by C. Greenwood
Another of Selbius’s impressive features was the long bridge spanning the water, making the city accessible from shore. Seeing my interest, Jem told me how the city was built by the present Praetor’s great-grandfather during the peak of the Coastal Wars.
He said, “I’ve heard the ancestors of the house of Tarius were a seagoing people, so maybe that’s why they decided to settle over water. They still carry on a few strange customs within those walls that don’t come from any of our provincial traditions. But be warned, the city’s not as impressive inside as it looks from here. Selbius has got its pretty districts with their terraces and pools and walled gardens. Not that such as you and I would be welcome to linger in those places. But like any town, it also holds its dark and squalid areas. Take my advice and stick to the marketplace and the common district.”
“Are ordinary folk not allowed elsewhere, then?” I asked.
“We’re free to wonder where we please, as long as we don’t engage in illegal or disruptive activities, but there are parts of town that can prove dangerous to those as don’t belong in them. Like the under-levels or the old docks outside the city walls. Even the guard doesn’t venture around those places, unless they’ve good reason to. As for the wealthy areas, they’re not forbidden, but if the guard see you there, they’ll speculate on what trouble you could be planning and that’s not the sort of attention a newcomer like you needs.”
“What are the under-levels?” I asked, curious.
He grinned. “You really don’t know anything, do you? Listen, we haven’t got time for me to tell you about every part of Selbius. Even if I knew all there was to know of it, which I don’t. This is all you really need to know. We’re going to cross the bridge in a little bit and arrive at the trade gate on the other side. There’ll be a few guardsmen there and they’ll make some minimal effort at questioning every tenth person in line. So long as nothing unusual comes up, you’ll be in.” I wanted to ask what sort of unusual things might come up and what would happen to me if they did, but he was already rushing on.
“Once you’re beyond the gates, you’ll find the curfews and codes of conduct for the city posted regularly in public places. Familiarize yourself with them and before you so much as toss an apple peel onto the street, find out first if it’s permissible in your district. The Praetor’s a strict one for laws. Which reminds me, don’t take the curfew lightly. Let the city guard catch you roaming the streets after sundown and, unless it’s a holiday or you’ve another pretty good reason, you’ll be arrested and spend the night in the round house.”
“Sounds to me like these city people invent an awful lot of senseless rules,” I said.
Jem shrugged. “The Praetor has a tight hold over his city and, while he may not be the most popular of rulers, no one’s denying he keeps good order. Hasn’t been a murder within Selbius’s walls in three years. That brings me to another thing. Thieving in the city will get you more than a whipping and a day in the stocks. For a first offence, you’ll lose a hand, for the second, you’ll be hanged. That’s the Praetor’s feeling on second chances. His Fists are even less forgiving, and they’re always looking for an opportunity to prove they’re more efficient than the city guard, so you’ll want to step shy of them if you can. They’re a rough lot.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said, keeping my expression unreadable. A guilty thought popped into my head and I had to ask, “Am I endangering you and your company? I mean, if it’s discovered I’m smuggling my way in.”
He laughed. “Forget it; it’s been done before. Anyway, being a woods villager isn’t a crime—at least not yet. If you’re found out, I’ll play ignorance and my master will suffer a light reprimand from the Gate Clerk for not watching over his party. Don’t know exactly what would happen to you, but how much trouble can you get into for pretending to be what you’re not?”
I wasn’t eager to find out, as we crowded onto the end of a slowly moving line shuffling across the bridge. The next half hour dragged by as our line snaked forward one foot at a time. I was unaccustomed to being crammed into close proximity with so many people and I quickly began to feel stifled and hemmed in. Things got a little better once we were out over the lake, where the shadow of the bridge fell over the surface of the green water. A refreshing breeze off the lake carried away the unpleasant smells around us and dried the sweat on my face.
As soon as I had the opportunity, I squeezed over to the bridge’s edge. Looking down over the side, I could see schools of orange-skirted fish floating to the surface to snatch at insects before darting back into the depths. A long-legged blue-fisher was wading in the reeds near shore, in search of an easy meal.
