Part One Glitter and Grit SELLY Royal Hill Kirkpool, Alinor The woman selling magicians'' supplies is wandering around her little market stall like she''s lost her map. It''s as if every item she encounters, from the stacks of fat green candles to the bins of bright glass beads and stones, is somehow a new discovery. "You said half a dozen candles?" She pauses to look over her shoulder and needlessly tighten her apron strings. She''s dragging things out in the hope something extra will catch my eye, but although the grim, anxious buzz of the city has sunk into my bones, I am not going to lose my temper. I don''t have time. "Yes, please." I try to make my gritted teeth look like a smile, though I can tell from the woman''s expression it doesn''t work. But honestly, at this rate I should ask her name and how she likes her tea, because the two of us are going to grow old together.
If anything, she seems to slow down even more, lifting a newspaper and studying the crate beneath it. "Best in the city, these ones. Poured at the high temple, you know. Are they for you, young lady?" My hands tighten into fists in my fingerless leather gloves, but I glance down anyway, automatically checking that they hide the green magician''s marks on the backs of my hands. "They''re for our first mate. Ship''s magician." The words barely provoke their old, familiar ache. I''ve got other things on my mind today.
"Oh, indeed!" That catches the woman''s attention, and spirits save me, now she stops altogether to study me with interest. "I should have seen you were a saltblood--look at those clothes. Where have you come from?" Her gaze flickers back to the newspaper in her hand, and suddenly I see it: She''s not vague. She''s worried. The questions have been the same at every stall I''ve been to so far today. There are strange shortages, and prices are shifting, and whispers are winding their way through the marketplace about new taxes and confiscations. About war. When they see my sailor''s clothes--the shirt, trousers, and boots setting me apart from the city girls in their tailored dresses--everybody asks where we''ve come from and what it was like there.
"We''re just on a quick run down from Trallia," I tell the woman, digging into my pocket for a few crowns. "I''m actually in kind of a hurry. I need to get to the harbormaster''s office before it closes, or my captain won''t be happy." Somewhere, Captain Rensa probably just lifted her head and sniffed the wind, smelling my lies from the deck of the Lizabetta, but the shopkeeper gives herself a shake, as if she''s waking up. "And here I am chatting away at you. We''d better--what do you young people say? Something to do with autos." She finds a smile as she remembers, though now I can see the strain in it: "We''d better put our foot on the gas." A minute later my candles are wrapped up and I''m on my way.
I leave behind the rough flapping of the spirit flags and the crowded market stalls at the top of Royal Hill, letting my momentum hurry me along as I jog past the magnificent façade of the temple to Barrica, my spirits lifting as I gather speed. The priests and priestesses are out front in their soldiers'' uniforms, brass gleaming as they call the faithful to the afternoon service, to prayers for peace. The stone steps of the temple aren''t crowded with worshippers, though, and a sign pinned up by the entrance announces the meeting space next door will be hosting a dance-hall party tonight, with a live band. I didn''t realize attendance was down that badly. I drop a copper for the goddess into the offering bowl as I hurry by--we sailors always keep up our courtesies--and push on without catching the nearest priest''s eye. No time today, my friend. My captain gave me a long list of errands and not nearly enough time to complete them--her way of keeping me away from the harbormaster''s office. "You''ve been loitering there every day since we docked," she snapped this morning.
"Today you can do some work for a change." For a change, Rensa? That''s rich. For a year I''ve run every goddess-blessed errand my captain could dream up, working every inch of my own ship, from the bilges to the bowsprit. And finally it''s over. It has to be--spirits save me if I have to spend one more moment under my tyrant of a captain. This has to be my last day. Today at the harbormaster''s office I''m going to see the news I''ve been waiting for up in chalk. The alternative is unbearable.
