Page 68 of The Isles of the Gods
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We climb up onto the wooden pier on wobbly legs, and Keegan and I trail along behind Selly like a pair of ducklings as we approach the dock itself. It’s immediately obvious that though we in Alinor might have been sleeping on the possibility of an approaching war, nobody in Mellacea will be caught by surprise.
As we make our way along the pier toward the dockside square, Selly slows her pace and falls in behind a gaggle of sailors from Beinhof, to judge by their clothes and conversation. Glancing past her, I see what she saw—a squad of city guards marching along the narrow pier toward us.
The captain leading the group of sailors pulls a piece ofpaper from an inside pocket and holds it up, and they wave him past—it’s a permit of some sort, and without breaking stride, Keegan and I slide in behind Selly, heads down as we tag along like we’re part of the crew.
I don’t exhale until we reach the big, paved harborside square, where the captain stops to argue about taxes with a group of officials, and we can meld silently with the crowd. It’s bustling with people even in the dark—at home, city magicians would be lighting the lamps, but here, the bright Mellacean lights buzz and glow, flashing in garish colors as they advertise the businesses all around us. They love everything new, in the city of invention.
The square is lined on the eastern edge by the water, a big row of cranes standing ready to lift cargo up off waiting ships. There are tax agents everywhere I look, and animated conversations that verge on fights taking place by the cargo cranes. This isn’t friendly haggling, either—there’s an edge to their voices, an aggression to their gestures, and it’s not the captains who have the upper hand.
On the other three sides of the square are tall, thin buildings crammed in together. Most of them are about three stories high, windows staring down on the square like eyes.
I see a church devoted to Macean, the statues and stonework that decorate its edifice painted black, representing the Gambler’s slumber.
Two silent green sisters stand vigil outside the open door, and passing members of the crowd drop coins into their collection plates as they pass. There are plenty of them, and plenty of worshippers walking in and out of the church as well, despitethe hour. I have an uneasy feeling I wouldn’t count the same numbers at home, at the temple of Barrica.
“That’s the harbormaster’s office,” Selly says, jerking me back to the present and pointing at a bustling building, “and the rest are buyers’ agents, who’ll bargain for the cargoes that arrive each day, or inns for any sailors who can afford a night in a room that doesn’t rock.”
“We can stay here on the square?” I ask, a little of the tension leaving my chest. We’re closer than I thought to shelter.
“Soon as I sell the boat,” she says without turning her head, pointing to a spot beside one of the cranes, where there’s shelter from the crowd. “Wait, and keep your heads down.”
She disappears into the crowd, and I lose sight of her blond braid. It’s a strange sensation, standing here in plain sight as people flow around us like water. I don’t know why I’m worrying about her—she’s more competent in this place than I am—but I’m twitching with the urge to follow her.
She’s back in less than ten minutes, though, freckles standing out against paled skin, her mouth a thin line. “It’s done,” she says simply. “And I got the name of a place we can afford—the Salthouse Inn.”
She turns away again, and once more we follow her, buffeted and bumped by the sailors and traders around us. I grip the strap of my satchel too tightly as a tattooed sailor pushes past me, and I press one hand against my journal, where it’s wrapped up inside.
Everywhere, voices are rising as the moons make their way higher into the sky, the energy of the square changing as traders grasp for the last few deals of the day and turn their minds toward the evening’s revelry.
When we reach the square’s edge, Selly ducks down a foul-smelling alley between two buildings that’s barely wider than my shoulders. I draw them in to avoid touching the sludge-covered walls, and I hold my breath until we emerge into the alley running behind the row of buildings.
The glow from the windows above us only makes the shadows darker, and the metal ladders reaching down the backs of the buildings are like unnatural vines that could come to life at any moment and snatch us off our feet.
“You should wait here,” she says to Keegan. “You’re the only one with a face anyone’s seen. We’re going to get a room in this inn we’re behind, and you can climb in through the fire escape. Two’s easier to explain than three, less noticeable.”
I’m surprised she thought of that, and then a little annoyed at myself for being surprised. She’s been resourceful enough to save our lives more than once—why shouldn’t she be sharpnow?
Because you’re not,a voice in my head says. And it’s right. I’m so hungry I can’t think straight, and I’m scared I’m missing something.
“What shall I do if someone comes?” Keegan asks, looking around at the shadows with understandable concern.
Selly shrugs. “Say you’re on the hunt for someone selling favors.”
“I’d stay with you,” I add, “but it would need to be a far better class of alley for anyone to believe good looks like these were on offer.”
Keegan tugs his shirt straighter. “I would rather buy a book than a favor,” he informs us. “And in either case, the contents would matter far more to me than the cover.”
Selly snorts as I search for a reply, and before I find one, she turns to head back up the sludgy alley we came along. I hurry after her, catching at her arm before she reaches the doorway to the inn.
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“Let’s have it,” she replies, slowing her pace.
“I’ve had a few lessons on how to blend in—in case I ever found myself separated from the Queensguard, or in trouble.”
“Or you decided to wander off and explore the Kirkpool docks, and annoy innocent girls trying to go about their business?”
