Season of the Dragon, page 15
Imbica laughed. “Hiyadi’s light, no. It was a gib-rig.”
As she was poised to ask another question, another object flew near the palace. It looked like a smaller version of the gold domes atop the buildings but made of rigid cloth. A small wooden boat hung from it.
Quen pointed to the flying thing. “What is it exactly?”
“Hmm, how to explain to someone from the Sulmére?” Imbica rubbed her chin. “It is like Besha’s cart, except it flies instead of being pulled by a horse or kopek.”
“It hasn’t got wings. How does it fly?”
“It is a clever invention. Beneath the palace lies a bubbling tar pit. Prelate Vidar of Vatra Pillar, a talented alchemist, discovered the air around the tar pit is special. He captures the magical air with a contraption he built and puts it into the gib-rig. Then the whole vessel floats.”
Unlike some people, Quen didn’t yearn to fly. I like my feet firmly planted and preferably in Sulmére sand. She never considered the possibility of people flying. “Can everyone in Qülla travel by gib-rig?”
Imbica shook her head. “Oh no, the air the alchemist uses is sacred since it only exists beneath the palace. Only Kovan Dynasty or honored guests travel by gib-rig, and only to travel to the Palace di Solis. Once they deplete the magical air, the gib-rig is merely cloth and wood. Until Prelate Vidar refills it with magical air, that is.”
They began their steep ascent up the crushed stone path to the capital. The horses didn’t grumble, but the cart creaked and groaned.
Quen hated that she was coming to the capital in chains. But she couldn’t help staring with her mouth open in awe of the majesty of Qülla, Indrasi’s capital city.
“It is magnificent, is it not?” Imbica asked.
Quen nodded.
“Just wait ‘til you see what’s inside them city walls,” Besha said.
Chapter 11
Awed
Awed by the soaring city, Quen arrived at Qülla’s gate with a cricked neck from staring upward. Twin towers flanked the pale-gold limestone city gates. A guard in maroon leather armor staffed each tower. The Kovan Dynasty sigil, a fiery dragon against a sun, covered their chests. A guard from the right turret called down, “Kovatha. Open the gate!” By some hidden mechanism, the massive limestone gates swung open.
The peacefulness of the countryside evaporated in Qülla’s din. Carts’ wheels squeaked. Dogs barked, and children cried. The noise became a sinuous thrum.
As they entered the city’s major boulevard, tan brick pavement replaced the crushed rock path. Expertly laid, the pavers created a smooth road. The esplanade tapered to side streets, shooting off in every direction. Some were narrow alleys for foot traffic. Others, wide enough for wagons, radiated from the primary route. Towering over the roads were buildings carved of stone, some three or four levels high.
At the ground level of both alleyways and boulevards were shops and inns. Hawkers stood in front of many of them, calling out to passers-by about their wares.
“It’s a fine day for a cup o’ wine,” a buxom woman shouted. She teetered as she waved customers in. Looks like she sampled some of her own wares.
The aroma of roasting meat filled the air, and Quen’s stomach rumbled. A man held up an odd meat stick. Upon closer inspection, the “stick” was the neck of a bird, complete with head and beak.
Quen pointed. “What is that?”
Imbica’s upper lip turned up in disgust. “Horrid.”
“What bird has a neck that long?”
“A swan,” Imbica said.
Over the man’s head hung a painting of a black-beaked bird. A young boy handed the man a coin and received the swan’s neck, holding it by the beak as the salesman had. He licked the greasy meat from his lips as he ambled away, happily munching.
Besha’s cart rolled by shops dedicated to things such as traveling satchels made of smooth, exquisite leathers and a tiny store selling nothing but parchments and pen and ink.
How do these shops thrive? Paper was a rare extravagance in the Sulmére. What professions allow these people to afford such luxuries?
A young girl with long black hair woven into elaborate braids stood outside another shop. Her cheeks were unnaturally wan, her lips made red with paint. Her dress was pale-gold silk overlaid in a gauzy fabric so sheer it was hardly there. The U-cut neckline barely covered her tiny bosoms.
She stood next to an older girl, perhaps Quen’s age. This young woman, dressed in a gauzy red dress, held the petite girl’s hand and twirled her on her toes. The two giggled, and the older girl called, “Dressmakers for the Kovan Dynasty. Wear what the princesses wear.”
