The crew shouted, though not as loudly as their captain, and Tapasi leaned over the railing to look for damage.
“What happened?” Rodrick said. “Did we hit a rock?”
She shook her head. “There are no rocks in the harbor. The elementals cleared them all centuries ago.” She leaned out even farther and pointed. “Look there, cracks in the hull!” Several nearby sailors heard her and clustered around the rail to look.
Rodrick reluctantly leaned over himself, and saw two dozen cracks, most thin but several as big as a fingerwidth, long and jagged, showing blackness. The cracks were above the waterline … but there could be more below that he couldn’t see. As he watched, some of the cracks widened, the wood groaning. If the boat wasn’t taking on water already, it would be soon. Something about the cracks was strange, though. They didn’t quite look right—
Oh. For one thing, the wood was splintered outward, as if some force had struck the hull from within.
And for another, the cracks were radiating out from the spot where Rodrick’s cabin was. That was bad for a big reason and a little reason. He shouted the little reason—“My gold could fall into the sea!”—and then raced belowdecks, shoving past the crew who got in the way and thudding down the tilted ladder, tearing open the door to his cabin. The cracks grew wider as he watched, and some indeed extended below the waterline. There was enough seepage to provide a steady trickle of seawater into the room, and he splashed through growing puddles as he entered.
Bits of the first mate’s shattered shrine were floating in the water, as if it had been struck with a hammer and then scattered by a wind, but Hrym was still resting on the chest atop the gold coins. The blankets on the bed were shredded, like they’d been attacked by a flurry of knives. Or struck by a blast of icicles.
That was the big reason. Hrym must have had another of his fits, his episodes, his bad turns, and this time, his icy eruption had struck the hull hard enough to splinter the wood. If Rodrick didn’t move quickly, this fit could end with this ship on the bottom of the harbor.
He rushed to the sword’s side. “Hrym, what happened?” He picked up the weapon, alarmed at the threads of flashing red in the blade, but the color vanished a moment after his hand touched the hilt.
“Wha?” Hrym’s voice was vague, distant. “I was—was I—what’s going on?”
“There are cracks in the boat,” Rodrick said. “Well, they’re cracks now. I’m pretty sure they’ll be holes soon. I don’t want to be on a boat full of holes, Hrym.”
“Oh,” Hrym said. “Let’s fix them, then.”
Rodrick pointed the sword toward the cracks, and a wave of cold swirled out from the crystalline blade. The sea water on the floor froze first, and the ice crept up the water toward the cracks, sealing them by freezing the very water they were letting in. Ribbons and streamers of ice crawled across the network of cracks until they were all sealed with patches of shimmering magical ice. It was pretty, in a way. Not that Rodrick expected the captain to think so.
The wall groaned, the sudden cold making some of the wood contract, but the ice held, less prone to cracking than the nonmagical variety. The broken bits of the shrine and the book of Vudrani fairy tales he’d been reading were all partially encased in ice on the floor, but at least they weren’t on the bottom of the sea. Rodrick wondered how narrowly they’d averted disaster—how soon those cracks would have become holes, and those drips torrents—and was glad he didn’t know more about the breaking point of ship hulls. Sometimes ignorance was a balm to the troubled mind.
“It seems you’ve saved my ship again, Rodrick.”
He turned to see Saraswati standing in his doorway, the first mate goggling behind her, and Tapasi not far behind. Rodrick gave the captain a smile and took a deep bow. “Always a pleasure to—”
“I am curious about what damaged my ship in the first place, though. There are no rocks we could have run ourselves onto, and no creatures of the sea that could do that kind of damage, at least not this close to the harbor.” Her voice was as cold as Hrym on his worst day.
“Iceberg,” Hrym said suddenly. “They form, sometimes, great jagged rocks of ice, just floating along, and they’ve sunk many ships.”
Saraswati frowned. “Icebergs? In the Obari Ocean? This isn’t the northern Steaming Sea!”
“What else could it be?” Hrym said, irritable as an old man jostled early from his nap.
