“It’s a wonder any of us made it out alive,” Ilias said under his breath.
Giliead, who had been studying Nelia with cool contempt, said, “We’re in a hurry.”
Nelia turned to him but didn’t have quite the courage to treat him as cavalierly as she did the others. “Very well, very well.” She turned to Tremaine. “How much are you prepared to offer for this fine young man?”
Gerard winced. “God help us,” he murmured in Rienish. Gritting her teeth, Tremaine started to dig a handful of coins out of the case. Leaning over to look, Ilias said, “Not that much.”
He ducked away as Nelia slapped him on the side of the head with her fan, snapping, “You’re not in her family yet.”
The blow couldn’t possibly have done more than irritate him. But Tremaine’s nerves were already on edge and she caught the woman’s eyes and said in a level tone, “You do that again and I’ll break all your fingers.” You are obviously not the type for a career in the diplomatic service. If they ever managed to reach the government-in-exile, she doubted they would ratify her status as ambassador pro tem to Cineth and the Syrnai, not unless they wanted a war with their prospective allies.
Nelia eyed her, trying to decide if the threat had been serious or not. “I’m just looking out for Andrien interests.”
“Don’t do us any favors,” Halian told her impatiently. “And the tide isn’t waiting for you.”
Tremaine hesitated, not sure how much to offer. She glanced at Ilias, but he had retreated to a safe distance, looking annoyed. Then behind Nelia’s back, Giliead held up three fingers. Apparently Nelia had eyes in the back of her head because she whipped around to glare suspiciously up at him. He turned the signal into an absent scratch at his chest, lifting a laconic brow at her expression. Relieved to have something to go on, Tremaine fished out three coins and handed them to the old woman.
“Done!” Nelia exclaimed. She turned the coins over curiously, rubbing her fingers over the raised images on the surface.
Tremaine let out her breath. In the future of Rienish-Syprian diplomatic relations—if the Gardier left enough of either place—this might prove a real sticking point. Ile-Rien had ancient laws against slavery, mainly because Bisra had had slavery at the time, and Ile-Rien was automatically against everything that Bisra was for. And there were strict laws enacted only in the last century against indenture. Tremaine was fairly sure she had just broken about three of them.
“Your mother wants to see you both before you go,” Halian was telling Giliead, the way he half turned his back on Nelia suggesting that she had ceased to exist once she had fulfilled her function.
Gerard led Tremaine aside a few paces, telling her, “That’s all there is, there’s apparently no ceremony.”
“Oh.” Tremaine had thought things were being truncated because of the need to leave at nightfall. “That’s very…businesslike.”
“Yes.” Gerard didn’t say I told you so but Tremaine definitely felt it floating in the air somewhere. He eyed her a moment. “I’m going back to the ship with the others. Will you wait for them?”
“Yes, I’ll wait.”
He squeezed her shoulder and walked away.
Watching him go, she was still on the steps when Ander came out of the lawgiver’s house with Nicanor and Visolela.
He spotted her and it was too late for anything but a hurried retreat, and Tremaine suddenly didn’t feel like retreating anymore.
He came toward her with a firm stride, and for half an instant she thought he meant to grab her arm. Tremaine had kept the pistol the sergeant had given her after Ixion had escaped; the holster was clipped to the back of her tough leather belt, concealed by the flap of the loose Syprian shirt. Her sudden awareness of it was a reminder that she had made a little rule about not carrying firearms for a reason, though this time she wasn’t thinking of killing herself.
But he stopped in front of her, saying in a clipped tone, “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
“Of course.” Past his shoulder she saw Ilias watching them alertly. She remembered that Ilias had never liked the way Ander behaved toward her, not even during their first confused meeting in the caves under the island. It had to be a social misunderstanding, but it was interesting that there was something in Ander’s attitude toward her that Ilias interpreted as insulting.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Ander said in Rienish.
