Page 86 of The Isles of the Gods
“Stay out of trouble,” I manage, and then I bolt.
—
The farther I get from the docks, the less sure of myself I am.
Port Naranda is different from the places I know, uncomfortable in ways I didn’t realize a place could be. There are little things I thought were everywhere—the scent of salt on the breeze, the sight of the sun overhead. They’ve always been the background heartbeat of my life, and suddenly they’re gone. I’m off balance, and as I move deeper into the city, they fade away completely, and everything is strange.
The buildings here are so tall they form canyons for me to walk along, always in shadow. Once I was on a ship that went through a series of locks, and this place is drawing that memory up to the surface.
The locks themselves were set in a narrow river, with raised walls on each side. We would enter each new section and a gate would come up, holding us in place as the giant machinery worked, and water poured in to lift us up to a new level. Then we’d move forward into the next section and repeat the exercise. It was like going up a flight of stairs, one at a time.
I felt closed in, the ship trapped in place in a way she never was when she was sailing.
I feel the same way now.
The city of Kirkpool is all golden stone, but though Port Naranda is the dark gray stone of their mountains, the place is still more colorful. Bright signs adorn the buildings, calling everyone who passes them to buy everything from shoeshines to new hats, but nobody breaks their stride.
The men are in trousers and shirts, the women mostly in dresses that fall to their knees. They’re like beautiful, colorful birds wearing jewel tones—deep reds, rich greens, the blue ofthe ocean when she’s in a playful mood—and the colors flash from beneath their bulky coats. I’m pretending to be one of them, but I’m sure everyone can tell I’m not.
I remember my father telling me once that Mellacea didn’t have much farmland—though I didn’t understand how little until Leander explained the place was carved from solid rock by a Messenger of old. Da said the Mellaceans’ greatest asset was between their ears, which is how they became the city of invention.
I’m used to the wide-open sea, to places I can point to on a map and cargo I can touch. Here I can’t even glimpse the sun between the buildings to check the time or set my course.
All I know is the hour is marching on, and we need to be out of the inn by noon, because we don’t have another twenty-five dollars for a second night.
I shiver in a cold breeze as I walk past what must be the largest church in the whole city. The pillars out the front are painted black, but unlike the god it worships, this place isn’t sleeping.
Green sisters, some of them magicians, are lighting the torches that line the stairs leading up to the temple’s grand entrance. Others stand ready to provide blessings, and the same passersby who ignore the offers of shoeshines and new hats most definitelydostop for the green sisters and their blessings. I pause a minute to watch, and the great front doors open, releasing the congregation from the morning service. They pour out in their hundreds, and I hurry on, pressing my hand against my heart before I realize what I’m doing—touching the place where my little paper boat is hidden inside my dress.
I’ll be back on a ship soon enough, and far from the boy who made it.
The diplomatic district is set up in a wealthy part of town, the embassies in a large circle surrounding a public garden with trees, displays of flowers, and even an ornamental lake. It’s a lot of land for a place that doesn’t have much of it. At the far end of the garden, a high fence has been set up around a group of tents, and people in brightly colored clothes are entering through a gate. I think it’s some sort of party.
Autos and horse-drawn wagons work their way along the road that divides the embassies from the park at their center, and I don’t have to follow it for long before I see Alinor’s flag flying outside a nearby building: sapphire blue, with a white spear across it.
Beneath it two uniformed members of the Queensguard stand at attention. I can only see them because they’re at the top of the steps, though—facing them at ground level are dozens of people spread out along the path outside the embassy. The protesters.
The Queensguard stare straight ahead, as if they’re unaware of the milling bodies in front of them—dressed in a mix of the dark colors and flat caps of workers and the bright colors of the wealthy. They’re not a crowd you usually see mingling so freely, but they’re all facing the one way now, and their shouts are rising to a roar.
Two men dart up the stairs, and one of the Queensguard steps across smartly to bar the embassy door, his face a storm cloud. Almost quicker than my eye can follow, he throws up an arm to block them and ducks as one swings a punch, and then the men are back down again, swallowed up by the crowd, asthe Queensguard exchanges a long look with his fellow and steps back into position.
I’ve seen riots in port before, and in taverns and customhouses. This one isn’t ready to kick off yet, but I can feel the potential in the air, like the static before a storm. All it will take is one spark.
Thank Barrica the boys aren’t here.It would be one thing to slip them past observers in distant windows, spying on behalf of Mellacea. It’s another to imagine walking them through an angry crowd.
I’ll go in by myself. I have Leander’s codes, a list of four words that will identify my message as having come from him. They belong exclusively to Leander and his two sisters, Queen Augusta and Princess Coria. Any message I deliver with those words in the right sequence will guarantee me a hearing. But how am I going to do it?
I can’t exactly push through the crowd and demand to get inside so I can deliver a secret message only the ambassador will understand. The guards at the front won’t know the code—if everyone did, what use would it be?
But I can’t stay out here forever, either.
As I’m standing there, sizing up the protesters, the doors to the embassy open and several more Queensguard emerge in their sapphire-blue uniforms.
They’re escorting a figure in their midst, and when the crowd sees her, their shouts rise. I nearly mistake her for another of the guard—she’s in blue as well—but then I get a proper look at her.
She’s not wearing a uniform, but a sparkling, shimmering, and utterly glamorous dress. Nice to look at, no good forfighting in. The Queensguard hustle her down the stairs, pushing aside the crowd, and into a waiting auto.
Wait, is that the ambassador? Oh, spirits save me, it must be, the way they’re surrounding her.
