhouettes carried burdens on their backs. Others were merely misshapen. It was enough. Spyders body and mind were finally in synch and he started walking.
At the top of the last big dune Spyder looked down onto a maze of market stalls that sprawled from the where he stood to the more familiar warehouses and piers in the distance. As he got closer to the market, sounds and smells hit him: the screams of hawkers, a dozen different musics pouring from out-of-tune instruments and cracked speakers, the heavy smell of roasting meat, spices and rotten wood. There were toys and piles of mismatched shoes, fresh vegetables, dried chameleons and flowers that sighed when you smelled them. There were orerries and telescopes, cracked eye glasses and black eggs that hatched kittens who (according to their seller) spoke perfect ecclesiastical Latin. Sellers tugged at Spyders arm and waved squirming things, glittering things and mechanical things at him.
By a stall selling decomposing medical books and sex toys made of black lacquer and amber (some with ominous-looking beetles sealed inside) Spyder bumped shoulders with a tall, handsome man.
"Sorry," said Spyder. "My fault. "
"You should watch your step, little brother," said the big man. "Not everyone in the market is as reasonable as I. Some are downright belligerent. " The mans voice sounded the way black velvet looked and felt. Spyder wondered if it might be some kind of magic trick. Not that he actually believed in magic, but he was beyond ruling out that much anymore.
Though
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