It was surprisingly empty.
Pulling up in front of one of the sumptuous restaurants, Julia turned to the richly dressed maitre d’, a portly man with a long moustache and a proud demeanour.
"Where is everybody?" she asked curiously.
The maitre d' sniffed the air inquisitively, as if he’d heard a gnat buzzing near his ear.
She blinked, examining the air beside his head, then took a look behind her. She was utterly alone. Surely he’d heard her?
"Where is everybody?" she tried again. "Seems awful quiet for such a beautiful morning.”
Now the portly man started, his eyes settling on hers.
"Are you talking to me?" he asked. His gaze dropped to her collar, his mouth turning downward.
… Of course. Things would be no different here, no different at all. Why had she expected otherwise?
Suddenly she hated every shining inch of this place, as much as she hated every inch of Talystasia East.
"… No, I'm talking to your bloody pillars. Why is it so quiet?" she demanded.
"Haven't you heard ...? Lady Loren is in Harmony, returning taxes to all the lazy freeloaders who don't want to work." He sniffed again, still staring at her neck.
"So what are you glaring at me for? I'm not a freeloader. I couldn't get a job if I wanted one. Nobody pays me."
"Well that just makes you more of one, doesn't it?"
There was a delicious aroma wafting in on the breeze, and it wasn’t from this stupid place.
With deliberation, she lowered her hand into the saddlebag, withdrawing the little silk money pouch from inside. Raising it in front of her, she extended her arm, jangling the coins in front of the maitre d’s face teasingly, just out of his reach, then flashed him a sugary smile. "Guess I won't be spending this here then, will I. Bye!”
A block later, she spotted a comparatively modest café and a stranger emerging with a loaf of fresh bread. It seemed reasonably likely that this was the source of the mouthwatering aroma. She paused a moment, inhaling deeply and considering the pink stucco siding and cozy white shutters and potted violets on the sills, and shrugged with amusement. Here I come all the way over here, excited to see all this opulence, and still I feel more comfortable with this little place. I must share Master’s sensibilities after all.
Leading Freedom to the hitching post outside the gated outdoor tables, she dismounted, negotiating her broken arm with some difficulty, and pushed open the door to join the queue in the bakery.
Moments later, she was back outside, seated at one of the patio tables, a warm, buttery, cheese-filled croissant in her hand, the bright diffused daylight pouring down on her, the air sticky with heat that was weeks out of season.
There were still coins left in the money pouch. It was tempting to consider what such money could buy—several full meals to be sure, perhaps even a sumptuous banquet at one of the fancy pillared restaurants. Across the street, a shop window displayed ladies' dresses in lilac, blue and white. She gazed at them longingly, imagining how it would feel to dance and turn in front of a head-to-toe mirror, admiring herself.
Lord Telyra would only backhand her for wasting his money of course; likely he’d only given her this much to accuse her of spoiling his bounty when she succumbed to temptation.
Still, she could fantasize. That much at least was hers, and he couldn’t steal the richness of her thoughts. She could finish her breakfast, wiping her hands on her frock, cross the street, and step inside, the little bell tinkling over her head as she did. She’d run her hands over the silks and gauzes, push aside the curtain to the dressing room—
A throat cleared above her head.
"Are you lost, miss?"
A dark face hovered over her, the overcast sky blinding white behind him. From his scarlet livery and silver mail, she recognized him instantly as a member of the city watch.
"Do you have permission to be travelling alone ...?"
The panic was instantaneous, practiced as it was over a lifetime.
"I—it's in th—the saddlebag," she stammered, clambering to her feet.
He shrugged, gesturing for her to be seated again. "No problems, miss, this time ... Be sure you get home safely now."
With a sigh of relief, she sank back into her chair. "Do you know when Lady Loren is returning to the palace?" she asked him.
"... Could be any time. Did you have business with the lady?"
"A message. And I was told not to enter Harmony."
