Chapter 13
It was a difficult decision, but I left the bulk of my crew behind, with every weapon save the ones on my person; I wanted them to be able to mount a fierce defense if attacked.
I gave my closest companions only the time it took Tinbu to compile a list of supplies we needed—there would be no stashing my most valuable personage away now; not when I needed his enterprising eye to evaluate materials—and Dalila to pack up God only knew what in a satchel.
After some further agonizing, I brought Majed as well, leaving Tinbu’s second in charge.
Majed could pass as reputable far more easily than I, and his genuine interest and background in exploration and commerce made for a safe cover story.
“Do you think it could really be her?” Tinbu whispered breathlessly as he tied on a pair of sandals. “The Queen Lab from the story?”
“I do,” I murmured, checking both my meteor blade and leopard-headed dagger. “I’m just not certain which version of the story we’ll be dealing with. Arno made her sound fairly benevolent.”
“Probably to lull us into a false sense of safety,” Dalila warned as she materialized at Tinbu’s side, casting a suspicious glare at the Khatti Ugalans.
With a new walking stick at hand and her resupplied ribbon cap of poisons upon her head, she looked more herself.
Indeed, she’d even combed her hair and exchanged her tattered gown for a spare, a far cry from the paranoid hermit who’d been haunting my cargo hold.
She turned an equally assessing gaze on me and frowned.
“Are you all right?” She reached for my brow. “You look feverish.”
I dodged her touch and a jolt of pain scorched through my palm as though in response, my skull thoughtfully throbbing in support. But I was still sour with Dalila and peckishly desired to keep such weaknesses to myself. “I am fine, thanks be to God. Let us go.”
The way was rough; between the dense forest and swiftly rising, jagged territory, we were eventually forced onto a narrow switchbacking path, barely wide enough for two pack animals abreast. Beyond the trees, the trail was terribly exposed; the pebbly ground shone brightly in the sun, the path curving around clusters of boulders large enough to conceal caves.
I caught up to Arno. “We did not have time to scope out the land, but it seems quite isolated. Is it an island we have landed upon?”
“Yes, though the northern half is most inhospitable.” He gestured to the distant mountains, their craggy tops tearing at the sky. “There is a race of enormous griffins who dwell among its peaks and devour any man who passes.”
“You know the man-eating griffins to be true?” Majed asked. “Or are you repeating the ghost stories of your grandparents?”
Arno’s expression grew bleak. “A man was discovered half eaten at the base of the foothills just last week.”
“Mountains filled with monsters and a sea ‘that brings sadness,’” I remarked. “The currents must be treacherous indeed to keep you all here.”
“Oh, no—Khatti Ugal is a blessed land! As long as one stays near the city, where they are safe, our people want for nothing.”
Majed and I exchanged a skeptical look over the youth’s head. “Why don’t you tell us more about it, then?” Majed encouraged. “I have journeyed to a great many lands but never heard of Khatti Ugal.”
Majed’s inquiry was all Arno needed to launch into an informative ramble.
We kept our questions neutral; as much as I hoped to discern how closely this Queen Lab resembled the disturbing legends before I set foot in her city, I did not wish to invite suspicion.
But it quickly became clear that Arno at least did not seem to believe he inhabited the mysterious island prison of an immortal sorceress, nor lived his life at the mercy of a magical spindle that might rewrite his fate.
He spoke of what fruits were in season and how pleasant the weather had been, making kindly inquiries of each of us in turn.
(Well, three of us. Dalila glared so severely at him when he complimented her headdress that he stayed well away.)
Finally we left the wilderness and the road broadened, the sun-bleached dirt so hard-packed that it might have been stone.
Weather-aged columns with colorful flags rippled gently in the hot air at the forest’s edge, but we saw no other souls on the road.
There were irrigated fields and orchards, both lush with some sort of broad beans and melons, as well as jewel-bright but unfamiliar yellow and purple citrus fruits.
However, none attended them, an oddity. That said, we were far from the only creatures: livestock pens were in abundance, with seemingly more goats and sheep than such a place could require.
I tried very hard not to contemplate the implications.
Very soon the matter of livestock slipped my mind, however, because beyond another switchback, there very suddenly, in a cluster of honeycomb-like structures that clung to the hills, was Jamal’s White City.