Saraswati shook her head. “I don’t know. I know that ice is just a patch, and it will cost more than I’d like to pay to fix the hull permanently.” She looked at Rodrick thoughtfully.
“You know,” he said, “it strikes me as unfair that I shouldn’t pay anything for my passage, even as a guest of the thakur. Please, let me thank you for your hospitality and kindness on the voyage.” He scooped up a generous handful of coins from the chest, ignoring Hrym’s squawk, and pressed them into the captain’s hands.
She looked at the coins, then at Hrym, before grunting. “You clearly have no idea how expensive it is to fix a ship.”
Rodrick smiled blandly. “Since the damage was done while you were in the service of the thakur, surely he’ll be happy to reimburse you for any costs above and beyond my contribution?”
She gave him a long look, and Rodrick suspected she was trying to decide whether to try for the rest of his gold. He clearly wasn’t going to part with it willingly, though, and since he was holding Hrym, he didn’t think she’d try it by force. She shook her head, and didn’t look at Rodrick again before disappearing above, followed by her mate.
Tapasi leaned in the doorway. “This is all very strange.” She gazed at the lacework of ice on the hull. Maybe she thought it was pretty, too. Rodrick felt she was something of a kindred spirit, though it was possible he just felt that way because he wanted to see her with no clothes on.
“I thought Jalmeray was famed for its strangeness?”
“Not this kind of strange. Well, no permanent harm done. Would you like to go above and watch as we come into the port? I think the captain wants you off her ship, but I’m grateful to you for saving us, and would enjoy more moments of your company.”
Rodrick quickly packed his few belongings and slipped Hrym into the scabbard at his waist, hesitating only a moment as he did so. If the sword had another fit, would he blow holes in Rodrick, ones that couldn’t be so easily patched? A terrifying thought. But the fits didn’t usually come one right after another. He had to admit that ignoring his friend’s problem was no longer a viable strategy. Jalmeray was supposed to be full of scholars from the Impossible Kingdoms and all over the Inner Sea as well. Perhaps one of them would know of a cure. But what if the only cure involved Hrym’s destruction? People looked at him and saw a sword, albeit a wondrous one, but to Rodrick, Hrym was a person—indeed, he was more of a person than many of the more conventionally people-shaped persons Rodrick had met.
He went upstairs, pouch in his pocket jingling with gold—albeit less than before, wasn’t that always the way—pack on his back, sword on his hip, ready to go forth and seek his fortune again, ideally before Saraswati figured out for sure that Hrym had damaged her ship. He didn’t think she’d do anything drastic, not when the thakur wanted to see him, but having an enemy in a foreign land was never a good idea, and enemies who’d once been friends were the worst. A double handful of women he’d slept with had turned into implacable enemies over the years, and he had no desire to increase that number.
Luckily, Saraswati was busy shouting commands as the crew bustled about. He joined Tapasi at the railing near the bow and watched in wonder as a water elemental glided into view, shaped vaguely like a fat human, big as an ox. The churning, wave-tossed water before them turned smooth as fine glass, and the elemental gestured, seeming to shepherd them in. A sudden strong current bore the Nectar of the Gods toward an open berth, where it was soon nestled among other ships. Members of the crew jumped from the deck and began tying ropes to wooden posts and doing other maritime things.
“I must go to the temple and make gifts to She Who Guides the Wind and the Waves in thanks for our successful journey.” Tapasi squeezed Rodrick’s arm in a companionable way. “It has been … interesting knowing you, Rodrick. Perhaps we will meet again, if you survive whatever use the thakur has for you.”
“Cheerful,” he muttered as she walked away.
“So it wasn’t interesting knowing me?” Hrym grumbled. “I’m far more interesting than you. Infinitely. Categorically.”
“You weren’t very sociable on the voyage. I’m sure if she’d been exposed to your charms she would have liked you better than me.”
“Possibly,” Hrym said. “She seemed like a fairly sensible woman, after all.”
The captain strode across the deck toward them, and Rodrick put on his best smile. Saraswati stood before him, hands on her hips, glaring, then reached out and put her hands on his shoulders, pulling him close for a kiss as deep as any she’d given him in her cabin. She looked into his eyes, afterward, still holding his shoulders. “You made the voyage interesting, I’ll give you that much.”