"Good advice. You can hand it to me."
"No, I want to deliver it myself."
"That'll be—"
"—Hard, right, I know. I’ve already been over this with someone else."
"You're just one in a thousand voices crying to be heard. It’s a matter of practicality, miss."
"… Lord Telyra's voice."
The guard raised bushy eyebrows. "Okay. Well. The palace is only open to visitors one day a week—and that day was yesterday. If I were you I'd head up to the intersection at Promenade. The palace is closed, but it's the closest you're going to get to Lady Loren for a while. I’d guess you should head up there in about an hour. Might catch her—if you’re lucky. Else you’ll wait a week—or longer.”
“Couldn’t you help me?”
“I would, miss, but I’m on duty, and there’s really nothing I can do. I can’t cut through the crowd for you, and there’s no way to bypass the official channels. Security around Lady Loren is extra tight these days. If you keep asking around, someone else in the city watch may be able to help you. Look for someone with rank.”
Resigned, she nodded, watching him leave, then kicked back in her chair, propping her legs up on the seat across from her. Well, if she had to wait …
Taking an agreeable bite from her croissant, she returned her attention to the shop window, humming and spinning in front of the dressing room mirror in her head.
~~~
North of the restaurant district, the delicious smells were overpowered by the sweet perfume of flowering boughs dipping low over the gutters. Lavender and pink blossoms piled high, rotten with rain, and fluttered across the pavement peppering the square. The sweat of humanity added a salty, rank edge to their scent.
Stately marble edifices presided here, columned and adorned with gilded scrollwork. Deeply engraved letters above their wide gold doors indicated their functions to the literate, but if their harsh right angles and high, small, unimaginative windows were any indication, Julia guessed they were administrative. That or they were prisons; but this was clearly a very posh district, and that seemed unlikely.
Droves of highborn men and women flocked past her on horseback and on foot—it was the women she couldn’t tear her eyes off of. They were as flawless as dolls in their billowing brocade skirts and high-collared lace jackets. Their hair, which seemed to come in every eye-popping colour of the rainbow, was piled high atop their heads in elegant, towering monuments. She stared after them shamelessly, envious of their beautiful things, and even moreso of the rosy glow in their cheeks and their carefree laughter.
Vibrant curls swayed, painted faces turned in her direction. She smiled politely, then felt the smile melt off her face as if it’d been washed into the gutters with the withering petals. Their grins had curled into sneers at the sight of her, and she rode away to the their derisive laughter, quickly drowned out by the roar of a cascading stone fountain. It was carved in graceful, abstract arabesques to mimic the foaming arcs of water which spouted from its mouth. The roaring, sparkling water jetted down to earth to glisten beside clusters of laughing, chattering men and women, stretching contentedly along its low, circular wall. Children splashed their hands, laughing and chasing each other.
Raising her hand to her neck, thinking of her own childhood, she watched them with unfocused eyes.
Most of the crowd were thronging the high, wrought-iron gates that flanked the east side of the square. Scarlet-clad guards lined the fence like pawns on a chess board, wrestling with
the unruly multitude. Beyond, the promenade continued, empty, across a lush green lawn populated by tall, graceful trees and ending at the foot of …
Her head craned upward, her jaw dropping.
… High, regular cliffs of shining white and beige shot upward into the dazzling white sky, etched at their summits with the familiar outlines of embrasures, decorative rather than functional in this setting, an anomalous parody of military design that clashed ludicrously with the elegance and openness of the architecture. High, broad windows and archways of stone soared triumphantly, sculpting the mountainous structure into a colossal counterpart to the fountain. Sky-cleaving turrets crowned the staggering edifice with glittering domes in emerald, sapphire, ruby and gold.
It was a faerytale palace, perfect in every detail. It seemed if she blinked, it’d vanish, an apparition of her deprived imagination.
