The sun was fully up over the walls now and beating down on the damp, confined air of the canyon, raising clouds of steam from the mud and the smell of sweat from the oxen, and, Jay admitted ruefully, from him. He tossed his cape back over his shoulder to try to let some of the breeze reach him.
A fresh crosswind bore down out of Narroways and Jay had to swallow against his own bile. The wind carried the scent of spices, sure, and cooking food and burning tallow. But it also carried the scent of acrid smoke, rotting garbage, unwashed humans, and overworked animals, all mixed with the reek from unburied shit, both from the animals and their owners. The stench of the cities was yet another item on the long list of things he had never managed to get used to.
Finally, they drew up to the gates and Cor raised up her hands in the universal salute. The soldier looked at her marks, then at her warmth-reddened skin, then at her startling green eyes and yanked himself back.
“And the Nameless hold you dear, too,” she said sweetly and drove the sledge on through.
Despite its location, Narroways had not been built for traffic. The houses huddled shoulder to shoulder, eyeing each other across thread-thin, mud-paved streets. When the floods came, the residents simply slung rope-and-chain bridges from one roof to the next and went about their business.
As in most fixed towns, both business and living was done on the second floor. Shutters the size of doorways opened up from verandas to catch any breeze and light the day decided to give out. Merchants posted their children on the steps to sound off about what waited for sale inside and to tend the torches smoking the worst of the insects away from the doors.
Today the whole world seemed determined to cram itself into the streets. A dozen caravan traders had wedged animals and sleighs into cramped alleys while they bartered and traded insults with the fixed merchants. The accompanying mobs of soldiers and families spread through the streets. Their bold robes spilled color through the solid stream of rust and earth dyes worn by even the Noble born of Narroways. The hot wind wrapped itself around the jarring noise of too many people in too little space, picked up the smells of food, spices, perfumes, and sweat and mixed it all into a dense morass and spread it out again.
There was barely enough room for Cor to get the sledge through even the main streets and they raised a cloud of curses from the foot travelers as she tried. The city passed around them in a series of miniature plays. Ahead on the left, a Bonded woman argued spice prices with a peddler. To the right, two Bondless toasted each other with a crock of wine. A troop of soldiers on oxen splashed gutter filth on a cluster of Notouch and tossed loud obscenities at each other. An old man with a Teacher’s suns tattooed on his palms laid his hands on a child’s burned face while a woman in a saffron-colored cloak looked anxiously on. Jay heard the child’s gasp even over the babble of street noises.
Cor eased the sledge around a tight corner, and the High House slid into view.
The High House was an honorary name for the King’s dwelling. It squatted level with the other buildings behind its own set of carved walls. Even in broad daylight there were six guards at the gate. Cor shouted to them and they hauled back the iron gates to let the sledge through. The courtyard on the other side was empty. They saw no one until they pulled up to the stable. A couple of Bonded hustled the wagon indoors and Cor with them.
“Good luck.” She waved as she left Jay on his own.
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
The blood-warm rain started down before he was halfway across the courtyard. Jay ducked his head and hauled on his hood to try to keep himself dry. He peeked under the edge to get his bearings. The door lamp glimmered invitingly four feet above the courtyard.
A wind shear drove straight down out of the sky with such force that Jay staggered. He gripped the stair railings and struggled to climb up to the main doors.
This. This is what we’ve wandered for centuries to get back to. This is what we’re ready to go to war with our own kind over. He stumbled into the doorway. I swear, if I didn’t think they’d just abandon me here, I’d tell them we don’t want this place. Tell them it’s a dying, corroded heap of rocks. I swear the only reason I keep going is so that someone will get me off this forsaken world.
“My Lord Messenger,” said a man’s voice.
Jay straightened up. Your day-use name, the first of whatever series you might be lumbered with, was often not so much a name as a description. Jay’s was Messenger for the Skymen and the skinny, wrinkled man in front of him was Holding the Keys, King Silver’s chief secretary and step-and-fetch-it man. Next to him stood a Bonded boy carrying a basin of steaming water in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. A clean towel was slung over his arm.