9

Compared to Cenaria, Caernarvon was paradise. There were no Warrens here, no stark division of have and have-not, no occupying army, no stench of ash and death, no vacant stares of despair. The capital of Waeddryn had flourished under an unbroken line of twenty-two queens.

Twenty-two queens. The thought was strange to Kylar, until he realized that Momma K had ruled the Sa’kagé and the streets of Cenaria for more than twenty years.

“State your business,” the gate guard said, eyeing their wagon. The people here were taller than Cenarians, and Kylar had never seen so many with blue eyes or with such bright hair—every color from almost white to fiery red.

“I buy and sell medicinal herbs. We’ve come here to start an apothecary,” Kylar said.

“Where from?”

“Cenaria.”

The guard looked pensive. “Heard things are real bad there. If you’re setting up shop on the south side, be careful. There’s some tough neighborhoods down …” he trailed off as he caught sight of the scars on Elene’s face.

Faster than he would have thought possible, Kylar was furious. Elene’s scars were all that marred otherwise perfect beauty. A brilliant smile, deep brown eyes that defied the boring plainness of the word brown, eyes that only a poet could adequately describe and only a legion of bards adequately praise, skin that begged to be touched and curves that demanded it. With all that, how can he only see scars? But saying anything would only cause a scene. The guard blinked. “Uh, go on,” he said.

“Thanks.” Kylar wasn’t worried about Caernarvon’s Sa’kagé. They were strictly small time: mugging, picking pockets, street prostitution, and gambling on the dog fights and bull baiting. Some brothels and gambling dens actually stayed in business without being affiliated with them. Kylar’s childhood street gang was more organized than the crime here.

They drove through the city, gawking at the people and the sights like bumpkins. Caernarvon sat at the confluence of the Wy, the Red, and the Blackberry rivers, and its streets were bursting with commerce and the multiplicity of people who flowed with the money. They passed olive-skinned, strong-featured Sethi wearing short loose trousers and white tunics, red-haired Ceurans with their two swords and their odd fashion of braiding multicolored locks of hair into their own, a few Ladeshians, and even an almond-eyed Ymmuri. They made a game of it, surreptitiously pointing and trying to guess who was from where.

“How about him?” Uly asked, pointing at a nondescript man in plain woolens. Kylar scowled.

“Yes, let’s hear it, hotshot,” Elene said, wearing an impish grin. “And don’t point, Uly.” The man had no distinguishing characteristics. No tattoos, standard tunic and trousers for Caernarvon, brown hair cut short, no Modaini patrician nose, nothing distinctive; even his fairly tan skin that could have come from half a dozen countries. “Ah,” Kylar said. “Alitaeran.”

“Prove it,” Elene said.

“Only Alitaerans look that smug.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Ask him,” Kylar said.

Elene shook her head, sinking back, suddenly shy.

“Hey, master!” Uly shouted as their wagon rolled past him. “Where ya from?”

“Uly!” Elene said, mortified.

The man turned and drew himself to his full height. “I hail from Alitaera, by the grace of the God the greatest nation in all Midcyru.”

“The gods, you mean,” the Waeddryner he was bargaining with said.

“No, unlike you Waeddryner dogs, Alitaerans say what they mean,” the merchant said, and in a moment they were arguing about religion and politics and Uly was forgotten.

“I am pretty amazing,” Kylar said.

Elene groaned. “You’re probably Alitaeran yourself.”

Kylar laughed, but that “probably” soured in his mouth. Probably, because he was a guild rat, an orphan, maybe slaveborn. Like that Alitaeran, he couldn’t even guess where his parents had been from. He couldn’t guess why they’d abandoned him. Were they dead? Alive? Important somehow, like every orphan dreams? While Jarl had been busy saving pennies to get out of the guild, Kylar had been dreaming of why his noble parents might have been forced to abandon him. It was useless, foolish, and he thought he’d given it up long ago.

The closest thing he’d had to a father was Durzo—and Kylar had become what all men curse: a patricide. Now here he was, a loose string, tied to nothing before or behind.

No, that wasn’t true. He had Elene and Uly. And he had the freedom to love. That freedom cost something, but it was worth the price.

“Are you all right?” Elene asked him, her brown eyes concerned.

“No,” Kylar said. “As long as we’re together, I’m great.”

In a few minutes, they had left the northern markets and were getting deeper into the shipping district. Even here almost all the buildings were stone—a big change from Cenaria, where stone was so expensive that most of the houses were wood and rice paper. Local punks lounged in the stoops of houses and warehouses and mills, sullenly watching them go past with the universal expression of adolescents with something to prove.

“Are you sure this is the right road?” Kylar asked.

Elene winced. “No?”

Kylar kept the wagon moving, but it didn’t matter. Six of the teens stood and followed a black-toothed man with a mop of greasy black hair toward them. The youths reached under steps or beneath piles of trash to find weapons. They were street weapons, clubs and knives and a length of heavy chain. The man leading them stood in front of the wagon and grabbed the near horse’s bridle.

“Well, honey,” Kylar said, “time to meet our friendly neighborhood Sa’kagé.”

“Kylar, remember what you promised,” Elene said, taking his arm.

“You don’t really expect me to …” He let the question die as he saw the look in her eyes.

“Afternoon,” their leader said, slapping a club into his palm. He smiled broadly, showing off two black front teeth.

“Honey,” Kylar said, ignoring him. “This is different. You have to see that.”

“Other people get through this sort of thing without anybody dying.”

“Nobody will die if we do this my way,” Kylar said.

The black-toothed man cleared his throat. Dirt looked permanently tattooed into his visage and two protruding, crooked, and blackened front teeth dominated his face. “Excuse me, lovers. I don’t mean to interrupt—”

“You can wait,” Kylar said in a tone that brooked no argument. He turned back to Elene. “Honey.”

“Either do what you promised or do what you’ve always done,” Elene said.

“That’s not permission.”

“No. It’s not.”

“Excuse me,” the man said again. “This—”

“Let me guess,” Kylar said, mimicking the man’s swagger and accent. “This here’s a toll road, and we need to pay a toll.”

“Uh. That’s right,” the man allowed.

“How’d I guess?”

“I was gonna ask that—hey, you shut your mouth. I’m Tom Gray and this here—”

“Is your road. Sure. How much?” Kylar asked.

Tom Gray scowled. “Thirteen silvers,” he said.

Kylar counted the seven men aloud. “Wait, doesn’t that screw your bashers? They get one silver each and you get six?” Kylar asked. Tom Gray blanched. The boys looked at him angrily. Kylar was right, of course. Small-time thugs. “I’ll give you seven,” Kylar said.

He pulled out his small coin purse and started tossing silvers to each of the young men. “You get that much with no effort. Why risk a fight? That’s as much as Tom was going to give you anyway.”

“Hold on,” Tom said. “If he gave us that much that easy he’s got to have more. Let’s take him.”

But the young men weren’t buying it. They shrugged, shook their heads, and shuffled back to their stoops.

“What are you doing?” Tom demanded. “Hey!”

Kylar flicked the reins and the horses started forward. Tom had to jump aside to avoid being crushed. He twisted his ankle as he landed. Kylar pulled his front lips back to make himself look as buck-toothed as Tom and raised his hands helplessly. The young men and Uly laughed.