Petrodor atobas-2 Page 2

  “It's a long way from Lenayin,” he said at her shoulder. She nearly jumped, not having heard his approach. But somehow, with Errollyn, the alarm never quite registered. She gave him a smile.

  “And a long way from Saalshen,” she replied.

  “Las re'han as'e baen,” said Errollyn with a shrug. “The world is a place,” in Saalsi. Although frequently very blunt for a serrin, Errollyn could also be as vague and obtuse as the best of them. He leaned close, a hand on her shoulder, and added against her ear in Lenay, “The place is where you are.”

  And he moved to help Mari with the crates, leaving Sasha to consider that. And to consider further that if a Lenay or Torovan man had touched her so intimately, she'd have wanted to rattle his skull. With serrin, it was different, and with Errollyn in particular. Amongst human men, she'd learned by long experience to guard her personal space. Errollyn simply didn't mean it that way…or rather he did, as all relations between serrin men and women meant something in that way…but somehow, it was still different. Not disrespectful. Not…

  “Oh hells,” she muttered, and went to grab the remaining crate of their catch, trying to shake free of her confusion. Valenti interposed himself with a look of cold hostility, and grabbed the crate himself. “Hey!” He ignored her. “Oh come on, you're not upset with me?”

  Valenti stalked off, carrying his crate. Sasha took up the bait box and walked at Errollyn's side. “You're such a diplomat,” Errollyn remarked, watching the lad depart.

  “Oh bugger,” Sasha muttered. And more loudly, “Valenti! Look, you don't tell me I'm no damn good at something I know damn well I'd be good at! Valenti!”

  “Leave the boy alone,” said Mari, carrying his own crate. “You upset a man's pride, but he'll get over it.”

  “What about a woman's pride?” Sasha exclaimed. Mari shook his head and sighed.

  “You don't think that maybe a princess could afford to forgo a little pride once in a while?” Errollyn suggested.

  Sasha scowled. “Meaning?”

  “Even your sister Alythia wouldn't choose to wear all her jewellery to attend a court filled with poor dockfront girls in sackcloth.”

  “Why do you always talk in riddles?” Sasha snapped. “And besides, I'm not like Alythia! I'm nothing like Alythia!”

  “If you say so, I'm sure it must be true.”

  Sadisi cleared the docks of merchants and their stalls, and replaced them with revellers. Many fires burned along the waterfront, lighting the buildings and sparkling off the dark, heaving waters. There were some chairs and upturned crates for the old folk, but mostly people stood-eating, drinking, talking, singing and dancing. Thousands of them. Sasha could barely believe her eyes, ears and nostrils.

  Her own fireplace was near the Velo house, one of many cramped, crumbling buildings near a side alley off the docks the locals called Fishnet Alley. Gathered about the main fire were members of all the neighbouring families, hardy men and women in rough clothes, and largely in the fishing trade. There were maybe a hundred about the central fire, and hundreds more about the smaller fires. Crasada dosa steamed upon great, round pans. A jumble of mixed seafood in a vast tomato sauce, garnished with just about everything.

  Sasha stood with her tin plate, eating steaming bits of crab with her fingers and wiping excess sauce with a chunk of bread. Nearby, little blonde Aisha fussed about a fireplace where she was preparing mussels in a vast, steaming pan. A young man Sasha did not recognise came to offer Aisha a sip of his wine as she cooked. Mari's wife, Mariesa, shooed him away with a scowl, but Aisha only laughed, while around the fires Mari and his friends burst into passionate song.

  Out on the water, moored ships made a mass of lights, long, gleaming streaks reflected on the dark water, above a spidery tangle of rigging. From the serrin ships, there came the occasional coloured streak of a firework, drawing awed shouts from the children scampering along the jetties. To the far north of the bay, the white spires of Porsada Temple gleamed ghostly bright from fires atop Besendi Promontory. There, the priests held service for Saint Sadis. Below, Petrodor celebrated.

