I went to the market district alone on a Thursday morning.
Eli noted it.
"Back by midday?"
"Yes," I said.
And left.
The market in spring was alive in a way the winter market was not. The same stalls, the same streets, the same smell of fresh produce and river air and wood smoke. But the energy was different. The commerce had its full voice back.
I stopped at a fruit vendor's stall near the market's second corridor.
"Good morning," the vendor said.
"Good morning," I said. "Are these from the southern valley farms?"
"First of the season, my lord. The cold held them back, but they came in well."
I bought a small bag of dried figs, paid him, and continued walking.
Down at the river quay, the dock expansion's surveying stakes were visible along the bank. Workers were already moving equipment into position.
I ate one of the figs.
It was very good.
