Chapter 32
32
D RESSED AGAIN IN a Klashean byor-ga to hide his face and form, Rhaif strode down the central passageway of the wyndship. He carried an empty woven basket and headed toward the ship’s cold kitchen to collect their cabin’s midday repast. As with all their meals, it was usually hard cheese, harder bread, and a small bottle of wine to wash it all down.
But Rhaif’s trip to the kitchen now was less about filling his belly than about gathering information.
He and his two companions—the chaaen-bound Pratik and the bronze woman Shiya—had been aboard the wyndship for two days, a craft dubbed The Soaring Pony. Then this morning, word had been tacked to their door, announcing a change to the ship’s route. Originally, the Pony had been slated to travel directly to Trader’s Ferry, a sprawling city at the center of the vast grassy plains of Aglerolarpok. It was a wild, lawless place and offered Rhaif plenty of directions and methods in which to vanish, to maybe even start a new life.
Only now the ship was scheduled to stop in Azantiia in another two bells.
Why?
That’s what drove him out of his cabin, leaving Pratik with Shiya. The change plagued and worried Rhaif, especially as the brief message had not stated how long they would tarry in Azantiia. His entire gambit in escaping Anvil depended on no delays.
He pictured Shrive Wryth sifting through the ashes of the downed Klashean ship and the man’s fury when he discovered the wreckage held no bronze statue. Wryth would surely send a flock of skrycrows in every direction, paying particular attention to the two ships that had left that same eve from Anvil.
Rhaif could not risk one of those crows winging ahead of the Pony and spreading word of a possible thief aboard, along with a bronze treasure like no other. He also worried about the timing of this change. Was it just bad luck—a state he was well familiar with—or something more nefarious?
He hurried down the ship-long corridor toward the stern. He wasn’t going that far. The common room, which included the cold larder and kitchen, was at midship, basically a widening of this same passageway. He reached the swinging door and shoved into the larger space. His nose was immediately assaulted with the smell of sweaty bodies and musky cheeses—though it was not clear which was which.
Ahead of him, the commons was broken into two halves. To the right were the shelves and cupboards of the ship’s larder, fronted by a long bar where a servitor in sky-blue livery stood alongside a sullen-eyed scribe who tallied each passenger’s allotted fare. Of course, for an extra silver eyrie or two, indulgences could be bought: dried fruits, cold sweet-curdles, salted meats. There was even a small oven of draft-iron heated with coals to warm bread or cheese, but that cost an extra ha’eyrie. Rhaif, with his purse nearly empty after booking a cabin fit for an imri trader, could not waste his last coins on such meager luxuries.
Even with his head covered in the leather helm and silk drape of his byor-ga habiliment, he kept his face down as he entered. As he crossed toward the larder bench, he surreptitiously searched the room.
To his left, the other half of the commons was a mirror to the first. Only the bar on that side protected shelves that held dusty bottles strapped in place, along with a row of casks and barrels along the floor. The crone of an alewife stood there, doling out drabs of spiced spirits, tankards of heartier beers, and flagons of fruity wines. She even offered an assortment of pipe leaf, which could only be partaken in the commons, where every flame was guarded over by a wary watchman. No one resented such beady-eyed attentiveness. All knew the danger floating above their heads.
As Rhaif crossed the room, he attended to the other passengers here, a dozen or so, mostly bowlegged Guld’guhlians, but also a few leather-faced, lanky Aglerolarpoks. The latter had patches cut out of their upper sleeves, baring the seared brands of their various ranches. Faces swung his way. Of the hundred or so riding this gasbag to the far west, his party was one of only a handful of Klasheans—at least, as best as Rhaif had been able to discern so far.
Eyes narrowed upon him as he crossed the room, varying from wariness to outright hostility. Over the past two days, Rhaif had usually sent Pratik to collect their meals. It was a necessity to maintain their cover. The Chaaen—posing as a member of the imri caste and fluent in Klashean—could engage in conversation if any of his people should attempt to speak to him. Rhaif, on the other hand, only knew a few words of their lilting tongue. Though, in the end, it proved a needless precaution. None of the other Klasheans on board ever approached Pratik.
