by A Van Wyck
He remembered glancing up to note the keeper’s pleased smile and hadn’t been able to help mirroring it. His own had obviously been more pronounced than the priest’s sedate version, because the king had taken note, turning an inquiring gaze on him.
New as he was to the whole diplomatic process, he was fairly certain that clerks and scribes such as him were not supposed to attract attention. Or, for preference, have opinions. He’d been immediately chagrined by the king meeting his eyes but instead of disapproval or rebuke, the king had smiled widely
“Splendid!” the king had said, “I see I am not alone in my excitement,” and had given him a conspiratorial wink.
The keeper had spoken up then.
“Apologies for the oversight, your majesty. May I introduce my ward and personal assistant, Marco dei Toriam, novice of the Holy Temple.”
To which the king had nodded graciously.
“Greetings, young Marco. What think you of our little kingdom so far?”
Flustered, conscious of all the royal etiquette Justin had drilled into him, he’d risen hastily to his feet, bowing deeply so he was staring at the enameled tabletop. His hair had fallen forward to obscure his reddening cheeks.
“It is an honor, your majesty,” he’d responded to the greeting before addressing the question, as was proper. “It is very beautiful, your majesty.”
“Sit, sit, young one,” the king had released him from his obeisance. “Let us begin!” the ruler had enthused, rubbing his hands together like a man with a job of work to do.
He’d sat down gratefully, his cheeks burning, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes as the gathering launched into what proved to be bells upon bells of debate and negotiation. Since then, they’d fallen into a pattern, starting within a bell after breakfast, breaking only to take the midday meal before continuing until scarcely a bell before dinner. That first week or so, it had been all he could do to not simply collapse into bed, drained, at the end of each day. The two days a week when the delegation did not meet was as near to bliss as he’d ever experienced. But just two days still couldn’t make up for all the strain. Especially with the keeper insisting on continuing his education. He struggled to remember a time his fingers were not ink speckled. He didn’t mind overmuch – the keeper’s fingers were always ink spotted too.
Even now, after he’d gotten used to the strenuous regimen, he was left with precious little time to indulge in his newfound hobby – the exploration of the Grand Palace. It truly was a place of wonder…
He felt at the smooth alabaster banister, wondering again at the peculiar off-white material it was made from. It was too warm and light to be stone, too hard and dense to be wood. He trailed his fingers along the length of the mysterious balustrade, admiring the honeyed luster. He was brought up short as he realized another pair of hands rested upon it not three paces from him, their owner having snuck up while he was lost in thought.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
He looked over to see a girl, no, a young woman, sharing the landing with him. She was dressed richly, dark curls done up as if there were truly a ball scheduled down below and everyone was just waiting for her. Perfect skin made the luster of the magic balustrade pale in comparison. She turned to smile at him.
His eyes widened. The last time he’d seen her had been at the reception dinner, sitting one place setting away from her father, the king. Startled, he turned from the rail, bowing deeply.
“Your highness!” he managed through a suddenly dry throat.
A look, half annoyance and half regret, flitted across her face.
“Please don’t do that,” she pleaded.
Caught by surprise, he halfway straightened.
“Your highness?”
“Please don’t bow,” she said.
Oh, no! He’d offended her! Instinctively he bowed lower.
“I’m sor–” he began before realizing his error. He straightened so suddenly his lower vertebrae, stiff from another day of sitting hunched over his notes, popped loudly in protest. “I’m sorry, your highness,” he amended, his eyes downcast, “I didn’t mean to offend.”
Hearing the crack of his back, she took a quick step toward him, her round eyes filled with concern.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she trilled. “Are you alright?” A perfectly manicured hand lifted in an unconscious gesture, as if to keep him upright.
He took a startled step back. Among the long list of do’s and don’ts Keeper Justin had imparted to him, he was fairly certain that touching royalty was high on the list of taboos.
The princess, brought up short by his sudden retreat, halted and snatched her hands to her breast as though she’d felt the heat of the kettle just in time to stop from touching the handle. With a resigned little smile she let her hands fall, an apology evident in the lines of her shoulders.
“I’m fine, really!” he rushed to assure her. “I’ve just been sitting down a lot and…” But she wouldn’t be interested in his tedious goings on, would she? “I’m fine. Really.” He clenched his teeth before he could embarrass himself further.
His courtesy training flashed a card and he added, “But it is very kind of her highness to concern herself.” Or, at least, that is what he tried to say. His mouth, stuck between the imperatives of saying the right thing and saying nothing at all seemed to have compromised on saying everything as fast as he could. In his words’ headlong flight his normally fluent Renali failed him. He made two false starts and had to pause for a calming breath – that was not nearly calming enough – before any coherence arose from the garbled mess. What an idiot she must think him!
He cast around desperately for a way of extracting himself from the uncomfortable situation, all the while fighting his urge to bow again.
“If her highness would like to be alone,” he suggested, trying desperately to suppress the urge to flee lest she hear it in his voice, “I would be happy to, um…” he faltered but took another hopeful step backward. Protocol dictated he bow, take three steps back, bow again, and only then turn. In the wake of her command not to bow, he was bobbing awkwardly at each step.