  A new arrival stepped through the crowd, with several others close behind. Men stared, for her beauty was spectacular. Lean and as tall as some men, she moved gracefully through the press, smiling to those who greeted her. Firelight lit her white hair to a brilliant gleam, as crisp as mountain snow, and tied into a single braid that fell down her back. Her eyes shone a sharp, emerald green, flicking from person to person with that piercing, almost animal intensity that was peculiar to serrin.

  Rhillian.

  She greeted Aisha with a hug, and her eyes found Sasha's.

  “Good evening,” Rhillian greeted Sasha with a smile. “Or Happy Sadisi, whatever the proper term.” They exchanged a hug.

  “Isn't this amazing?” Sasha exclaimed, gesturing to the firelit commotion.

  “You think this is amazing?” Rhillian's enthusiasm only made her all the more stunning to behold-burning green eyes, flashing white hair and perfect white teeth. “I've just come from the Endurance, it's reached the Slipway now. Crazier a sight I have never seen.”

  “Mari was telling me about the Endurance! I'd love to see it.”

  “It goes on all night, why don't we go up and see after you've eaten? It'll come down the Corkscrew after the Slipway anyhow, much closer to here…I can't imagine how they'll keep those carts from running away and ploughing through someone's house.”

  “You're here to see Kessligh?” Sasha asked her, chewing on some bread.

  “No, you,” Rhillian said mildly. And smiled at her. “You seem surprised.”

  Sasha shrugged in exasperation. “Everything's so political these days. I hadn't thought you and Kessligh had finished your business.”

  “We haven't.” Rhillian picked a prawn off Sasha's plate. “But even the ‘White Death of Petrodor’ needs some time to relax every now and then.” She said it with a faint edge. It was what the rich men of Petrodor's highest families called her, Sasha knew. The “White Death of Petrodor.” Rhillian was, by human reckoning, the most powerful serrin in the city. By serrin reckoning…well, serrin did not view things in such simple, hierarchical terms. But she had great ra'shi, the serrin term for respect and credibility, through all Saalshen. Serrin had no kings or queens, or anything that might say “power” to a human. Kessligh said that Rhillian was perhaps one of the ten most powerful serrin in all Rhodia. Which was about as precisely as anyone had managed to explain what Rhillian actually was, to Sasha's memory.

  A handsome young man sauntered between Rhillian and the steaming pan of seafood. “Please, my most beautiful lady!” he exclaimed. “I cannot allow you onto our dock without savouring our hospitality! You must accept some food!”

  Rhillian considered him with an elegant tilt of the head, chewing on the tail of Sasha's prawn. The young man was game-he barely even flinched as those green eyes found him. “But I've eaten,” she said.

  “A drink, a drink for the beautiful lady!” said the young man, in search of whoever now had the wine jug. Quickly a cup was filled, and placed in her hand. Sasha grinned, watching the serrin's dismay.

  “Who is that young man anyway?” Rhillian asked as he moved away to pester some other attractive woman. Sasha drained her own cup, and took Rhillian's so she could eat.

  “I think he's a Malrini,” she said. “There's at least thirty families just in this little block, I'm still learning them.”

  “Petrodor is so crowded,” Rhillian agreed glumly, taking another prawn. Her voice felt strained, having to half shout over the top of it. “I'm not obliged to have sex with him now, am I?”

  Sasha laughed. “That's up to you. I'm sure he wouldn't complain.”

  “Even I must draw the line somewhere, I suppose.”

  Sasha considered Rhillian with amusement. “You know, you're nothing like what I'd been led to expect before I met you.”

  Rhillian raised eyebrows at her. “How so?”

  “The White Dea
th of Petrodor,” said Sasha, teasing. “Errollyn has so much respect for you when he usually has no respect for anything…” Rhillian grinned, “and the archbishop wets his bed when he dreams of you, and even Kessligh doesn't push you around. But you're not two spans tall and breathing fire. I must say, I'm disappointed.”

  “Good,” said Rhillian, around her mouthful. Even with juice dribbling on her fingers and chin, she still managed to look poised and elegant. Catlike, Sasha thought. She'd heard people described like that before. Rhillian was the first who truly matched the description. “Let me tell you a little something about Errollyn.”

  “Yes?”

  Rhillian licked some juice from her finger. “He's insane.”

  Sasha laughed. “You two are impossible! Can't you just call a truce?”