The reason behind that segregation was obvious. Tensions and hostili ties were running high aboard the wyndship. Everyone had witnessed the fiery destruction of the Klashean ship at the docks of Eyr Rigg. Suspicions abounded. Most had come to believe there must be a justifiable reason for such an attack. Why else risk riling the empire of the Southern Klashe? Furthermore, as the Pony traveled the breadth of the sea, fears grew, stirred by speculations of retaliation, of war breaking out. All that anxiety needed a focus, which ended up being directed at the Klasheans on board, with their foreign tongue and reclusive natures.
Pratik had even reported one passenger spitting at him, which was an affront no imri would normally tolerate. Still, Pratik bore it silently, not wanting to draw undue attention. This sour attitude of their fellow passengers was surely noted by the other Klasheans, too. To avoid raising further suspicions, the foreigners mostly kept to their cabins and mingled as little as possible.
Unfortunately, Rhaif saw now that this sudden unexplained stop in Azantiia had stoked tensions to a feverish degree. Distrust shone from all the faces that followed his path across the commons. Eyes glinted with anger, as if he were to blame for everything, even their own fears.
Rhaif had come here to circumspectly inquire if anyone knew the reason for the Pony ’s sudden need to land at Azantiia’s port. In just the few steps it took to reach the bench before the ship’s larder, he read the room and recognized not only the futility of such an endeavor, but also the likelihood of his arse being thrown from the sailraft deck at the stern of the ship if he should draw too much attention his way.
He weighed if it might be better to simply disembark in Azantiia. Maybe his group should take their chances hiding under the noses of those who hunted them versus taking the risk of traveling the rest of their passage to Aglerolarpok.
“What’ll ya have?” the servitor asked as Rhaif reached the man’s station at the kitchen larder.
Rhaif set his basket atop the bar and slid his slip over. “Just the usual fare,” he said, speaking stiffly to pretend that Hálendiian was not his native tongue. “Thank you most kindly,” he added with extra politeness.
Such civility only earned him a scowl as the man took the basket and turned to his shelves to collect their foodstuffs. The servitor moved with a slowness that clearly took effort, an unspoken affront. The man’s hand shifted from a fresh-cut slab of yellow cheese to one that had crusted over, its rind mildewed to a dark green. He dropped the old chunk into the basket. The loaf of bread that followed had patches of frothy black mold.
Rhaif pretended not to notice. Now’s not the time to raise any objections. He heard grumbles rising behind him from the other tables near the bar. A few louder voices sniped purposely at him.
… fecking Klashers…
… oughta burn ’em all, I say…
… cast the lot straight off the ship…
The old scribe behind the bench—whose face was forever fixed in a knot of tired disgust—took Rhaif’s slip and marked off what was collected. From the open patch in his sleeve, he was an Aglerolarpok. Only his brand was crossed out by another scar, indicating he had been banished from his ranch. The skies were likely the only refuge afforded him.
“Anything else?” the man asked leadenly, a rote inquiry he must’ve asked countless times. “Warm your cheese, mayhap?”
Rhaif shook his head. Even if he had the coin for it, he sensed it was better to get out of here without waiting for that stone-hard cheese to melt.
A muffled lilting voice rose behind him. “Please do,” she said. “I will be happy to pay.”
He turned to find another figure outfitted in an embroidered byor-ga standing at his shoulder. She shifted next to him, a bit too closely, clearly seeking companionship amidst the storm behind them.
He inwardly cringed. “B… Ben midi,” he stuttered out, greeting her in Klashean, while trying his best to mimic her lilt.
He wanted to refuse her largesse, but he was not fluent enough to do so. And he certainly dared not be exposed here. He could only imagine the reaction of the already twitchy group in the commons if it was revealed he was in disguise. He pictured a long fall from the stern deck to the forests of Cloudreach below. The Pony had nearly crossed the breadth of those greenwoods. Such a plummet would certainly mark a dramatic return to the homelands of his mother, an unexpected visit he’d prefer not to make.