I cut through a narrow alleyway where the buildings crowd close together, the upper levels leaning in over the street, flowers spilling from their window boxes. Someone''s playing a radio on the second floor, and I can hear the stern tones of a newscaster, but I can''t make out her words. Turning onto Queen''s Boulevard, I pause as a brewer''s wagon rumbles downhill, then lean out to inspect the approaching traffic, which comes in a constant stream. The city of Kirkpool wraps around the seaward side of a series of hills, golden sandstone buildings folded into the valleys between them. From the water you can see Queen''s Boulevard running from the port at the base of Royal Hill all the way up to the palace at the top, straight as a mainmast rising from a deck. Streets branch off it like spars, each home to clusters of shops and stalls--tailors, bakers, merchants hawking spices from far away. People from all over the world live and trade in Kirkpool, and the casual mix of cultures feels more like home than any other port. A merchant''s carriage rolls by, and without hesitating I grab the back railings and swing myself up like a footman for the bumpy ride downhill.
I catch a glimpse of the merchant''s eyes in the rearview mirror as she notices the change in weight and tries to shake me as we rattle across the cobblestones--but I''m used to a deck heaving beneath my feet, and I bend my knees and keep my place. As we roll past the bakers'' street, I''m hit with a gust of hot air and a memory just as strong. I used to come here with my da when I was small, every time we made port in Kirkpool. I''d take in the crowd from a perch on his shoulders, pretending I was up in the crow''s nest, and he''d buy me a sticky bun. They roll the dough up into a coil, a sugared glaze painted on top, mixed with spices that always stir up hazy memories of a voyage south when I was smaller still--small enough that my wobbly steps perfectly matched the rolling deck of the Lizabetta. I was steady on my feet at sea long before I ever was on land. We round another corner, giving me a quick view of the water at the base of Royal Hill. My thoughts jump to the harbormaster''s office again, and the message that has to be waiting for me.
And from there my gaze slides to where my gloved hands grip tight to the carriage. I can''t help imagining the leather gone, the unformed green marks on my skin uncovered. I grit my teeth and shove that thought aside. It doesn''t matter. He''s coming. But we used to be simpler together, Da and I. I bend my knees and brace as we wheel out to overtake a slower-moving cart, but up ahead the horses whinny a protest, and someone cries out, and that''s my instant''s warning before the carriage slews to a sudden halt, the wheels skidding sideways. My grip on the handles comes loose, and I feel myself start to tip--for one horrible second I''m suspended in midair, arms windmilling, then I hit the ground, pain shooting through my body.
Hurriedly I push up to my hands and knees, scrambling for the gutter before another carriage sails through to flatten me. "Never seen a sailor fly before," calls a woman leaning out her window, drawing laughter from most folks nearby. With my fair skin I know I give her a decent blush, and I scowl as I brush the dirt off my clothes. Now I can see for myself what''s causing the delay. A long line of sleek black autos snakes down the hill to the docks, crawling toward the water like a becalmed fleet--which is to say barely at all--because a horse and cart are plodding along in front of them, holding everything up. "Who in seven hells is that?" I call up to the woman at the window, already half sure I know the answer. "Prince Leander." She props her chin on her hand and stares dreamily at the autos, as if she can see straight through their tinted windows and admire the prince himself.
"You''d think someone would move the horse out of his way." "The horse?" I tilt a glance up toward her, raising an eyebrow. "The horse is the only one I can see doing an honest day''s work. What exactly is His Highness contributing to society?" She ignores me after that. They say the prince throws parties all night and sleeps until lunch. That his wardrobe is the size of an apartment all by itself. That his private secretary sends out notes written on a gold-plated typewriter, declining the offers of marriage that arrive every day. Everyone else hears the stories, and they say, I want that.
All I can think is, What''s the point? I cut through a side street, pushing past rows of tailors and their rolls of fabrics from distant ports, until I can find a parallel way down Royal Hill toward the port. Rensa will be expecting me back by now, and there''ll be seven hells to pay if she figures out I disobeyed her orders. The harbormaster''s office is a tall, wide building in the middle of the docks. On the upper floor is the office itself, wit.