Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“Dear Goddess…” Nolan stands a little way down the rail. His fingers rise, searching for his reverie, though we discarded them when adopting our latest identities. “Their clothing… the insignia… those can’t be…”
“Pretty sure they are.”
Somehow, the sailors that died all those centuries ago, drowned in the battle between the Salt Goddess and their siblings, have been preserved.
And been left eerily tethered to the reef we’re passing through.
They thump against the prow in ones and twos, bloated faces staring up at a sky they can’t see, like the absolute worst version of the dolphins that joined our voyage earlier.
“Not even a nibble taken out of them.” My breath is white in front of me now, and there’s a heavy, sulfurous brine in the air. “It’s almost like they’ve been pickled.” Nolan makes a faint noise. He might be feeling better, but apparently not enough for me to talk about corpse-pickles. “Sorry.”
He swallows hard. “First Novena, now this.”
“Yeah.”
“And the Storm… you’ve seen it…” He whispers the words, even though no one is nearby. “What else does the death of divinity leave in its wake?”
“Do you mean what else did no one bother to tell us about?” How many other secrets are we going to discover?
Devoted as he is, after what we’ve encountered Nolan must be wondering the same.
I tear my gaze away from the grim flotsam and plunk it on Cyprene instead.
“How bad can the city be if it can put up with being surrounded by the floating dead? Not like the Priors said, I bet.”
Nolan remains quiet, though I catch a hint of irritation at my vague blasphemy.
Soon we can make out the massive, sheer walls of the island, composed of a rock so pale gray that it’s nearly white.
A narrow passage cuts through it, leading into a large cove and the main reason the Salt Goddess and their followers were able to hold out for as long as they did.
The reef took care of most of the invaders; the rest were forced to tighten formation and navigate themselves like thread through a needle, trying to avoid the island’s defenses. That much I do know.
As we enter the passage, I feel a constricting beneath my ribs.
My gaze shifts, pulled away from Cyprene, back in the direction we came from.
The mainland is days behind, but for a moment, I expect to see it.
Almost want to see it. Pushing that longing away, I let the memory of different waters rise, let the inky chill of that unforgiving river swell and smother my yearning, if only temporarily.
I’ll return to the Cathedral again, to that distant divine light, soon enough.
And, if I have my way, for the very last time.
That thought steadies me as, beyond the reef, the water turns a pleasant shade of blue, funneled by the high pale cliffs around us.
I don’t love how close they are to the ship—barely a stone’s throw away, but it’s clear we’ve left the hard part behind, thanks to Captain Cleophas.
The cove is almost like a sea itself, large enough that a hundred ships could comfortably sail it without getting in each other’s way.
But there are only a few in sight, small as toys next to a pair of massive towers that rise from the waters.
I count enough cannons to blanket the cove in cannonballs, turn any ship into scraps of timber.
If an unwelcome visitor survived the reef and the walls, they would still need to contend with these.
The Squid’s Shadow runs up a series of flags.
As we aren’t sunk immediately after, I take it we are welcome.
Cyprene proper comes into view. I can’t say it in front of Nolan, but I’m becoming decidedly less impressed with our home the longer our mission goes on.
A fantasy resolves before us, the high white cliffs surrounding the city carved with dense, impossible intricacies—figures and ornaments, tunnels and balconies, flowing down from their tops all the way to where the foamy waves crash.
There’s a towering, repeated form that must represent the Salt Goddess (the smashed facial features give it away) but also sea creatures so realistic I expect them to slip into the brine at any second.
The city itself is more conventional, spreading out in a half moon around the bay, but even at a distance it clearly rivals Lumeris in grandeur.
Nolan does a good job of hiding his awe, but I can see it, lurking in the depths of his careful expression. “Let it out.”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be a young, green merchant seeing this place for the first time. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t hide it so well for once.”
He must see my reason, because his expression changes almost immediately, turning into the bright excitement of a tourist.
Within a few hours, we are allowed to disembark into the bustle of Cyprene’s docks. As soon as his feet touch dry land, Nolan lets out a sigh of relief, one I suspect is no performance. The horses follow, and then Tychus, as I am strapping our gear onto their saddles.