“What are they doing back there?” I asked Jem, pointing to a collection of dark-skinned men laboring along the inland shore. They appeared to be loading large hunks of rock onto log rafts and floating them out toward Selbius’s island.
“Some older parts of the city are under reconstruction now,” Jem said. “Those chunks of granite were hewed from the quarries near Kampshire and have been hauled miles overland to get this far. The men ferrying the rock to the island are river people. Drawn by the Praetor’s promise of gold, they’ve abandoned the rivers and come with their rafts to help the Praetor’s workmen move building materials back and forth between Selbius’s island and the mainland. The work goes more quickly with their expertise and the use of their rafts and river barges.”
I remembered Hadrian mentioning having friends among the river people, so I wanted to ask Jem more questions about them. But the line was moving forward again and we had to hurry to get back to our places behind the last wagon of our train before the space was filled by the press of bodies. As we approached the wide gates at the end of the bridge, I observed the row of guardsmen Jem warned me about, lining the entrance. I saw a narrow-faced fellow with the sun glinting off his bald head, sitting behind a small table to one side of the gates. He didn’t wear the armored uniform of the city guard, but a ceremonial-looking blade hung at his waist and a scarlet band encircled his upper arm, denoting a position of authority. He could be no one else but the Gate Clerk. Jem confirmed this, explaining to me that this man served a unique role as a former member of the guard who had retired with merit from active service. I nodded, observing the thick ledger open before the Gate Clerk. As each citizen passed his table, the clerk threw each a quick question and recorded their answers into his book. Then he would wave an impatient hand and bark for the next to step forward.
The guardsmen lining the gate mostly kept out of the way, except to urge on anyone who slowed the progress of the line. They didn’t appear particularly interested in any of us as they joked quietly among themselves and shuffled about, obviously bored with their duty. I thought I could have dragged a siege engine up to the gate and they wouldn’t have noticed.
As we approached nearer, I could hear the dry voice of the clerk as he questioned each individual. Usually, it was the same dull exchange.
“What business?”
Fruit vender, or cloth merchant, or basket weaver, along with the citizen’s name, was answer enough to earn entrance.
Jem bent to whisper near my ear. “Don’t forget; we’re with Banded Beard, a dealer of wines and spices. That’s all you have to say.”
“Spices, wines, Banded Beard.” I muttered to myself, committing the instructions to memory. When my turn came to stand before the table, the bony clerk didn’t even look up.
“Business?”
“I’m with him.” I mumbled, jerking my head toward the back of Jem’s master, who had already passed through.
“How’s that? Speak up, girl!” The clerk demanded impatiently.
“I work for Banded Beard. The business is trade.” I winced at how loudly the words came out.
The Clerk looked neither accepting nor doubtful. “In what do you trade?” He asked, his pen hovering over the ledger.
A trick question? Banded Beard had already spoken for us. If the Clerk bothered to test m
e, didn’t that mean he was suspicious? Nervously, I caught Jem’s eye. He nodded his head slightly, as if to reassure me. I swallowed and answered, “I safeguard the goods: spices and wines.”
That felt too abrupt, and in my eagerness to think of something to lengthen it, my nervous tongue got away from me. “You won’t know me; I never came to the city before. Usually, I just hire out to work on the farms, but this year my Da thought—”
“All right, all right, I don’t want your life’s story, girl. Give your name and quit clogging the line.” At his words, a pair of lurking guardsmen took a step forward. I needed no further encouragement. Hastily, I ransacked my mind for a good, likely name. Nothing came to mind and it seemed to me the few seconds' silence dragged into minutes.
“Ada,” I said at last, out of desperation. The Clerk bent to record my name and I stumbled quickly away after Jem and the wagons.
I repeated the name over in my mind as I stood behind Banded Beard’s wagons, waiting for the folk ahead to trundle through the gates. Ada. What had possessed me to take up my mother’s name? It didn’t matter, of course; it wasn’t as if her name was known here. I was only borrowing it for a time. Still, it felt strange speaking a name I hadn’t heard used in so long. Our line moved forward and I followed the stream of wagons and traders, passing through the tall, ironbound gates and into Selbius.