Tremaine briefly considered forcing him to explain what he meant by “this,” but she was more in the mood for a frontal assault. “Maybe, but it’s moved things along faster.”
He just looked at her for a moment. “I meant, you have other options.”
That stopped the frontal assault dead in its tracks. She had no idea what he was trying to say. “I have other options?” she repeated blankly.
He took a sharp breath. “You don’t have to throw yourself away like this.”
She stared at him. Now she knew what he meant. “You think I’m so desperate for—what? A man? A marriage?” No, he doesn’t think that, she realized suddenly. It’s just the nastiest thing he can think of to say to me. She grinned, suddenly free of any emotional constraint. “Go ahead, Ander, I welcome your expertise on all aspects of my private life.”
He eyed her narrowly, and she could tell he was disconcerted by her reaction, which was more satisfying than any amount of yelling and hitting. She prodded, “What, nothing else to say? I’m shattered. No, really.”
He shook his head grimly. “You make it impossible for anyone to care about you.” With that he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with a set jaw and half a dozen replies she couldn’t use.
Ilias came to join her, watching Ander’s retreating back. “What was that about?” he demanded.
“Ander being…Ander. Unfortunately.” A sudden wave of rage startled her, and she realized she was too angry to have a coherent conversation with anyone now. Especially her prospective in-laws. Actual in-laws. Better to leave Ilias and Giliead and the others to say their good-byes to Karima and Halian in peace. “I think—I’d better go down to the dock and make sure the boat is ready to leave.”
Ilias gave her that look that said he knew what she was thinking and nodded. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
Karima met them in the foyer of the lawgiver’s house, where the dust from the plaza made the colors of the floor mosaic seem dim and faded. She stopped Ilias, putting both hands on his face, and asking, “Are you truly certain?”
No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was right for Tremaine or Cineth, but he couldn’t tell Karima that. He took her hands and smiled. “I’m certain.”
Halian came to put his arm around her, and they went through into the atrium. Visolela, Pasima and more of their assorted relatives were sitting on the porch.
If it had been a normal first marriage, there would have been congratulation and relief and speculation on what the alliance with the new family would mean. But Ilias had a curse mark, and they were allying themselves with foreign wizards in order to defend against more foreign wizards, and he could see everyone was wondering if they were all out of their minds and if this wouldn’t end in unimaginable disaster. And he had to get out of here for a moment.
He slipped out of the porch and back to the atrium. Giliead saw him escape but said nothing, just shifting casually to block the view between two columns so the others wouldn’t notice. Ilias went through the dining portico at the back to the outer court that faced the street behind the building. The flowers had overgrown the beds here and an old rain tree shaded the big stone cistern from the sun. Ilias took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair, trying to shake off his tension.
Being away from the pressure of everyone staring at him helped. After a moment he decided to do something useful while he was here and lifted the cistern’s cover to drop the bucket in. He glanced up as the gate to the street squeaked, thinking it was Gyan. Instead he found himself looking at his older brother, Ca
stor. Ilias did the first thing that came to mind: he snarled, “Get out.”
Castor took a step further in, leaving the gate standing open behind him. In their few encounters as adults, Ilias had never seen much in his brother to remind him of himself; Castor had a heavier build and looked older, gray hair showing through his light-colored braids. Years ago he had married a woman from the western end of the Syrnai, who had been a trader and now owned a small farm not far outside Cineth. Ilias knew there were children and a lot of sheep, though he had tried not to know more. Castor demanded, “Is it true?”
Ilias’s eyes narrowed coldly, and he didn’t answer. This was about all he needed. He turned his back, grimly hauling up the bucket.
Castor demanded, “You’re really going off with those people? On that great floating—thing?”
Ilias slammed the bucket down on the stone rim of the cistern, turning to face him. “It’s none of your concern, it’s never been your concern.” Castor had known the family had decided to turn Ilias out nearly a day before their father had taken him off to the hill. This was just more belated guilt.
Castor took another step toward him. “If they’re forcing you to do this, the Finan could help.”