“You’ll want to move away from the docks to find decent lodging.
Go up the hill. I prefer the White Gull myself, though I’m afraid the owner doesn’t let to strangers.
” He begins to depart, then pauses. “I’m headed that direction myself.
If you don’t object to a guide, I can bring you to where the better guesthouses are.
You’d be surprised how many appear clean…
until you find a plump cockroach swimming around your soup. ”
Immediately, suspicion fills me. New to town and with obvious resources, Nolan must read like an easy mark.
Even if Tychus’s intentions are no more than directing us to an overpriced guesthouse that feeds him a cut, it would be a poor start to appear like a pair of rubes.
I give Nolan a little shrug, as if it’s up to him.
There’s enough wariness in his face that I know he has the same misgivings.
Still, he smiles and says: “Incredibly kind of you, sir. That would be very welcome.”
Tychus returns the expression. “Come. My baggage will be sent later.”
I take one last look at the Squid’s Shadow, hoping to see Cleophas.
But the captain is busy with her own obligations, likely readying for wherever the winds and waves will bear her next.
Which leaves me carrying a twinge of jealousy as Tychus leads us into the chaos of the docks with an easy familiarity.
If only it could be so simple and relaxed for Nolan and me.
We have no allies here. Anyone we pass may be one of the heretics we are searching for, or a Renderer searching for us.
My only solace is that the Renderers have no reason to keep hounds in Cyprene; the Goddess’s Chosen haven’t had a foothold here for decades. Can’t hunt where there’s no prey.
Still, nothing is sure, and my attention is fractured as I fight the crowds to keep a few steps behind Tychus and Nolan while also taking in this new world.
Phrygis, a bustling mainland port, is dull as dirt when set against Cyprene, which pulses with the brisk, vibrant energy of fruitful commerce.
There are ships clearly from the mainland, and ships that clearly aren’t, bearing goods and sailors from places I cannot begin to guess.
We pass a gathering of dark-complexioned sailors clad in ochre and burgundy playing an elaborate dice game, elbow through a clutch of pale, heavily tattooed men dipping mugs of black beer directly from a barrel.
I catch a whiff of spiced tobacco on one corner; on the next, the scent of something more potent suggests this as a likely origin for much of the Devoted Lands’ black-market goods.
But for everything I observe, it’s what I don’t that stands out.
“Odd to see no clerics in such a busy place…” Nolan puts a name to it. “And the Flame… it’s nowhere to be seen.”
He’s right. Anywhere else, I’d see the Goddess’s fingerprints in the forms of insignia and greetings, hear the calls of the clerics to prayer, reminders that Tempestra-Innara is near, even when they aren’t.
Here, the absence of them renders the city into an entirely different entity than any I’ve known. Here, the Goddess is wholly absent.
“Astute,” Tychus replies. “It does surprise many of the newcomers, to not see the Goddess’s presence. It is here, of course,” he hedges, “merely in a quieter fashion than you’re used to.”
Though accepting Tychus’s help is a ruse, I’m quickly thankful, as it’s clear we won’t find it anywhere else.
The people of Cyprene appear to be especially adept at minding their own business, to the point that I have to force my attention straight ahead to make it appear as if I know where my business lies.
Tychus may have tagged us as marks, but no need to draw any other bottom-feeders.
The avenues turn from wide and open to winding and narrow and back, disorienting in a way I can’t help but wonder is intentional.
The best signposts are the cliffs that tower above the warehouses, shops, and dwellings.
“Those carvings,” Nolan notes as we walk, sounding sufficiently awestruck by the ever-present views of them.
“Work of the Salt Goddess’s followers,” Tychus explains, “created over generations. An unparalleled show of devotion. The Salt Goddess used to reside in those tunnels and passages, when they weren’t traveling the tides.
Now they are mostly home to certain, uh, factions of the city.
Some benign, some not. But regardless, I would strongly advise against entering them without knowing exactly where you need to be.
They go deeper than you’d imagine, and many an unwary soul has gotten lost.” He glances back at me and winks. “Or worse.”