CHAPTER FOUR
If I was surprised by the press on the bridge, I was stunned by the number of people milling around inside the city’s walls. The gates opened onto the edge of the market square, and I could scarcely see beyond the moving crowds to the shops and houses of timber and stone spreading beyond. All was noise and confusion. People jabbered, animals brayed, and a high-sided wagon loaded with squealing pigs passed by so near it splashed muddy water across my boots.
“This is where we part ways,” Jem told me, yelling to be heard over the commotion. “Remember to keep your wits about you, your hands in your own pockets, and avoid the city guard. Watch your possessions and your company and you’ll be fine.
I thanked him for his help, retrieved my bow from his master’s wagon, and gave him a few coppers in exchange for his worn coat before we parted company.
The streets were crowded the day before Middlefest, and my progress was slow as I pushed my way through the press. I told myself the crushing throng was to my advantage because even with an ordinary coat to cover my deerskin clothing, I felt conspicuous walking the streets with the bow on my back. No one else around me appeared to be armed, and I was mindful of Jem’s warning against attracting attention to myself and my origins. I only hoped with so many strange visitors in the city for the holiday, no one would notice one more peculiar sight.
There were certainly plenty enough other odd looking strangers to draw the eye. I saw folk from Cros mixed in with the crowd. They stood out among our local people for their drably colored clothing, the strange forked beards of their men, and the broad, floppy bonnets of the women.
I saw Camdon visitors, conspicuous by their rich, colorful fabrics and long, open-front coats that swirled around their ankles as they walked. All the Camdon folk wore the stiff, high-necked collars and thigh-high boots fashionable in that province and the customary rings in their ears. Many of the women had a series of dangling ornaments punctured in rows all the way up both ears. They were the first women I saw in Selbius wearing breeches, though theirs were highly impractical, cut of fine fabrics and richly embroidered up the legs. There was a constant chiming whenever they moved for the multitude of tiny bells they wore sewn onto the cuffs of their boots and breeches. There was an old saying—‘rich as a Camdon beggar’—and I could see now where it originated. Even the common folk of that province adorned themselves as vainly as our nobles.
Once, I also caught sight of a man of Kersis in the shifting crowd, attired in their rough mountain garb. Did they celebrate Middlefest where he came from? I would have thought the practical folk of the mountainous province would find our holiday too frivolous for their tastes. An axe dangled from this man’s belt and a coat of wolf pelts rested across his broad shoulders. Folk made way for him as he passed through the crowd, and I was no exception. Craning my neck to follow his progress, I walked into a vegetable stand, jarring the table so that several purple onions rolled off onto the cobblestones.
After smoothing things over with the annoyed seller, I hurried on with less attention to the crowds and more mind to where I was going. I lingered in this part of the market just long enough to discover a stall where anything could be purchased, from copper washtubs to rugs, weapons, and herbal cure-alls. Here, I replaced my lost throwing knives, grimacing because the new ones I bought were far inferior to those I owned before. I had considerably less coin when the transaction was over and left the stall with the distinct feeling I’d been cheated. Still, it was made up for by the comfort of knowing I had a pair of sharp knives tucked up my sleeves once more.
After this, I pushed my way free of the thickest part of the crowds and abandoned the market place. The noise and commotion had me so confused I could scarcely think, and I wandered lost for a time before finally finding my way to a wide entrance letting onto a broad avenue cutting through the city. It seemed to be a main street, judging by all the pedestrians and carriages. There was more order here than in the market and most of the folk passing me moved with a quickness and purpose that kept traffic flowing easily. I wondered if the city was always this crowded or if it was due to preparations for the coming holiday. Either way, I was already missing the peace and space of Dimmingwood.
