Teya felt slightly ill. The smells were starting to become overwhelming, of sizzling fat and animals and strange spices. She needed to get some air, and Cusco didn’t seem to have enough air to go around. Papan had turned away to talk to a*****e holder, and Teya staggered sideways, gasping. She braced herself against some wooden crates.
Suddenly she felt a claw-like grip on her arm, and she turned around to see a strange little person, her steely fingers attached to her like a vice. She looked about two hundred years old, her tiny body bent and crooked like an old misshapen tree. Her fingers were gnarled and twisted with arthritis, and a pair of rheumy old eyes were set in a brown, wrinkled little face, her toothless mouth gumming a ball of coca leaves. When she spoke, her voice was so cor