Interesting. Two women had called him that in the space of minutes. It wasn’t his favorite adjective—he preferred “dashing” or “irresistible” or “virile”—but it was better than “treacherous” or “cheating” or “bastard.” Except “bastard” wasn’t an adjective, was it? Did he mean “bastardly”? “Bastardish”?
“You made the journey into a voyage of delights, Saraswati. If you’d like, I’ll see if I can wrangle an invite to the palace for you, perhaps a seat at a feast—”
“May the gods preserve me!” she said. “No, leave me out of your entanglements, please. The gold is recompense enough for the difficulties you brought along with you.” She frowned. “Is your sword … safe? For you, I mean? There are no icebergs in this harbor, Rodrick.”
“I’m perfectly safe!” Hrym said. “Unless I don’t want to be. I don’t know what put a hole in your boat, but it wasn’t me.”
Saraswati’s eyes widened a bit at Hrym’s voice, which was rather loud and emphatic, but she kept her gaze on Rodrick.
“We’ll be fine, Captain. I hope the repairs go smoothly, and, ah, may the wind and the waves be kind.”
“Yes, yes. Get off my ship. I’m told there’s a man from the palace waiting for you on the deck, and he doesn’t look like a servant, so best not keep him waiting.”
A representative of the thakur, then. Rodrick was glad he’d dressed in his best shirt and breeches—a shame the cuffs of the latter were damp from swirling seawater, but it couldn’t be helped. He started toward the gangplank, walking with as much swagger as he had in him, hoping to give an impression of arrogant nobility that was spoiled only slightly when Saraswati swatted him playfully on the rear.
He’d expected Jalmeray to be terribly hot, but it was actually quite temperate, cool ocean breezes taking the bite out of what heat there was. The docks didn’t even smell bad. Most of the people bustling around the harbor wore flowing garments in light colors, with silk appearing as often as linen. Billowing trousers and vests embroidered in jewel tones were common on the men, some of whom wore turbans, while the women were a more varied sort, some wearing veils and robes that covered nearly all their skin, others wearing what seemed little more than arrangements of innumerable diaphanous scarves. Several women had rings in their noses, as some of the female crew had, and many people had numerous earrings, men and women both, along with bracelets and necklaces of gold and other precious metals. Rodrick wondered if they dressed according to caste, or the gods they worshiped, or merely personal whim. What skin he could see ranged from coppery to almost black, and he thought he must be the palest person in Niswan, at least here on the docks. One of the tallest, too. As he’d suspected, this would be a difficult place to remain anonymous, so if he did anything villainous, he’d better do it so subtly he wasn’t noticed.
One man stood at the end of the gangplank, the flow of people working and walking parting around him, as if he were surrounded by an invisible armed guard. Who knew? Maybe he was. Many elementals could be invisible if they chose, couldn’t they?
The man’s mustache and beard were black and carefully groomed, his eyes dark and piercing. His vest was embroidered in golden thread, and the arms crossed over his chest bulged with muscles accentuated by golden armbands. He looked quite a bit like the djinni who’d summoned Rodrick, though he had legs in those billowing white trousers instead of a vortex of wind.
He inclined his head a fraction. “I am Nagesh, an advisor to the thakur. On his behalf, I welcome you to Niswan.” From the fierceness of his countenance, Rodrick had expected a harsh voice, but it was smooth as oil, and the man smiled ingratiatingly, though his dark eyes never changed. He gave a slight bow, which Rodrick returned as naturally as he could manage. He’d always been adept at picking up local customs. Part of the tendency toward helpful camouflage that probably wouldn’t be so helpful here, where he stood out so much physically.
“I’m Rodrick. And the fellow on my hip is Hrym.”
“May I … see him?” Nagesh said.
“If I won’t get in trouble for drawing a sword here.” There were some cities where showing bare steel (or bare enchanted ice) would get you arrested.
