That was as far as he got. They both heard running footsteps in the corridor outside, and a panting Mika came to the open door. “Good,” he said. “You’re both here. There’s news. Bad news, I’m afraid. It’s the Regent. Sergei. The Council of Ca’ has ordered him to be taken. He’s in the Bastida.”
Eneas cu’Kinnear
S O FAR BELOW HIM that it looked like a child’s toy on a lake, Stormcloud rode at anchor in the sunlight, sitting easily on the startlingly blue water of the deep harbor of Karnmor. Eneas walked the steep, winding streets of the city, reveling in the feel of solid ground under his feet again and enjoying the wide vistas the city offered. He wished he were a painter so that he could capture the pink-white buildings bright under a cloud-dappled sky, the deep azure of the harbor and the white-capped green of the Strettosei beyond it, the brilliant hues of the flags and banners, the flower boxes that hung from every window, the exotic clothes of those in the streets-though a painting could never capture the rest: the thousands of smells that flirted with the nose, or the taste of salt in the air, or the feel of the warm westerly breeze, or the sound of his sandals on the finely-crushed rock that paved Karnor’s streets.
The main city of Karnor-Eneas had never understood why Karnmor’s capital had been saddled with such a similar name-had been built on the rising flanks of the long-slumbering volcano that overshadowed the harbor, many of its buildings carved from the rock itself. Beyond the arms of the harbor, the Strettosei stretched unbroken out to the horizon, and from the heights of Mt. Karnmor, one could look eastward over the green expanse of the huge island and see, faintly, the blue band near the horizon that was the Nostrosei. Not far beyond that narrow sea lay the wide mouth of the River A’Sele, and perhaps thirty leagues up the river: Nessantico.
Munereo and the Hellins seemed far away, a distant lost dream. Karnmor and its smaller sister islands were part of North Nessantico. He was nearly home.
Eneas had to admit that Karnmor was still foreign in many ways. Its original inhabitants were mainly sea-people: fishermen and traders, their skin darkened by the sun and their tongues soft with strange accents, though they now spoke the language of Nessantico, their original tongue nearly forgotten except in a few small villages on its southern flank. The interior of the island was still largely wild, with impenetrable jungles along whose paths beasts of legend yet walked. In Karnor’s streets, one might find spice traders from Namarro, or merchants from Sforzia or Paeti, and the goods of the Hellins came here first. If you can’t find it in Karnor, it doesn’t exist. That was the saying, and to a large extent, it was true-though he had heard the same claim of Nessantico. Still, Karnor was the true nexus for sea trade throughout the Strettosei.
Not surprisingly, the markets of Karnor were legendary. Spreading along what was called the Third Level of the city-the second of the terraces sculpted into the mountain-one could walk all day among the stalls and never reach the end. That was where Eneas found himself drawn, though he didn’t quite know why. After the long voyage, he thought he would have wanted nothing more than to rest, but though he’d reported to the garrison of Karnor and been assigned a room in the offizier’s quarters, he’d found himself restless and unable to relax. He’d gone walking, winding up the levels to the Third, and moving from stall to stall curiously. Here there were odd purple fruits that smelled like rotten meat but tasted-as he nibbled with wrinkled nose at the sample the vendor gave him-sweet and wonderful, or herbs guaranteed, according to the seller, to increase a man’s vitality and a woman’s sexual appetite. There were knife sellers, farmers with their vegetables, bolts of cloth both local and foreign, papers and inks, charms and jewelry, carved toys, fine woods, musical instruments plucked or blown or hammered upon. Eneas listened to a drab gray bird in a wooden cage whose plaintive song sounded eerily like the voice of a young boy, the words of the song perfectly understandable; he touched furs softer than the finest damask when stroked one way, and yet whose tips would pierce skin if rubbed in the other direction; he examined dried, framed butterflies whose glistening wings were wider than his own spread arms, dusted with iridescent, powdery gold and a blood-red skull drawn in the center of each wing.
Eneas eventually found himself standing before the stall of a chemist, the colored powders and liquids arrayed in glass jars on dangerously teetering shelves. He leaned close to a jar of white crystals, letting his forefinger run across the label glued onto the glass. Niter, the coppery handwriting proclaimed. The word seemed to crawl on the paper, and prickles like tiny lightnings ran from his fingertip up his arm to his chest. He could barely breathe with the feel of it. “It’s the finest you’ll come across,” a voice said, and Eneas straightened guiltily and snatched his hand back, seeing the proprietor-a thin man with discolored skin dappling his face and arms-watching him from across the board that served for a table. “Gathered from the roof and walls of the deep caves near Kasama, and as pure as you can get. Are you afflicted with bad teeth, Offizier? A few applications of this and you can drink all the hot tea you like and your teeth will give you no complaint at all.”
Eneas nodded. He blinked. He wanted to touch the jar again, but he forced his hand to remain at his side. You need this… The words came wrapped in the deep voice of Cenzi. He nodded in answer; that felt right. He needed this, though he didn’t know why. “I’d like two stones’ worth.”
“Two stones…” The proprietor leaned back, chuckling. “Friend, does the entire garrison have sensitive teeth, or are you preserving meat for a battalion? All you need is a packet…”
“Two stones,” Eneas insisted. “Can you do it? How much? A se’siqil?” He tapped the pouch tied to his belt.
The chemist was still shaking his head. “I can’t get that much of the Kasama, but I have a good source from South Isle that’s nearly as good. Two stones…” One eyebrow raised on his thin, blotchy face. “A full siqil,” he said. “I can’t do it for less.”
At any other time, Eneas would have haggled. With persistence, he no doubt could have purchased the niter for his original offer or a few folias more. But there was an impatience inside him. It burned hot in his chest, a fire that only Cenzi could have started. He prayed silently, internally. Whatever You want of me, I will do. The black sand, I will create it for You… Eneas untied his purse, brought out two se’siqils and handed the coins to the man without argument. The chemist shook his head, frowning as he rubbed the coins between his fingers. “Some people have more money than sense,” he muttered as he turned around.
Not long after, Eneas was hurrying away from the Third Level toward the garrison with a heavy package.
Jan ca’Vorl
He’d been with other women before. But he’d never wanted any of them as much as he wanted Elissa.
That’s what he told himself, in any case.
She intrigued him. Yes, she was attractive, but she was certainly no more so-and probably less classically beautiful-than half of the young court ladies who clustered around Fynn and Jan at every chance. Her eyes were her best feature: those eyes of pale blue ice that contrasted so much with her dark hair: piercing eyes that could show a laugh before her mouth released it, or dart poisonous glances toward her rivals. She had an unconscious grace that the other women lacked for the most part, a lean muscularity that hinted at hidden strength and agility.
“She comes from good stock,” was Fynn’s assessment. “You could do worse. She’ll give you a dozen healthy babies if you want them.”
Jan wasn’t thinking about babies. Not yet. He wanted her. Just her. He thought that perhaps tonight, it might finally happen.
Every night since Fynn’s ascension to the Hirzg’s throne, there had been a party in the upper hall of Brezno Palais. Fynn would issue the invitations through Roderigo, his aide: always to the same small group of young women and men, nearly all of them of ca’ rank. There would be card games (at which Fynn would often lose heavily and not happily), and dancing, and general drunken revelry until early in the morning hours. Jan was always invited; so was Elissa. He found himself near her more and more often, as if (as his matarh had hinted) he were indeed a bee drawn to her particular flower.