Where was it I was supposed to meet Hadrian? At a temple of some sort, but what was the name? The Temple of Light? Allowing myself to be carried along by the current of flowing bodies on the street, I scanned the rooftops on the horizon, hoping to see a spire or bell tower rising in the distance to guide me. Instead I saw nothing but slate rooftops and smoking chimneys. I stopped before the open door of a wine shop, where a weathered old man in a broad-brimmed hat sat atop an upturned keg, smoking a long-stemmed pipe.
“Begging your pardon, grandfather,” I said. “But might you know the way to the Temple of Light?”
The old man pushed back his hat and squinted up at me. “You must not be long in the city or you’d know it yourself. The temple is a landmark around here. I suppose you’re one of them what comes for tomorrow’s festivities?”
“Actually I’m more concerned with finding a friend, a priest of the Blade, whom I’ve an appointment with at the temple tomorrow.”
He pointed a long finger at me. “Take my advice and be there early enough for the start of the celebrations. Be on the temple grounds at dawn, when the bell rings to mark the start of the holiday. I never missed it when I was your age.”
I smiled. “I’ll do that, but first you’ll have to point me in the right direction. I want to stroll past the temple today and fix the spot in my mind so I can find it more easily in all the confusion tomorrow.”
The old man nodded sagely and provided directions. Thanking him and committing the instructions to memory, I went on my way. Following the direction of the East Bridge as he had advised wasn’t as easy as it sounded because there were buildings and walls in the way, and I had to take a series of detours down side streets and around shops and warehouses. Taller structures rose to block my view and twice I lost my guiding point so completely I had to retrace my steps to the last place where the bridge had been visible.
It was approaching evening when I finally found the Beautiful district I’d been told to look out for, and I estimated I had only hours left to find the temple before dark. I hadn’t forgotten Jem’s instructions on city curfew but didn’t have time to stop and look for any of his signposts. I would just have to complete my task as quickly as possible.
I approached a low, arched entrance in the gray stone wall stretching before me and stepped through to find myself in another world. The Beautiful district was well named, an island of serenity hidden away in the heart
of the bustling city. A series of colonnaded walks cut through the gracefully landscaped gardens, hedges lined the walks, and flowering vines cascaded down sculptures and trellises. Strange trees I had never encountered before shaded the gardens, their slender branches curled and intertwined into shapes as artful as the surrounding statuary.
I stepped onto the nearest cobbled path, my footsteps ringing loudly through the tranquil surroundings. The splashing of a multitude of stone fountains, together with the whisper of the breeze rustling through the greenery, seemed more natural here than my echoing tread, and I felt like a clumsy intruder in this peaceful place. Great basins of water were arranged on either side of the path and large golden fish darted about in the bowls, their movements disturbing the surface reflection of the evening sky. As I walked, strains of muted conversation and laughter fell upon my ears from beyond the hedgerows.
My path led me to a small roofed porch with no walls but a circular row of stone columns, half covered in creeping vines. Here, tiny moonkisses fell among the spray of greenery, their pale petals glistening like dewdrops in the waning light. A pair of lovers huddled on the stone bench within, and seeing they would not welcome my interruption, I let my feet turn onto one of the narrower side paths. The singing of the crickets in the hedges reminded me time was slipping by and I had yet to accomplish what I came for.
The old man at the wine shop had instructed me to look for the statue of Queen Tamliess, but I must have passed a hundred statues already. Reasoning the likeness of a legendary queen should be large and prominently placed, I quickened my steps, hurrying up one path and down the next, until at length I broke into an open area.
Here was a wide cobbled yard with carved benches lined in tight rows to form a half circle, as though folk occasionally came to hear a lecture or view some sort of performance. The yard was empty now but for a handful of citizens out for an evening stroll, and I would have hurried on had not my attention been caught by a flash of color at the far side of the yard. A paradin pen. I paused for only a second to watch the enormous strutting birds fanning their colorful tailfeathers, but in that brief glance, I caught sight of a towering statue beyond the pens. I ran to the spot and stood looking up at Queen Tamliess’s image raised atop a wide pedestal, her famous winged crown nestled atop her head.