Chilly resentment stole away the midday heat. Lord Telyra had described such palaces to her, reading from the pages of novels, political and cultural textbooks, histories of distant lands. Leagues away, across mountains and deserts and oceans, such wonders towered, glittering with magnificence, too far for her to journey to.
Except this one. This one was right here. She knew what he’d say about it, that the stones were the bones of a starved populace, the jewels the sweat from their brows. But it was a wonder for all that, no less so than the ancient ruins that he had travelled to see in his youth—remnants of despotic civilizations also built on the cold stones of oppression. He recalled those trips fondly.
Someone buffeted her rudely. Freedom stomped sideways.
The crowd was condensing, fingers pointing to the west, away from the wondrous citadel, to where three columns of riders had appeared on a halting path toward the fountain, chain mail glittering, scarlet standards fluttering aloft.
She saw a tomato fly through the air, striking one of the soldiers leading the procession, and traced its path back to a bellowing aristocrat. Reaching into her saddlebag, she tightened her sweaty grip on Lord Telyra’s envelope, her heart in her throat. Pedestrians slammed into her legs and Freedom’s flanks as she fought her way forward.
… Between the soldiers, a tall, black-clad woman rode, her veiled head held high, her dark figure cutting a stark contrast to the riders around her—
A gleam of gold showed against her forehead.
That would have to be her! … Lady Loren.
Ripping the letter from her saddlebag, she waved it frantically in the air and surrendered to the maelstrom, her voice melting meaninglessly into the rest, lost, broken, anonymous, inaudible.
The procession was flush with the fountain now. Wrestling with Freedom, she strained against the pressing mass of bodies, screaming her throat raw, certain she’d have been trampled if she hadn’t been on horseback.
Now the lady was past, and she was watching the elegant curve of her back as she closed the short remaining distance to the palace gate—
"LADY LOREN!" she bellowed vainly, the throng sweeping her away. "LADY LOREN!"
A soldier beside the lady suddenly whipped his head around. Julia caught her breath as his eyes locked on hers.
She held the letter as high as she could, jabbing her finger at the seal, gesticulating desperately, mouthing the words “Lord Telyra.”
… The impossible. He broke ranks.
"GIVE IT TO ME," he cried urgently, stretching his hand over the reaching arms below them, lashing up like a river.
She hesitated, the letter suspended between them, the gap between them widening. The crowd swelled, the currents of bodies tearing them apart. She glanced at Lady Loren, disappearing through the palace gates, and back at the blond-haired man.
"Give it to me! Give it to me now!" he yelled. "She will get it."
His gaze was clear and penetrating, radiating confidence, his uniform different from the rest.
“Last chance.”
Forgive me, Master …
She released the letter just as the soldier's fingertips grazed it. He leaned forward, catching it as the crowd whisked him backwards and away. Moments later he had merged back into the line collapsing through the gate.
With a resounding metallic clang, it slammed shut. The mob hurled themselves against it, shaking the bars violently and shouting and screaming at the retreating figures. Julia felt a momentary pang of sympathy for the black-garbed woman, and then retreated effortlessly, pushed back by the crush of the multitude.
Breaking away, she rode several blocks south, back in the direction she’d come from, and climbed down from Freedom’s back, exhausted. Here, the ear-splitting din of the crowd was only a muffled roar. There was a low stone wall underneath one of the aromatic trees. Collapsing under its cherry shade, she stared at the ground, her fists balled.
What had she just done? She'd given Lord Telyra's letter to a guard. A guard, no different from either of the others who had offered to take her letter from her. Why had she given it to that one?
What if the soldier read the letter, the letter which was for Lady Loren’s eyes only? What if he didn't deliver it at all? What if he gave it to his superior instead, who read it himself or threw it away? She took a certain pride in following Lord Telyra’s instructions to the letter, particularly when other people seemed hell-bent on making that difficult. These instructions didn’t make the slightest bit of sense to her, but she could recognize Master at his best. There was a reason for sending her here. She might curse the man who beat her up and who denied her everything, but she wanted to obey the man who had sent her on this peculiar mission. That man had trained her well.