In my travels I had seen all sorts of dwellings, from the fading grandeur of Baghdad’s metropolis to shaded Bedouin tents to earthwork temples so vast it seemed only a titan would be towering enough to properly appreciate their pattern.
Never before had I gazed upon something like Khatti Ugal.
It looked more developed and tended with a gardener’s pruning eye and a geometric bend than spontaneous human growth.
Despite being surrounded by thick forests of timber, the buildings were constructed of sun-dried mudbricks and surrounded by ladders and outer steps, so the roof of one dwelling gave a partial floor to the home of the next and on and on, creating terraces of shared houses and shops.
Large windows broke up the majority of the walls, creating a lattice effect and offering views into every chamber, unhindered by curtains.
The walls were painted in a lime wash, making them an earthy pale hue, a warm cousin to white.
Interspaced between the buildings were lush gardens—if they were gardens at all.
Because from here they looked like tiny patches of unplanned vegetation: dense thickets of cattails bursting from low-lying puddles of rainwater, wizened old trees with gnarled roots ready to rip up the street, and wildflowers everywhere.
Animals as well; birds nesting in eaves and a fox slinking down an alley as though the place were abandoned.
It almost seemed like nature wanted to see it abandoned; like the wilderness was just waiting to seize what humans had carved out and reduce it to ruins.
And yet despite the fanciful, storybook facade, commonplace scenes of life bustled with market stalls of various wares set in the narrow alleys between buildings, taking advantage of the shade.
Arno stepped in front of us, gesturing proudly. “Khatti Ugal, where all are welcome and all are safe.”
“Is that why you have no outer wall?” I asked, a bit unnerved.
Perhaps people dwelling in a fold of the Unseen Realm didn’t need to fear sea raiders, but it was still strange to see a coastal settlement of this size so unguarded; there wasn’t even a watchtower.
“Your homes, as well . . . they are so open.” It was the opposite of the courtyard houses my people preferred, designed to shelter guests while ensuring family privacy.
And I liked that privacy, considering tall stone walls and cool, dark interiors an ideal respite after being at sea on a boat with a dozen others for weeks.
“Why would we need walls?” Arno asked, sounding perplexed. “There are no bandits, no criminals, nothing to fear in Khatti Ugal. Our queens keep us safe and provide respite for all who wash upon our shores.”
Except once we entered the city, there very much were criminals in Khatti Ugal, not that I was going to inform Arno of such.
With the midday sun high and scorching, few people were out.
Two men snoozed under an olive tree with cone-shaped caps tipped over their faces and a few women appeared to be haggling over a pile of horned melons.
Their garments were similar to our guides’: simple undyed tunics with elegantly carved clasps.
The majority wore brightly colored capes but here and there were individuals without them, like Arno.
Arno spoke quietly to his companions and they nodded silently, peeling off in the direction of a stall. When they returned, they were bearing fine porcelain cups and an enormous pitcher, which they set on a shaded patch of soft grass.
“If you wouldn’t mind . . .” Arno gestured to the ground. “Getting an audience with the queen typically takes a few days.”
“You needn’t rush on that matter,” I said swiftly. “Truly. We are happy to barter for supplies without bothering her.”
“It is no bother,” he assured. “Several of our leading families keep guest rooms for new arrivals.”
The phrase “leading families” made me wonder about Khatti Ugal’s social structure and so I asked, “The cloaks many of your people wear are stunning. Do they have any significance?”
The boy had been happy to chat about his people, so I was surprised when Arno flushed at the question, hugging his bare arms as though he was embarrassed by it. “They are worn by those who have received rites.”
“Rites?”
His blush deepened. “It is . . . difficult to explain. And in truth, we are not supposed to discuss them with foreigners unless they are initiated into our faith. But it is nothing to worry over,” he said, perhaps noticing the doubt in my expression. “Why don’t you rest while I sort matters out?”
I recognized the dodge but touched my heart, allowing him to change the subject. “We would be most grateful.”
Arno bowed and was gone, vanishing behind a screen of cattails on the other side of the plaza. With polite smiles, his companions did as well and then we were alone.
Dalila made her opinion immediately clear. “I do not trust a thing that man just said. He is probably a spy.”