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Corayne’s heart pounded as an Ibalet ship sailed up alongside them, her deck crowded with fine sailors in light, airy silk the color of blue mist. They had no use for real armor, both on the waves and in the southern heat. Ibalet’s sailors were talented swimmers and swordsmen. Heavy plate would only slow them down. Like Sorasa’s, their swords and daggers shone bronze, gleaming in the daylight, an open show of strength.
The navigator met with the Ibalet captain, his purse and papers clutched in his fist. Judging by the way the navigator spoke, his hands curling and undulating in rolling paths, Corayne guessed he spoke of the serpent. It was enough to give the captain pause, and he barely rifled through their forged papers. He glanced over the crew still ragged from battle but did not linger. Not even for Sigil, clearly not of Tyri descent, nor Valtik, better suited to the grave than a trade vessel.
It only took a few moments to be on their way again, sailing for the Ibalet coast.
The grand city of Almasad followed.
Ibal was a land veiled in soft light, made hazy by the sun dipping in the west. The coast was green, lined with massive palm trees and succulent gardens, verdant as any forest of the north. Corayne marveled. The banks were thick with reeds and pale blue lotus along sandy beaches. A line of yellow glimmered on the horizon, where the dunes began. Villages and cities clung to the coastline, on cliffs or at the waterside, growing larger with every passing mile. Fishermen teemed in the shallows. Boats moved along the coast like carts upon a Cor road, ranging from war galleys to little skiffs poling through the shallows.
Then Almasad appeared out of the shimmering air, the port city fanning out on either side of the mighty Ziron. This wasn’t Ibal’s capital, but it was marvelous anyway, filled with sandstone monuments and gleaming pillars of limestone. The river was too wide for bridges, and barges crossed it like ants crawling back and forth. As Sorasa said, its cothon put Ascal’s to shame. The circular docks for the navy was a city itself, walled and patrolled by sailors in water silks. Corayne tried to count the dozens of ships in port, but could hardly keep up with the many sails and glimmering flags of Ibal and her fleets.
Raised causeways ridged the city like the arms of a sunbeam, carrying both freshwater and travelers through the many sectors of Almasad. They were not like the ruins of Old Cor, broken and chipped away. The limestone gleamed white under the sun, bright as a shooting star. Palatial compounds, citadels, and paved plazas ran along either side of the riverbank, patterned in soft yellow, green, and bright blue. A royal palace sat on the only hill, surrounded by sandstone walls and towers tipped in winking silver. It looked down on the Ziron, its many windows and balconies empty. As Corayne knew, the royal court of Ibal was not here or even in the grander capital. They were farther south, in the mountains, hiding or biding their time.They know something is wrong,she thought, clenching her teeth.
Statues of ancient kings flanked the river, taller than a cathedral spire, their faces worn by the ages. The galley passed through their shadows, cast for thousands of years.
“Are those emperors?” Corayne said at the rail, looking on them with wonder. As in Siscaria, as in Galland, the ancient empire ruled here once. She searched their facades, looking for some hint of her father, of herself. But found none. “Old Cor?”
Sorasa leaned into the warm wind, looking at the water, not the bank. “Do those look like northern conquerors to you?” she said with a proud smile.
Indeed, the statues did not, their features and clothing different from any emperor across the Long Sea. Each sat astride a fine stallion, with a cloak of patterned silk and peacock feathers.They looked more like my mother, Corayne thought, seeing the same lips and cheekbones.
Leaning into the warm breeze, Sorasa straightened her spine. Whatever fear she felt at returning to her home seemed to disappear. “Ibal was born before Cor and still lives long after it died.”
For certain, Ibal was trulyalive. Different parts of the riverbank crowded with boats or splashing children or the knobbled form of a crocodile. Long-necked white birds flapped overhead, hunting shining copper fish. People traveled the causeways on foot or carriage or horseback, fading into the distance in every direction. The Ibalets of the coast were golden, their faces a prism of color in every shade of sunlight. Those from the south and east were darker, their faces the rich, reddish color of carnelian or black jet. They hailed from farther lands—Sapphire Bay, Kasa, or even distant Niron, a kingdom nestled in the Forest of Rainbows. Their voices rose in every language of the south, some familiar to Corayne, some foreign as Ishei.