Quen had never thought about Kovan princesses because she hadn’t known there were Kovan princesses. It mattered little to a child in the Sulmére what girls hundreds of leagues away wore.
In Qülla for a short time, Quen already had the measure of its people. They spend good coin for a nearly meatless bird’s neck and wear clothes so impractical they might as well go naked. Qülla was beautiful beyond imagination, yet Quen couldn’t ignore the lingering odor of the place, foul with excrement and dank water.
A few more wheel turns down the road, a man took off his black wool hat, rolled it down his arm using only his arm muscles, then put a purple hat atop his head with his other hand. “Caps, hats, and headwear, as worn by Princess Feray.”
The hat seller gave a low bow to the Kovatha as they passed. When he noticed the shackles on Quen’s wrist, he frowned and looked away.
Quen had been riding high atop stacked sacks, but she slumped down into the nest she’d made among the wool the first day they had begun their journey. Her face was fiery with embarrassment. Sometimes Sulmére people avoided her, but they never made her feel small like she felt now.
“Ignore their rudeness, Doj’Anira. Most Qüllanians are small people, sheltering in the Kovan Dynasty’s shadow.” Imbica remained stoic, her eyes gazing ahead and over the heads of everyone they passed.
“We Sulmére people may be poor, and we don’t live in fancy houses or wear expensive clothes. But we aren’t rude to strangers.”
“Maybe. Or perhaps you never noticed it. People talk about others rather than make a name for themselves. ‘Tis easier for most people.”
“They respect you, though.”
The Kovatha adjusted her silver belt. “They respect the emblems of my station. They know nothing of me other than to fear me.” She looked down into Quen’s eyes. “Do not mistake me. They should fear Kovatha.”
True. She’d never been a nervous person, but Quen had cautious respect for the power Imbica had shown.
“One day, the Exalted will reveal the true significance of being Doj’Anira. Then people will understand you are no ordinary prisoner.”
“Whatever that means,” said Quen.
Imbica’s brows furrowed. “Yes, whatever that means.”
The Kovatha appeared bothered that she didn’t know the full implication of Quen’s status as Doj’Anira. It chafed Quen as well. Hopefully, I’ll have answers soon.
Ahead, the buildings thinned and gave way to another wide esplanade. Besha steered to the eastern side of the boulevard and down a narrow alley barely wide enough for his wagon. The dank odor grew more insistent and mixed with the smell of rotten fish. Quen pulled her keffla up over her nose. Infused with years of huson pine oil residue, it shielded her from the rancid smell.
Gilded storefronts and people hawking wares gave way to dingy, compact, utilitarian buildings lacking ornate decoration. It doesn’t seem like a place for Kovatha. But Imbica didn’t protest.
They came to a one-level building constructed of orangey-red bricks that looked like they’d melt in a hard rain. The wide doors were open, and Besha drove the wagon through.
A stout man with silver hair called down from a platform. Smoke curled up from a long, thin-necked pipe he had clamped between his teeth. “Besha, by Lumine’s teats, I figured you got swallowed by the sands.” He hobbled on legs so bowed they looked like they would snap. The man’s pipe smoking and bowed legs reminded her of Druvna, and her eyes got hot with unspent tears. I wish I could cry alone in peace.
Besha chuckled. “It was slow goin’ with only ole Jini here.” He patted the horse’s rump, sending up a puff of dust.
The man approached them. “What happened to Jon?”
Besha climbed out of the wagon and offered a hand to Imbica. “I had to sell Jon to meet the levy last fall.” He glanced at the Kovatha, then lowered his head as he helped her down.
When the man saw the Kovatha, a nervous laugh replaced his jovial smile. “Ah, Besha, you brought a ‘Minster with you.” The man took off his wool cap and bowed as deeply as his bowed legs would allow.
Imbica ignored the man and waited for Quen to disembark before she walked farther lest she jerk Quen harshly. The man glanced at Quen’s shackled wrists then diverted his gaze. Neither man offered Quen a hand.