Next to him, the Klashean woman placed an eyrie on the table. Her gloved fingers pushed the silver coin toward the scribe and waved away any attempt to return the ha’eyrie she was owed back. “For your troubles and kind service,” she intoned.
The scribe snatched the boon and flashed his treasure at the servitor. Rhaif’s moldering rind was quickly exchanged for a riper slice, and both men moved to the draft-iron oven.
The chaaen-bound woman leaned closer. “Since we must wait for your cheese to warm…” The lilt faded from her whisper. A sharp point stabbed into his side, expertly positioned at his kidney. “Perhaps we can talk.”
He turned enough to spy through the slit in the silk that hid her face. The coppery eyes that glared back at him, though, were familiar enough.
He closed his own eyes in defeat, at the impossibility of his circumstance.
It was Llyra hy March.
S TANDING AT THE cabin window, Pratik wondered for the hundredth time what he was doing here. He had agreed to accompany the thief and his stolen treasure with the hopes of presenting such a valuable trophy to the Imri-Ka, to use such a prize to possibly win his own freedom.
He fingered the iron collar around his neck. He still remembered both the happiness and terror when the band had been fused around his throat. He still had a scar from the hot metal, which burned his tender flesh despite the insulation of a ceramic neck shield. The collar marked his esteemed accomplishment of earning the Highcryst of alchymy, but it also forever bound him to his master, Rellis im Malsh. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be free of this weight. He imagined he’d float off his toes if this anchor was ever cut away.
Even that dream was mixed with both hope and dread.
He lowered his hand.
Back at the Anvil docks, Rhaif had not warned him about the change in ships until the last moment, leaving Pratik no choice but to follow. But where did this new path lead? Would it still end at the throne of the Imri-Ka? Or would he forever be an outcast, a Chaaen who had broken his bind, always on the run?
He had tried to raise these concerns with the Guld’guhlian thief, but any real answers were rebuffed. Too much remains up in the air, Rhaif had said with a wave at the wyndship, trying to use mirth to blunt the ambiguousness in his words.
Pratik had even considered approaching one of the other Klashean groups on board, to reveal the subterfuge, to beg for forgiveness. But he knew such a path would likely end in his death, especially after the fiery destruction of a ship bearing the Klashean Arms. He had been partly to blame for that tragedy.
Then there was the one other matter, the truest reason he stayed silent.
He turned to the bronze figure.
Shiya stood before the other window. She had seldom strayed from that spot for the past two days, bathing in the bright sunlight. She had even stripped off her byor-ga and remained unabashedly naked, exposing as much of herself to the Father Above as possible. Under His bright gaze, her bronze had melted, turning impossibly soft and warm. Her plaits of hair had shivered into loose filaments so fine that they could be brushed from her cheeks or tucked behind a curl of ear.
Someone, with a casual glance, could easily mistake her for any other tanned woman, one of exceptional beauty. It was only her eyes that gave her unnaturalness away. They were distinctly glassy and glowed with an inner fire that could not be ignored. The energies turned her azure eyes into the deep blue of a lightning-struck sea. He found her gaze, whenever she deigned to look at him, to be frightening and inexplicable, yet also mesmerizingly beautiful.
Pratik did not understand any of the alchymy that fired through her, that gifted her with life and vigor. A debate warred in him. Is it even alchymy? Or is she truly god-touched? It was this wonder that kept him alongside her and Rhaif. No matter the answer, he sensed she was a creation from beyond their oldest histories, maybe even before the Crown was first forged in fire and ice, what the Elder tongue called Pantha re Gaas, the Forsaken Ages.
So how could I possibly forsake you myself?
He shifted to her window, to study her closer. Something of late had troubled him about her, but he could not narrow down what it was.
With her face in the full sun, her cheeks stirred in hues of rich coppers, from pinkish to a darker red. Her lips gathered those hues, creating a rosy aspect that accentuated the bow of her mouth. Her lower belly and legs, partially shaded below the windowsill, remained a deeper bronze, swirling in tones of browns and murky yellows. The back half of her, turned away from the sun, was equally dark, accentuating the breadth of her hips and curve of her buttocks. His gaze drifted around and up to the swell of her breasts, no larger than ripe plums, but perfectly formed with dark bronze areolas and nipples lifted to the sun.