The smile she turned on him was wistful and utterly desolate. She let her head fall to one side. “That’s all right,” she sighed, turning back to the railing, away from him. “It was a gamble anyway,” she murmured as if to herself.
The curious comment, so unexpected, halted him mid-step.
“Your pardon, highness?” he blurted before he could stop himself. He clamped his lips together but the damage was done.
She glanced at him, then nodded.
“My hope that you wouldn’t recognize me,” she explained. “Or,” she shrugged, “at the very least, that you wouldn’t know our customs. It was worth a try, I suppose.”
He shook his head mutely, still not following. Even at a distance, her face was unforgettable. He weighed his reply carefully, still balancing precariously mid-step.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, highness.”
She sighed again. There was nothing wistful in the sound this time. If anything, she sounded annoyed.
“Oh, it’s just that I rarely get the opportunity to speak to anyone normally. Like a person, you understand? And not as the princess,” she rolled her eyes, tossing her head as if she could flick the title away as well. “I get so fed up with people guarding their tongues and hedging their words around me. I’d hoped, since you came from the far empire, that maybe you wouldn’t… Oh, no matter.”
She lapsed into silence, staring at nothing over the balustrade she gripped.
Completely unprepared for this kind of thing, his etiquette training forgotten, he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Um, would you like me to leave?”
He cringed inwardly, wishing he could have the ill spoken words back.
“No!” she said too quickly, spinning back to him with a forestalling hand halfway raised before she remembered herself. “I mean,” she cleared her throat delicately, reco
vering her regal bearing, hands returned sedately to the balustrade, “your company does not offend us.” She seemed to think more was needed but she bit her lip before she said, “Stay.” Apparently seeing his reluctance despite his best efforts, she added, “Please?” in a tone that completely forgot the royal intonation of a moment before.
He became aware of his mouth hanging open and he shut it, finally putting his hovering foot back to the carpet.
She’d asked. And whether there was a question mark at the end of the sentence or not, a request from royalty was as much a command as if it had been imprinted with the royal seal and delivered out loud by herald. Squaring his shoulders as if for a practice bout, he stepped carefully up to the railing, resting his palms on it gingerly, back straight and legs tense. He tried not to stare but found he was peering at her from the corners of his eyes. His heart was hammering a beat like an Imperial war galley. He cast around desperately for something to say and said the first, inane thing that came to mind.
“I was wondering what this was made from,” he said, tapping the yellowed railing with a finger. He cringed inwardly at the banality of his remark. He could as well have asked about the weather. But she smiled, apparently pleased by his effort at making normal conversation.
“Beautiful, yes?” she reiterated. “I come here sometimes when I’m sad,” she mused, lightly caressing the railing. “It is a tusk.”
“A tusk?” he asked, too surprised to frame his reply more formally. He corrected himself quickly. “A tusk, your highness?” he looked up, tracing the enormous length of the railing from the central balcony to the ballroom floor, at least seventy or eighty stairs distant. “It is very large,” he opined skeptically. The only tusks he’d ever seen were on the wild boars the guards had hunted on the long journey from the Empire. This staircase would have exhausted the entire kingdom’s supply of boars for generations.
“Well, tusks, I suppose,” she corrected. “Plural. Expertly fitted together and polished until you can’t even see the joins. Ivory. Of some kind of sea-serpent I’m told.”
“Sea-serpent,” he mouthed silently, staring at the railing in wonder. The princess nodded sagely.
“From the far north. Far past the barbarian lands and to a place where it’s so cold the seas freeze into chunks of ice big as mountains, even in summer.” She gazed off into the distance as if she could see the wonders she were describing, undisguised yearning in her voice. “The serpents were enormous. Some as large as the ships of the men who hunted them. Father once gave winter lodging to a minstrel who had traveled far and spent time on the ships of the Northsea Mariners, gathering their tales. He told that the beasts were said to be impossible to catch in the water and that, when angered, the larger ones could coil themselves around the ships of the Mariners, crushing them and dragging them to the bottom of the ocean. The only way to catch them was to bait them. Lure them onto the icebergs with meat. Once out of the water, they were sluggish but still very strong and killing one was a very dangerous enterprise.” She rubbed the railing fondly, the sad smile reappearing. “But even then, only the very old ones had large tusks. Not that it stopped the Mariners from butchering the young ones. The ivory is extremely valuable. Worth its weight in gold. We are lucky to have this much. There will never be any more.”
She met his eyes. Seeing his frown, she explained further.
“They were hunted into extinction for their ivory. The last sea serpent was seen a little over three hundred years ago now.”
His felt a sudden pang of sorrow for the loss of the ancient leviathans who’s only crime had been being blessed by the goddess. He stroked at the railing with newfound reverence.
“As I said,” the princess continued, taking in his expression, “beautiful. And sad.”
He could only nod. They stood in silence for a time. She turned to him abruptly.