“Avoid the cliffs of no return,” I say. “Gotcha.”
We reach a cobbled plaza, where Tychus stops abruptly, drawing the hood of his cloak.
Over his shoulder, I finally see a hint of the Goddess: the flame insignia—an antiquated version, at least—embroidered onto the sleeves of a blue uniform worn by two men loitering near a fountain.
But the flame isn’t the only sigil I spot.
Graffiti is scrawled on the fountain, an array of unfamiliar symbols…
the same sorts as in the Renderers’ letter.
Nolan clears his throat to tell me he’s seen it too, then shifts impatiently. “Is there a problem?”
Tychus shakes his head. “No… but wait a moment, if you would.”
Across the plaza, the uniformed pair spot a third man, descending on him like wolves on prey.
I can’t quite hear what’s being said, but the man—some common worker by the look of him—wears an expression of subservient fear.
When one of uniformed men plucks a stray thread from his shoulder, the man flinches.
“Who are they?” asks Nolan.
“Caerula—sworn peacekeepers of the Goddess in Cyprene,” Tychus replies. “At least, that’s what they present themselves as.”
“Then why avoid them? If they represent our Goddess…”
“They do, but not like you’re used to on the mainland.” Caution enters Tychus’s voice. “They claim to serve Tempestra-Innara, but they mostly serve themselves. Be warned, the last thing you want to do in Cyprene is fall afoul of them.”
I’m more interested in the fact that Tychus wants to avoid them. It doesn’t come as a shock that another passenger on the Squid’s Shadow may engage in less-than-honest dealings in Cyprene, but as bland as Tychus struck me, I didn’t expect anything of note.
By the fountains, money is handed over, an interaction that seems to be invisible to the people passing by.
Then, the Caerula head down a different avenue without taking note of us, presumably onto their next shakedown.
Once they are gone, Tychus’s jovial attitude makes a speedy reappearance, leading us forward again.
I take closer note of the graffiti as we pass, but it’s not confined to the fountain; I spot it on walls and down alleys, along with the usual insults and raunchy renderings.
But both fade the farther we get from the docks, until we are making our way up a gently sloping street lined with a mix of guesthouses and taverns.
“What about this one?” I can tell by the edge on his words that Nolan is tiring of this charade with Tychus. He indicates a plain but well-kept establishment as gray as salt, with a matching cat sunning itself in a window box.
Tychus looks appalled, waving a ringed hand dismissively. “Absolutely not. The rooms there smell like they’re used to store old cheese. And that cat has never caught a mouse in its life. There are much nicer places farther up the avenue. Come, I’ll show you.”
Oh, I bet he will. We are clearly heading to whatever guesthouse Tychus has some useful connection with, passing by more places of lodging before a sunny, almost garish, yellow building appears at the broad intersection of streets.
The sign is painted with the silhouette of a bird, and a man I take to be the proprietor leans beside the open door, clad in a stained apron and smoking a pipe.
“This will be more than adequate,” Nolan says sharply, peeling away from Tychus. “Sir, do you have space available?”
The man removes the pipe from his mouth, a blank expression on his face as he considers. He’s heavyset, with sleepy eyes and a coppery-brown complexion. Finally, he nods. “How many?”
Tychus’s expression sours. “I’d recommend—”
“Two.” I step forward. “Well, four. Two humans, two horses.”
“The Petrel has clean beds and stables both,” the man promises, also ignoring Tychus. “M’name’s Hiram. Need anything, you ask me.”
“If I may interject,” says Tychus, appearing as if he just stepped in horse shit, “I truly think your tastes might be better served by—”
“This will do.” Nolan oozes gratefulness, though. “Thank you so much for taking the time to guide us into the city. Your help has been invaluable.”
Unable to protest further without added suspicion, Tychus can only nod. “I hope your business in Cyprene goes smoothly.”
“And the same to you.” Nolan smiles. “May the Flame warm you.”
Tychus doesn’t return the blessing.
Hiram, the innkeeper, eyes him as he departs, but with no more curiosity than someone watching a duck float by on a river. Then, he turns to us. “One room or two?”
“Two,” we say in unison.