He continued to stare at the full breadth of her sculpted beauty. It would be easy to accept how a goddess might want to instill her essence into such a form. He wanted to run his hands down her curves, but not how a man might wish to fondle such a woman, more like a scholar wanting to explore and understand the mystery standing there.
Confused by her, by his own feelings, he turned from her to the window.
Below, the cliffs of Landfall fell behind the stern as the wyndship abandoned the heights of Cloudreach and sailed high over the Bay of Promise. Ahead, the vast sprawl of Azantiia hugged the coastline to the north. From this height, he could make out the star-shaped castle ramparts of Highmount. Stretching from the city’s harbor, thousands of white sails dotted the blue seas. On the opposite side of the city, scores of balloons rose and fell from the mooring docks that spread over thousands of acres. Some of the ships were as large as The Soaring Pony, many others smaller. Then there were warships that dwarfed their own craft, moored in their own yokes to the northeast.
Pratik had visited the city a few times with Rellis on trade or diplomatic missions, but he had found the place chaotic and unruly. Nothing like the empire’s capital of Kysalimri, which meant kissed by the gods, which the city certainly appeared to have been. He pictured its flowing gardens, its white palacios, and its thirty-three spires topped by golden figures of the holy pantheon. Under the obsidian fist of the Imri-Ka, order was vigilantly maintained. All the baseborn castes had their role to play, like the cogs of a great machine, and no one dared step from their assigned tasks.
Except for me.
This new role, free of caste and rule, both excited and frightened him in equal measures. He had always dreamed of his freedom, to rid his neck of its iron collar, but where would this path lead? The danger was great, but he did not fear death. He had lived all his life with a dagger at his throat, where any misstep would end him. No, what truly kept his chest tight was to imagine a life of self-determination, to be truly free of the great machine that was the Klashe—and then have such a hope dashed in the end.
That would be worse than any death.
He stared out the window as the wyndship lowered toward Azantiia’s docks, tacking against the winds that blew forever east at this low height. Over the past days, as the Pony had crossed the seas from the Guld’guhl territories, the ship had ridden the two streams that flowed in opposite directions across the Crown. The ship would rise high and brush into the hot winds that blew forever west, carried along by that steamy current until the heat grew too much, then the ship would lower into the colder streams flowing the other way, tacking against that tide. Then, once cooled, back up they’d go. Over and over. Lifting and lowering. Like a sailing ship across the swells of a sea.
But now it looked like they would rise no more.
The Pony circled toward the fields north of Azantiia, preparing to dock.
As the ship turned, so did Shiya. The bronze woman’s face swung in the opposite direction. She even shifted to the other window, forcing him to stumble out of her way. She fought to keep staring toward the cliffs of Landfall.
What is she doing?
Then it dawned on him. He finally recognized what had been troubling him all morning. Throughout this trip, she had seldom said a word, a few one- or two-word comments, mostly expressing urgency toward some goal known only to her. For the past two days, she had always stared to the west. Rhaif had told him about this peculiarity of her behavior and his belief that whatever Shiya was seeking lay in that direction.
Only over the course of this long morning, Shiya had begun to turn, like the shadow of the sun shifting across the dial of the yearlong clock at the center of Kysalimri. Her face had swung, tick by tick, shifting from due west until now she looked to the east. It was even more apparent as the Pony circled to land.
What had changed?
He approached her as she stood at the window. She stared off past the cliffs toward the ancient greenwood of Cloudreach. Farther in the distance, he could just make out the highest tier of this land, nearly swallowed by the clouds, the Shrouds of Dalal?ea.
As the wyndship circled to land, Shiya continually turned to maintain her view east.
“What’s wrong?” he muttered, more to himself than her.
Still, she answered without looking his way. “We must go back.”
“Where?”
She went silent again.
“Shiya, where do you want to go?” he pressed.
She continued to ignore him. Still, the hues of her naked skin stirred more fiercely, expressing her agitation.
Fearing something was dreadfully wrong, Pratik turned to the cabin door.
Where is Rhaif?