“I am Dailill Avrintir Stentoric,” she introduced herself unnecessarily. “You can call me Dailill, when we’re alone,” she added, extending her hand. He floundered for a moment before remembering the Renali custom of kissing a lady’s hand. The keeper had skimmed over it briefly. He could feel the sudden flush rising in his cheeks but stepped forward to take her hand.
Someone cleared their throat loudly, startling them both and she snatched her hand back.
Leaning casually against the arched entrance to the landing was a whipcord of a man in dark fitted leathers, a sword and dagger at his belt.
The look the man directed at him was too frank to be polite and the smile that went with it was predatory.
The princess grimaced an apology. “My minder,” she explained ruefully. He nodded his understanding, secretly relieved.
“I’m Marco dei Toriam,” he introduced himself.
“Marco,” she mispronounced, testing the foreign name on her tongue. “I enjoyed our short conversation. I’ll make sure we meet again.”
She turned in a swirl of skirts and lace and glided past the reclining bodyguard, who made no move to follow.
The whipcord man remained, regarding him with ambivalence so complete it nearly counteracted the sense of restrained violence that hung about the man.
Intimidated despite himself, he nevertheless returned the man’s gaze as steadily as he could.
Finally, moving leisurely, the leather clad bodyguard pushed himself upright, stretched with an alarming feline grace, and disappeared after his mistress.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He waited a while before setting off for the rooms he shared with the keeper, not wishing to accidentally run into the bewildering pair again. The thought of some cold water on his face and the back of his neck sounded lovely.
* * *
The Desert City of Oaragh never slept. But it could doze, like a dog. Limbs twitching and lip curling – exposing teeth. The sliver of moon visible from street level appeared and disappeared behind the rooftops of the clay brick tenements and wooden warehouses of the dock front district. No sane person would navigate this maze-like stretch of city in the daylight, let alone at night. But, as he’d long since learned, some deeds could only be done in the dark. Even so, it had taken him most of yesterday to come to this decision.
He took a deep breath, testing the newly healed puncture in his side again. He hated magic. You couldn’t trust it to do what it was supposed to, half the time. And you couldn’t trust the people who wielded it, either, in his experience. Take this damned ring of his. It worked whenever it wanted and rarely when he needed it to. It had saved his life yesterday but it might just as easily not have. Unreliable. And the swindler who’d stuck him with the cursed thing even more so. He took another deep breath. At least it didn’t seem he was in danger of springing a leak – Old Cobb’s healing seemed to be holding up. His ankle gave the occasional twinge but, all in all, he might as well have spent two full phases of the moon off his feet, resting up. Which was about how much coin Old Cobb had demanded for his services. He’d parted with the gold sadly but he prized his mobility above all other possession. And Old Cobb was discreet.
He needed to get out of the city and the choices as to how were limited. He could buy his way into a caravan headed east, trekking through the great desert and its great cities until he reached the wetland kingdoms. But caravans were slow. A couple of men on horses could easily catch it up and there was nowhere to run out in the desert. Add to that the fact that most caravan masters would throw him to the jackals to save their precious cargo, assuming they didn’t think of selling him first… The same reasoning applied to a caravan heading north, with the possible exception that the barbarous northlands, with their constant tribal wars, was an even less appealing destination. No. Definitely no caravans.
South lay the Diamond Fields. The deadly Diamond Fields. What it lacked in precious stones it made up for in salt crystals. From a distance the glittering beds looked like the sea, especially with mirages adding some waves. Beautiful. Unfortunately the air was so dry it stole the moi
sture from the very skin and could crack one’s lips within a turn of exposure. And even if you could survive the Diamond Fields, that would only bring you to the foot of the near impassable mountain spine that kept the desert safe from the lands beyond. And if you could somehow brave the perennially snow covered peaks, all that awaited beyond was wild forests, peopled with bloodthirsty, tree-dwelling savages. No. The only real way out was west. Across the sea. Catch a ship. Ships were pretty safe – alone on a vast ocean. A little peace while he planned his next move. But where to go? He’d leave that to fate. Right now the important thing was ‘away from’, not ‘where to’.
He twitched at the thick hood of his stolen gadi, keeping a sharp eye. These slums were familiar to him and his feet found their own way. But there were still dangers to consider in this twisting sprawl of alleys. The bottle neck he came to was a natural choke point. You’d have to be sun-addled not to expect an ambush here. A figure that had been leaning invisibly in the shadowed alcove of a doorway straightened at Jiminy’s approach.
Shaking his hand free of the gadi’s overlong sleeve, he flashed a sign you’d have to be ghetto-born to know. Someone watching him would have gotten their throat slit for giving the same signal the following night. It changed according to the fullness of the moon and the time of day. The outlined figure settled back into its alcove, tapping an unseen club against the doorframe. You could feel the difference in the air as his invisible accomplices settled back into their hiding places, allowing the knowledgeable traveler to pass.
He continued on his way, wending deeper into the maze of warehouse. He knew he’d found the right place when he saw the massive figure sitting on an upturned crate, mending nets with deft fingers.