Ilias had to laugh. “Oh, you want to help me? And you expect me to believe that?” He knew his mother was behind this; he didn’t think Castor had ever had a thought that wasn’t put into his head by someone else. “Tell me why you’re really here.”
Castor gestured in exasperation. “I heard they were selling you to wizards, foreigners. I couldn’t—”
“Is that why she sent you?” Ilias interrupted, derisive amusement turning back to fury. The Finan had always claimed that Ilias had run away, since it was against the law to abandon a child. They hadn’t tried to press the claim in years, but the gold Tremaine had given for him might be reason enough for this sudden show of sympathy. “I’d throw my marriage price in the harbor before I’d let her touch it. If you think you can—”
“That’s not it,” Castor snapped. “It’s not the price. She would never—She knows the Finan owe you. You know that. She just wants to—”
“I don’t want anything she or they have,” Ilias interrupted furiously. “And I don’t want your pity, or your help or your guilt. Go back and tell her if she wanted to collect three harvest-weights’ worth of gold today, she should have picked you to throw away instead of me.”
Castor stared at him, breathing hard, his face reddening. It was an unfair blow, and Ilias was bitterly glad to see it hit the mark. Castor was a farmer rather than a warrior and had never been sought after by the young women in town. His trader wife hadn’t been able to give much for him, but she had been the only one asking, and the Finan had had to settle for a love match for their oldest son rather than the alliance with a prominent family they had been hoping for. Then Castor said with deliberate scorn, “First Giliead gets you marked, and now this.”
Ilias rounded on him, grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him forward. He said through gritted teeth, “Get out of here while you can.”
Gyan stepped into the court then, eyeing the situation. Castor threw him a wary look, backing away from Ilias. He slammed out the gate, leaving it open behind him.
Gyan came to take the bucket away from Ilias before he hurled it after Castor. He gave Ilias a penetrating look. “It may be guilt, but he means better than you think.”
Ilias shook his head. He didn’t want to hear it. Not now, anyway.
With a resigned sigh, Gyan clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a shake. “You know what’s best for yourself.”
Chapter 7
And so the voyage began at the evening tide, though I learn that tides are meaningless to a ship of such power. Curses or not, foreign wizards or not, I think Ravenna’s name will go down with Beila, Starsight, Elea, Wind, Dare and all the other great ships of our history. Whether Visolela likes it or not.
—“Ravenna’s voyage to the Unknown Eastlands,”
V. Madrais Translation
Tremaine walked through Cineth alone in the long warm twilight. Most people were behind the dusty white clay walls of their courtyards or houses, having the evening meal or still discussing the frightening events of the day. The odor of cooking and of horse and goat manure competed with the scents of jasmine and the flowering vines that hung over the garden walls.
Though there was little resemblance, she found herself thinking of Vienne in the summer. There had been a large park called the Deval Forest, where it was always cool under the heavy canopy of trees or willow arbors, even in hot weather, and winding streams led to waterfalls and dripping grottoes. There was a small lake for bathing and boating, and anchored in it an old café on two large barges, amid little man-made islands of flowers.
Tremaine scuffed her boots in the dirt, head down, suddenly missing home with all the pain of a punch to the gut. Not the dark cold battered place she had shown Ilias, where the smell of desperation and fear and defeat had lingered in the streets. She missed the home of her memories: the theaters on the Boulevard of Flowers with all their lights lit, the beau monde in their coaches and long black motorcars drawing up in the opera circle, the raucous cafés and clubs where sultry women sang and drunken artists and their models reeled into the streets laughing, the old leather and dust and calm silence of the libraries at Lodun, the noisy markets of the little villages and towns she and Arisilde had wandered through the year after her mother died. She knew she was going to remember all this, if she lasted long enough for memory to dim, with bright points emerging like lighthouses out of a fog of misery.
But Ile-Rien was dying and would drag Cineth and the Syrnai down with it in an effort to save itself.