Besha removed his hat and gave his thinning grey hair a good tousle. “The ‘Minster required a ride from Niri Bridge, see? ‘Minster, this here is Castor, manager o’ this warehouse and a fine trader. Does his part for the Dynasty, he does.”
Castor tittered. “Fah, Besha, you’re too kind to this ole man.” His face colored.
None of this seemed to touch Imbica’s ears, or if it did, she cared not a whit about their chatter. She brushed road dust from her tunic, adjusted her wide silver belt, and finger-brushed her hair to smooth it. Finally, she said, “The Dynasty thanks you for your service, Besha di Tikli.”
Besha gripped the rim of his hat and stood expectantly, perhaps waiting for a tip. But Imbica exited the warehouse without looking back, pulling Quen along.
Besha and Castor were silent behind them. They knew better than to complain within range of a Kovatha. Quen waved goodbye with her bound hands. Besha rubbed the brim of his hat, his expression gloomy. He gave her a single nod in reply. Besha was polite to her, even though she was in chains. If I ran for it now, would he help me escape? She knew the answer was no. Besha had been deferential to Imbica, clearly fearful of her power. Would anyone here risk themselves to help a person unjustly held against their will? Quen glanced down at the restraints. That’s just it, though. How could anyone know I’m innocent?
The streets in the lower city gave way to canals. An incessant roar filled the air.
“What’s that sound?” Quen towered over the Kovatha as they waited at the water’s edge, but for what, Quen didn’t know.
“What?” Imbica looked up at her. “Oh, the water? The roar of the waterfalls pouring from Mount Néru, where the Palace di Solis rests.”
Ah, the waterfalls I saw from outside the gates end up here.
A small boat sidled to them as they waited at the dock. The boat was the same shape and size as the flying gib-rig Quen had seen floating from Mount Néru.
The boat was driven by a thin young woman with long black hair pulled into a sleek tail. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, like Besha’s. She gave the Kovatha a hand into the boat. Unlike others Quen had encountered, the woman helped Quen board, unfazed by the shackles on her wrists.
“Where I be boating you, ‘Minster?”
Quen’s heart fluttered with anticipation. Soon I’ll meet the Exalted. Please, Hiyadi, shine your light on me so I can get this nasty ‘Doj’Anira’ business behind me and reunite with Rhoji and my pod.
“To the Menagerie,” Kovatha Imbica said.
Imbica and Quen settled onto the narrow wooden benches. As they were wide enough for only one passenger, they sat facing each other.
The water-carriage driver whistled through her teeth as she shoved off from the dock with a long pole. “To the Menagerie, heh? Not being impert’nint, ‘Minster, but only Kovan family allowed in the Menagerie, you know?”
Her eyes wide and dark with anger, Imbica spat, “Are you blind, woman? I am Kovatha, and transporting an important prisoner on Dynasty business. Just take us there. With haste.”
The driver shrugged but didn’t look nervous or frightened by the Kovatha’s chastisement. She did, however, give Quen a pitying look before she set to work turning the boat around. “As you say, ‘Minster. I’ll have you there lickety-split.” Her strokes were long and fluid, barely rippling the water.
Imbica’s anger dissipated. Soon her brow was smooth, and her eyes relaxed. “Home at last.” Her voice was a whisper. Though it was hardly a display of excitement, it was the closest thing to emotion the woman had shown since their encounter with Vahgrin.
Quen had hoped they would go directly to the Palace di Solis. How disappointing. It meant a delay in securing her freedom.
“There are no mistakes. Only opportunities,” Pahpi said. Quen tried to emblazon the labyrinth of canals and alleys on her memory. I can disappear in this city. Quen peered at the shackles on her wrists, something she’d avoided, as if seeing them would make it more real. These restraints are only a brief setback. She tried to convince herself it was true.
The brief recollection of Pahpi brought hot tears to her eyes, and her throat got tight with the effort to hold back emotion. She hadn’t permitted herself to grieve him yet. Not truly. I’ll grieve another day. Pahpi’s killer was still at large. The slightest recollection of Vahgrin made her jaw tense and her back stiffen.
If I can’t talk my way to freedom at the Palace, I’ll escape this fetid city some other way. And as soon as I’m free, I’ll find my Jagaru pod and continue our hunt for Vahgrin. Fires of vengeance still smoldered in her core. I will avenge you, Pahpi.