Where Ascal stank and overwhelmed, a riot upon the senses, Almasad was a balm. The air was sweet, perfumed by the lotus gardens adorning the Ziron. Music drifted through the streets, from performers in their plazas or private homes along the river. And the water itself ran clean, not like the fetid canals of Queen Erida’s capital. Corayne almost wanted to dive into the water as they eased toward shore, the clear green current inviting as any fine bath.
Another inspector met their ship at the docks. Corayne thought of Galeri back in Lemarta, bribes jingling in his pockets, his ledger full of falsehoods. The Ibalet officer seemed far more alert, her light, cream-colored clothing set with several badges of office looped together with gold chain.
Again, the navigator took up the captain’s mantle and met the officer as the crew unloaded in the usual chaos. The pair went over their surviving cargo, inspecting crates.
Corayne and the others gathered at the rail, watching the traffic below. Another galley was in port beside them, looking worse for wear, with torn sails and snapped oars sticking out like the quills of a porcupine. It listed to one side, leaning drunkenly, while its crew disembarked as swiftly as they could.
Corayne read the ship.Sardosi, black-and-white sails—a grain galley. The crew hastily rolled great barrels onto the dock, lest the ship sink right then and there with all its cargo.
“This is going to be a mess,” she said in a low voice, looking to Dom and Andry at her side. “Dock officers care more about cargo than passengers. We can give them the slip, move in pairs.”
Another barrel bounced down the gangplank, landing hard. After a second, its wood hoops burst, the barrel splitting open with a hiss of shifting grain. Both crews, well as the Ibalet officer and her inspection team, shouted in dismay.
On the rail, Sorasa slipped a slingshot back into her belt, her expression open and blank. “You first,” she said, grabbing Corayne by the arm. “Meet at the Red Pillar, thetakhan,” she added to the rest, nodding at the impossibly tall obelisk rising from the city skyline. It was only half a mile away, Corayne judged, but through the densest part of the city.
Dom fell in at her shoulder, his bulk like a solid, comforting wall. Together, they marched her down the gangplank as the opposite galley groaned, her port side sinking fast.
The Ibalet officer did not stop them, her hands more than full as another barrel cracked open like a broken egg. They made it up the dock splits and onto the main plaza, retreating into the crowded port district. Flowers bloomed from seemingly every window and empty corner, with low stone pots of sweet-smelling oil and fat candles set at intervals. An ingenious way to combat the horrid smells of a city.
Sorasa knew the way and led them in a beeline, the Red Pillar dead ahead through the maze of clay and stone buildings. Weary travelers passed by, seeking stone-walled inns or cool courtyards shaded with trees. Despite the many taverns and wine bars, Corayne noted very few drunks or beggars. The Almasad streets were kept remarkably clean, both by sweepers and roving patrols of soldiers in silk and mail.
They passed a fish market with a rainbow of stalls, each one selling a different catch from the Ibalet coast and the winding Ziron. Corayne recognized most—oily catfish, massive river carp, crocodile tale, spiny puffers. Her heart thumped at the shadow of a curling tentacle, displayed proudly by a muscular fisherman. But it was only the arms of an octopus, inky black. The sea monsters of the Spindle had not made it here.
Sandwiched between Dom and Sorasa, Corayne heaved a breath. For a split second, she was back in front of her cottage, beneath the blue night of a Siscarian summer. The road lay before her, begging to be walked.
Her choice was already made.
Valtik and Andry trailed at a distance, the squire easy to pick out. He was nearly a head taller than most and darker-skinned than the Ibalets, not to mention dressed like a northerner. While most Ibalets wore flowing robes and head coverings to combat the heat and sun, Andry still had his tunic and leather leggings, with a cloak over his shoulder. Nodding, he met Corayne’s eye before she turned a corner, losing sight of him.
She blinked, confused, as another face stared out at her.
Her own.