Nagesh waved his hand, unconcerned. “No, no. Many of the most dangerous people in Jalmeray have no need of weapons, and can defeat your armored knights of Absalom with their bare hands—the Houses of Perfection are very thorough in their teachings. We do not worry about the display of weapons on the streets, as long as you don’t seek to threaten our citizens.”
Rodrick reached down and drew Hrym from the scabbard, displaying the blade in all his glittering glory. “Say hello to the nice man, Hrym.”
“Hello, nice man,” Hrym said.
“The stories are true,” Nagesh murmured. He bowed again. “I am honored to meet you, Hrym.”
There’d been no mention of honor when it came to meeting Rodrick, but he was used to being outshone by his more sparkling companion. He put the sword away, though Hrym squawked at being sheathed again. Too bad. Rodrick had a pack on his back, and he wasn’t going to walk around holding an obviously magical blade in his hand, no matter what this advisor said. “Nagesh, I was humbled to receive the thakur’s invitation. I can’t imagine why he went to such trouble to bring me here. May I ask the purpose of this summons?”
“All will be explained when you meet him. If you are tired from your journey, I can have you taken to the palace in a litter. Unless you’d like to see a bit of the city first? Many find it worthy of attention.”
“I wouldn’t mind the chance to walk on solid land for a while. Bobbing around in a litter might be too much like bobbing around on a ship, and I’ve had enough of that. If there’s no hurry, that is.”
“The thakur will receive you this evening. There is time to walk, and rest, in the meantime.” He gestured for Rodrick to follow, and began moving along at a brisk pace.
“You speak the common tongue of my homeland very well,” Rodrick said, falling into step beside him. “The crew on the ship does, too. Is it spoken widely here?”
“Not by everyone, no. Those who sail must be able to trade with those they meet, of course. And I have spent enough time abroad to learn several languages. Many at court speak only the tongues of the Vudrani, and though the thakur knows your speech, he prefers our own; he says yours is ill-suited to poetry. Here.” He reached into a pocket and drew out a silver chain with a dangling medallion, etched with the face of a figure with two eyes, one nose, and four mouths, all open. “This amulet will aid your understanding, and allow you to speak the most common of our dialects.”
Rodrick slipped it over his neck. He’d used translating magics before. “Can you comprehend me?” Nagesh asked, and apart from a faint echo of unintelligible speech, he sounded as clear as before.
“I can.”
Nagesh grunted. “Your accent is not perfect, but it will serve.”
“To be serviceable is my greatest aspiration.”
The man frowned at him, but Rodrick just kept blandly smiling. Something about the man rubbed him the wrong way—perhaps just his excessive dignity, which Rodrick naturally wanted to puncture.
The streets were winding, which helped offset how steep they were, and soon they’d left the docks behind. The broad red avenues were lined by shops selling rugs and fine pottery and herbs and weapons and clothes, but also by temples, which ranged from tiny one-monk places squeezed into alleyways with only a bronze statue and an offering plate, to gilded pagodas as big as palaces, with ranks of monks spinning prayer wheels or chanting. Even the servants sweeping the streets here wore ornaments of gold, and in all the place smelled of wealth as no other city in Rodrick’s experience ever had. Even if he assumed Nagesh was taking him on a path deliberately chosen to highlight the glories of Niswan, it was impressive.
They paused at a square where several men and women dressed in flowing white moved together in unison, bowing and twisting and kneeling and bending and standing on one leg and reaching up toward the sun, following the motions of a leader who hummed a repeating syllable endlessly.
“An exercise to strengthen the body and focus the mind,” Nagesh said. “Perhaps you could try it during your visit. Many find it very restful.”
They continued on, but Rodrick paused soon after at another open square, this one full of bare-chested men in yellow trousers and women dressed similarly, though they had on tight, midriff-baring tops of the same yellow. They tumbled and whirled about as adroitly as any acrobat Rodrick had ever seen, but this wasn’t just a display of balance and athleticism: they were hitting each other, or trying to, and grabbing one another, flinging and rolling and springing up to strike again, legs and fists in a flurry of motion. An old woman with a long stick stood atop a short stone pillar, occasionally shouting instructions or insults or—very rarely—praise.
