Page 71 of The Isles of the Gods
He keeps his arm around me until we’re halfway to the corner the sailor pointed out, and safely out of his sight, and I make no move to break away, far too aware of every place we press together, of the shift of his body against mine as we push our way through the crowd.
When he slides his arm free of my waist, I have only a moment to register the absence—to stifle my urge to reach for him—before he takes my hand, fingers sliding through mine.
“We should stay close,” he murmurs when I glance across at him. I’ve never strolled along hand in hand with anyone before, so why not start with the prince of Alinor? I nod, swallowing hard.
The leather of my glove sits between our palms, and a part of my brain wants to dive into the dark waters of remembering why I wear those gloves, but our fingers are warm where they tangle together, and I focus on that instead.
Though darkness has fallen, electric lamps line the dockside square, and the bright lights on the signs flash in a rainbow of colors. Sailors and traders are here from all over the continent and probably beyond. Every language I know, every accent, all mingle together like the sound of seabirds. Like the fleet of ships moored out in the dark, skin tones range from the palestbirch to the darkest mahogany, with every shade in between, with folks clad in the rough-spun or brightly colored clothes of their home ports, or the shirts and trousers of sailors.
Port Naranda is different from Kirkpool, but any port still feels like home. It seems as if Kyri and the crew should be pushing their way across the square to meet me, theLizabettawaiting for us to hurry aboard so we can make the tide. My breath catches as I picture them emerging from the crowd—and then I pack that image away and seal it up for now. Later, I’ll think of them. Later, I’ll let myself ache. Now I have work to do, and I’m near enough to finished that I can’t afford to stumble.
Leander pulls my attention back to the present, guiding me out of the way of an oncoming man hefting a huge barrel above his head, and we duck into the street the sailor pointed out. The crowd barely thins—there’s a steady stream heading to and from the night market.
“Are you sure nobody’s going to recognize your face?” I ask, keeping close to him as the crowd carries us along like a fast-running tide. Despite my reassurances at the inn, now that we’re out in the open, it does feel like a risk.
“I’m sure,” he replies, bending his head to speak in my ear, and I have to remind myself to get a grip and ignore his proximity. “Nobody here is expecting to see me. People rarely see things they don’t expect.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“It’s like I said before: you give them one big thing—the title, the clothes, the Queensguard, the spectacle—and they don’t register the specifics. Fewer of them could describe me than you’d think.”
“Aren’t you in official portraits, things like that?”
“Not where people really see them. I know it’s impossible to imagine anyone could forget this face, but…” He shrugs. “They’re not expecting me here. They’ll think I’m staggeringly handsome, but they won’t join the dots.”
“You know, I’m not going to miss you even a little when I hand you over,” I mutter. “There’ll be so much more room to move, without your giant ego.”
He doesn’t reply—he just squeezes my hand instead. And I’m glad he doesn’t call me on the fact that I’m holding his because I’m not sure why I still am. Or maybe he’s holding on to me.
The truth is, there’s a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach when I think about him making it back to Alinor without me, when I imagine him finally setting foot on the Isle of Barrica alone.
It feels like falling, and I don’t want to look at it too closely.
There’s no point wishing things were different. What use would I be if I stuck around?
The market turns out to be a whole street, closed off to wagons and autos at either end. Stalls line both edges and run down the middle as well, with racks of clothes, tables full of bits and pieces no longer needed by their owners, and plenty selling hot food. Performers roam the crowd with guitars, singing for their supper, and newsies shout the headlines.
Leander and I step into the lee of a building, getting a moment’s shelter from the endless flow of people, and though my belly is begging me to follow the dizzying smell of food, he holds me by the arm, waiting for the girl with the stack of newspapers to cycle through her headlines.
“First Councilor Tariden visits the House of Macean! Get the latest!”
“I don’t hear the wordswarorassassination,so I’m happy,” he mutters.
“I’ll be happier when we’ve eaten something,” I reply, drawing a grin from him.
“I think I’m through hunger and out the other side. You’re right, we should eat before we fall down.”
We let the crowd carry us past the stalls, making our way along racks of clothes and tables of knickknacks and stopping when we reach the first food on offer.
This stall is run by a couple of women—married, I suspect, judging by the familiarity with which they push past each other in the tiny space. They have a huge shallow pan set up, and inside sizzles a mouthwatering mix of seafood, vegetables, and rice. One woman, green magician’s marks snaking up her forearms, has an eye on the flame beneath the pan to be sure the spirits keep the heat even, and is busy taking money from those lined up for a meal.
Her wife constantly chops and stirs, throwing new ingredients into the pan to keep up with what’s being taken out.
“Two please,” I say as we come up to the front of the line.
“That’s two dollars.” As I dig for a couple of gold coins with my free hand, she continues conversationally, “Make it in all right, love, or were you searched?”
I have to blink at her a few times before I understand what she’s saying. These last months, Alinor’s ships have been subjected to extra searches and seizures, taxes and tariffs, every time they come into Mellacean ports. I saw it myself last time theLizabettawas in port. Her question is a reminder that the man in the square was right—our accents give away where we’re from.