Tremaine reached the docks just as Ander and his men were leaving in the accident boat. Pity I missed him, she thought dryly. One lifeboat remained, the one waiting to pick up her and the Syprians. She walked down the dock to it, scuffing her boots on the stone. The evening breeze was cool as it came off the water, heavy with the scent of the sea. There were torches lit along the front of the Arcade, where people were still cleaning up after the attack, flickering lamps casting warm shadows from the stalls inside. Merchants who had fled earlier were still arriving to see what was left of their stock. Some worked, some stood in groups, talking and shaking their heads. Someone was playing a drum nearby, maybe on one of the boats, the rhythm weaving in and out of the sound of water lapping against the docks.
Down at the other end of the Arcade the wrecked ships still lay. Here were moored small fishing boats, the bows all painted with the elongated eyes, the bare masts bobbing gently in the slow swells. The lifeboat, even with its engine, didn’t look all that incongruous among them. One of the Rienish sailors had hung up a couple of oil-burning hurricane lanterns to throw a little light on their area of the dock.
As she reached the boat Tremaine saw Visolela’s sister and representative Pasima arrive with Pella and a few other men and women Tremaine vaguely recognized from the council. Some were carrying leather packs or woven bags. Pasima wore a dark-colored wrap draped casually and pinned at her shoulder over pants tucked into boots and a shirt. Some of the others wore similar wraps, draped and pinned or tossed back over one shoulder; it managed to look both stylish and practical for adventuring. Tremaine looked down at herself, wondering why her own outfit didn’t look that good. Even in another world, she was terrible with clothes.
The group didn’t approach the boat but stood over by the torchlit façade of the Arcade, having a conversation that looked fairly grim even from a distance. Gyan and Kias appeared next, each with a small leather shoulder pack and a scabbarded sword slung across his back. They walked up to the boat and Tremaine helped them pass their belongings over to the sailors to be stowed away. Then Kias jumped down to explore the boat, to the mild consternation of the Rienish sailors. Gyan eyed the small group around Pasima. “That’s Pasima’s cousin Cletia, Cletia’s brother Cimarus, and their second cousins Danias and Sanior,??
? he explained to Tremaine.
Cletia was slight and blond, with long curls that fell past her shoulders, and looked delicate next to tall, raven-haired Pasima. Cimarus was the most striking of the three men, tall and dark-haired, his long braids neatly tied back, and he looked more like Pasima than he did his sister. Danias looked terribly young, his light brown hair tied back in a thick queue, and Sanior didn’t seem much older, though his face was set in a solemn expression. Trying to resign herself to their company, Tremaine said, “I’m surprised they convinced so many to come along.”
“Well, we don’t like to travel alone,” Gyan conceded. “And Pasima won’t be looking to any Andriens or their hangers-on—that’s me, Kias and Arites—for company.”
“The more the merrier.”
Gyan snorted amusement. “I don’t think we’ll be doing much merrymaking with them.” He shook his head with a sigh, saying, “I’m off to be the peacemaker,” and walked over to join them.
Behind Tremaine in the lifeboat the three Rienish sailors were talking about different ports they had visited. Two had Vienne accents and one had a thick hill country inflection, and their voices made an interesting backdrop for the scene. Watching Kias’s explorations, one commented, “It’s a damn sight better here than the southern Bisran colonies.”
“That’s certain. These people just avoid you; they don’t throw garbage.”
A lone figure came up the dock briskly with a bag slung over his shoulder. After a moment Tremaine recognized Arites. He grinned cheerfully at her as he reached the boat, saying, “Don’t worry, they’re on the way. They were saying good-bye to Karima and Halian when I left.”
“I wasn’t worrying.” Tremaine rubbed her hands off on her shirt and realized her palms were sweating again. Maybe she was worried. Maybe she thought a rational man as Ilias seemed to be would take the chance to escape. It would explain what her stomach was doing up in her throat.