• • •
The water-carriage driver steered the boat onto a side canal of green water. They floated past buildings of salmon-colored stone, many with intricately carved balconies. Most buildings were three levels high, with long balconies framed by gauzy curtains blowing in the breeze. The curtains were silky jewel tones of emerald, azure blue, deep gold, purple, or turquoise. I wonder if the colors mean anything the way tent colors in the Sulmére represent different herdclans?
Lush gardens covered most rooftops with carpets of grasses, blossoms, bushes, and trees. Vines cascaded from roofs, creating vibrant living curtains of red, magenta, and golden yellow.
On the balconies, people lounged and watched the boats. They fanned themselves with flickering gilded fans. Others laughed and drank from delicate white cups with thin handles, unlike the thick clay handleless mugs used in the Sulmére. Languid music lilted from an upper balcony.
The overall energy of this area of Qülla was of wealthy vibrance. Does no one work? How in Hiyadi’s name do they afford this luxurious life when idle at midday?
The canals were busy with water taxis darting past each other. The drivers called out “Hi” and “Ho” as they passed, sometimes coming so close they slapped hands in convivial greeting.
Their driver appeared well-known as she got many hand slaps and cheerful greetings as she wound her way through the bustling city. The bustling canals gave way to ground covered in a carpet of grass. It looks soft and inviting. An impossible building stood alone at the terminus of the canal system, gleaming and resplendent.
Clear glass held together by brass spines made the walls look invisible. The building wasn’t rectangular, and there were three sides visible. Inside, lush greenery grew to the two-story-high ceiling, rounding to a point.
Exotic flowers, trees, and bushes surrounded the building’s perimeter. Even outside the Menagerie, a cacophony of bird calls and songs rang.
The boat operator sidled up to a small pier. “Welcome to the Menagerie, ‘Minster.”
Imbica accepted the driver’s help from the boat but said nothing in response. The driver maintained her cordial smile and gave Quen a hand up. It’s refreshing to be treated like a person rather than livestock. The chain rattled as Quen sprang from the boat.
Once on land, the boat driver held Quen’s hand and examined her face, staring into her dual-colored eyes. “You are Doj’Anira.” The woman dipped her head, pulled Quen closer, and whispered, “You have friends in Qülla.” She released Quen, returned to her boat, and shoved off.
Quen decided against calling to the woman and asking what she meant. I can’t reveal this prospect for escape to Imbica. The chain connecting her to the Kovatha pulled taut.
“You have friends in Qülla.” Quen’s heart pounded. Did my Jagaru pod find a way into Qülla? The mere hint of allies in the city made her heart race with newfound hope.
Imbica led Quen up a wide walkway paved with the same tan bricks that had welcomed them inside the gates of Qülla. They were the only ones in the Menagerie gardens.
Despite the circumstances, Quen wanted to learn what was inside the see-through building. But Imbica turned and led her down a lesser path. On either side were tall trees, the branches touching each other over the sidewalk, light streaming through the canopy in thin bands.
The path took a bend and climbed a knoll. The trees were shorter here, the leaves sparse and feathery. Clusters of purple flowers hung from the smaller trees and filled the air with a delicious odor. Ahead was another building, grander than all she’d seen before.
Iron beams rose skyward, beginning as a circle but near the top, jutting again to form a peaked arch. Each iron door was larger than the last until it reached three stories tall. At the back, another ironwork structure formed a spider’s web pattern. The construction gave the effect of walking through a grand iron hallway to a spider’s web.
They entered a courtyard, with a rocky spire for a back ‘wall.’ It must be part of Mount Néru itself. The roof of interlaced veins of ironwork allowed ample light and air through its open weave pattern. A waterfall trickled down the spire’s face, filling a small pond. Water flowing over rocks and boulders created a soothing, babbling sound.
The courtyard was abuzz with the sound of insects and the song of birds. A giant snow tiger lounged atop a flat rock overlooking the pond. The cat was as large as the black wolf Nevara had ridden into Solia. The tiger’s fluffy snow-white beard was braided and bejeweled with golden rings and red tassels. A golden clip adorned the base of each of the big cat’s ears.