… And so much for that.
The mineral flakes embedded in the pavement winked back at her unconcernedly.
Oh he's going to kill me.
"Papers."
He's going to kill—
The shadow over her head had deepened.
She looked up.
One of the city watchmen was glowering down at her.
Instantly, looking into his blank, dead eyes, she knew she was in trouble—real trouble. Cold claws of fear wrapped around her throat, danger singing in her spine.
"Papers," he growled. "You travelling alone? Is that horse yours?"
"Umm ..." She stood up so as to feel at less of a disadvantage; but this did nothing. Her mind fumbled frantically. Papers? For what?
"Whose property are you?"
“Lord Telyra's."
The guard snorted. "Let's see those papers then."
Julia moved toward the saddlebag, then felt her knees weaken. She'd just handed the only proof of her origin and mission to the unknown soldier in the mob.
"I don't have any papers," she whispered, the dread now giving way to full-on alarm. "I gave—"
"You stole that horse, and you're a runaway," sneered the guard.
"No—"
"—You know what we do with runaways? We lock ‘em up until their owners come to claim ‘em."
"You don't want to do that! You don't get it, I'm here on an errand, I want to go back. I just want to go home—"
"You're not going anywhere, except the city jail."
"But you don't have slavery!" she protested in shock. “I thought this place was all progressive! The Lorens don’t even have slaves in their palace!”
"Correction: the Loren regime doesn't approve of slavery, but they do condone it. We respect the rights of slave-owners here. Some of us don't mind the reward money neither."
"You're not going to get reward money, you're going to die!" Julia shouted, and made a dive for Freedom, but the guard grabbed her wrist roughly and dragged her back, snatching the stallion's reins simultaneously.
"Shut up," he snarled in her ear, rudely grinding his fist into her back, "And march."
~~~
The cell in the city jail was fairly large, cold, and barren aside from one wooden bench in the center of the floor. Only the back wall was solid stone. She rattled the bars intermittently, screaming protests at the guards.
"Shut the fuck up, bitch!" one of the prisoners in the adjoining cell snarled. “We’re trying to sleep in here.”
In response, she kicked the bars savagely and crashed down on the hard bench to seethe.
That letter isn't going to get delivered ... and it's going to get read by the wrong people, I just know it ... So stupid …
She peeked sidelong at the neighbouring captives. From their dirty, haggard appearance, they could have been here for months.
How long would she be here …?
"You lookin' at me, hon?" A sallow-faced man staggered to his feet, clutching the bars dividing their cells in grimy, yellow-nailed hands. "Why doncha come over here—I’ll keep you company." He flashed her a rotting grin.
Ew." Julia shuddered and scooted resolutely to the opposite end of her bench, folding her arms and looking away.
Look on the bright side, a reasonable part of her mind suggested, You sleep in a cell anyway. What's the difference?
The difference ... argued a more reasonable side, is drunk idiots, no hay on the floor, a cell door I can't unlock, and a room that smells like piss.
... And no Lord Telyra upstairs.
"Come back straight away after you've finished, with or without an answer from Roselia Loren, and find me. Bang on my bedroom door in the middle of the night if you have to."
A soft warmth tingled through her arms where he’d clasped them the night before. For the first time in she didn't know how long, she genuinely yearned for his company—his pride and pleasure when she told him she had completed her mission.
Which wasn't going to happen any time soon. Because she hadn't completed it, and because she was stranded here with no way to reach anyone outside.
For a while, she held out the hope that someone would come and get her out of here; that they would realize it was all a misunderstanding, and that she would be able to go home. Minutes dragged into hours. Unhappily, she curled up on the bench and drifted into impatient thoughts and daydreams, her defiance temporarily spent. Eventually, uneasy sleep came.
Talystasia: A Faerytale Page 29