“They are from the Houses of Perfection?” Rodrick said.
Nagesh shook his head. “No. The monasteries are elsewhere. These students are far more raw, though the best of them will doubtless seek entry to the monasteries in time.”
Rodrick could only shake his head in wonder. They all looked sufficiently formidable to him. He could only imagine what the students at the monasteries—let alone their masters—could do. He followed Nagesh again, this time along a street steep enough that every step made his calves burn, which abruptly leveled out into an open-air market, scores of tables set up under canopies of silk and coarser cloth. Not as fancy as the shops they’d passed before, but bustling with activity, noisy with hawkers shouting about the quality of their wares, which encompassed everything from fine cloth to handmade brooms to mouth-watering skewers of grilled mushrooms. The air was a riot of smells, all wonderful. Rodrick realized he hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before, and Nagesh seemed to take note of his sniffing.
“You are hungry? There will be a feast at the palace, but in the meantime, perhaps one of these humble places serves something suitable.” He strolled along a row of booths devoted to cookery, passing by several that seemed more than adequate to Rodrick, offering bowls of stew and lumpy potato cakes and plates of curious yellow rice and bits of fish in sauces that were creamy or red and so spiced they made his eyes water just from catching a passing whiff. There were other non-Vudrani people here, he noticed, some as pale as himself, many with Taldan coloring, others who might have been Osirian, and even a devilkin, doubtless from Cheliax, with bluish skin and tiny horns, arguing with a seller of delicate glassware about a price. A blue-eyed woman with short blonde hair, dressed in dark leather from head to toe, eyed him intently for a moment before disappearing down another row of tents.
“This will do.” Nagesh stopped at a booth that seemed no different from any other, except for the unusually long line of people waiting before it. Nagesh ignored them all and walked to the front, and the person already standing there in mid-order bowed and moved away. Nagesh took no notice of their deference, and the round-cheeked man at the booth smiled widely while wringing his hands in what Rodrick took as an unconscious sign of worry. Did that mean Nagesh was known as a dangerous man, or merely a powerful one? “How may I be of service?”
“Two of the kebabs, and two lassis.”
The man bowed, then skewered chunks of mushroom and grilled onion and some yellow fruit on wooden sticks as long as Rodrick’s forearm and handed them over, followed by wooden cups full of something orange-yellow and sweet-smelling. Rodrick sipped his carefully, and his mouth filled with creamy sweetness, redolent with some strange fruit—it was like a pudding, but lighter. “Delicious!”
Nagesh nodded gravely and turned away from the booth, not bothering to pay. Rodrick wondered if he had an account of some kind with the cook, or if the thakur’s advisors simply got to eat free. Being powerful had its perks.
He took bites of the mushroom, grilled and lightly spiced, and felt his energy come surging back as he matched pace with the advisor. They passed out of the market square, and he saw the blonde in dark leathers again, watching him from the top of a wall up the hill, this time. She was more severe than pretty, but any woman who showed such interest was worth a second considering look—alas, she hurried away again when she noticed him looking. Perhaps she was captivated by his handsomeness, but if so, why not give him a smile? If he’d had Hrym on his back, he would have assumed she was staring at that, but with him hidden away in a scabbard … She was probably just gaping at the fellow foreigner, or perhaps she recognized Nagesh’s rank and wondered why he was walking with a swordsman wearing saltwater-stained trousers.
“This way.” Nagesh beckoned, turning down a narrower street, and they marched uphill again, emerging on yet another level stretch—this was a city of tiers, it seemed. This area was even more full of temples—seemingly nothing but—with an open square dominated by a pair of those towering statues, one a man holding aloft great spheres that glowed with inner light, one a woman whose eight outstretched hands all held real dancing flames, blue and red and white and yellow.
“Welcome to the High-Holy District,” Nagesh began, but before he could expound on its virtues someone nearby screamed, and a horse someone had apparently doused in lamp oil and set on fire came bolting out of a side street, running straight for Rodrick.