  “No seriously,” Rhillian insisted, in a manner that was not serious at all. “I've been thinking on it. Of all the many philosophical inflections of the Saalsi tongue, all the many shades of meaning and description that you're always complaining about…”

  “I am not.”

  “They all fail to do Errollyn justice,” Rhillian concluded. “He's a raving loon.” She managed to keep a straight face for several heartbeats, before she and Sasha burst into laughter.

  Errollyn, Sasha had gathered, was different. A du'janah, they called him, a term which Sasha still did not entirely understand. All the serrin seemed to have great affection for him, and he for them, as always seemed the case between serrin…yet there seemed an unspecified distinctness about Errollyn and his position amongst his own people. All of those who served Saalshen's interests abroad-the talmaad-were direct and straight talking, by the convoluted standards of the Saalshen serrinim, but Errollyn was even more so. Sometimes, Sasha thought, he enjoyed human company more than serrin. And sometimes, she fancied that some serrin, perhaps including Rhillian, found that…disconcerting.

  Yet for all their strangeness, Sasha was only too well aware that her new serrin friends were far more at home in Petrodor than she was. She had been here a matter of weeks, Rhillian had been in Petrodor for three years now, and while Errollyn was younger and less experienced, even he was nearing the end of his second year in Petrodor. Saalshen's trading interests in Petrodor were vast, and had deep roots. There had been serrin outposts here for more than three hundred years, it was said. Two hundred years ago, following the invasion of Saalshen by the Bacosh King Leyvaan, Saalshen had expanded its trading range in the hopes of new human allies from other parts of Rhodia. Petrodor, then a simple fishing town, had erupted into unanticipated wealth, size and power. Yet, despite all the serrin had done for the city, its residents were not always grateful.

  Some Lisan sailors moved slowly through the crowd, careful not to touch anyone. They had long, dark hair, broad faces and slanted eyes. The swords in their belts were curved, and even their sleeveless undershirts were light skins, to go with their leather pants and hide boots. They stared at Rhillian and Sasha as they passed, with neither friendliness nor curiosity.

  Rhillian smiled at them. She waved and called a greeting in the Lisan tongue…Rhillian was not much of a linguist, by serrin standards. She only spoke five foreign tongues, besides all the Saalsi dialects. Amongst the talmaad that was almost retarded. The Lisan stared, expressionless, and moved slowly on.

  “Spies?” Sasha suggested, watching them go.

  “Assuredly. The families know their own cronies wouldn't be very welcome down here. So they pay the Lisan to come wandering through, knowing the locals can't very well object to sailors on the docks. There's not much the Lisan won't do for gold.”

  “You're just so popular with everyone,” Sasha remarked.

  “Oh, they're here to watch you at least as much as me,” Rhillian said cheerfully. Sasha didn't like that. “Uma to Kessligh Cronenverdt, the hero of Lenayin, returned to Petrodor to reunite the Nasi-Keth. The families always hated the Nasi-Keth, at least as much as the serrin, possibly more. Demon serrin they expect to fight, but for humans to actually join forces with those demon serrin…well, that's traitorous.”

  “That's okay,” said Sasha. “I'm used to wealthy Verenthanes hating me. Makes me feel at home.” A running child thudded into her leg, stumbled, then kept running, oblivious. Another chased her. “Hey!” Sasha called, spilling some of Rhillian's wine on her shirt sleeve. “That was my leg, if you don't mind!” But she was more amused than annoyed. She'd done far worse at that age.

  “Human children can't see in the dark either,” Rhillian observed. Her green eyes flashed as the firelight caught them, an inhuman gleam.

  “So far I've fallen amongst the commonfolk,” Sasha remarked, shaking wine from her sleeve and examining the stain. “I led the first Lenay rebellion in a century and the Udalyn people pronounced me their saviour. Now just look at these indignities.”

  “It's the indignities that remind us what life really is,” Rhillian replied. “Even the greatest king suffers minor indignities. And can be undone by them.”

  “Only a serrin could find something profound in a wine stain.”

  Rhillian smiled. Her gaze shifted to the north, as she retrieved her cup to take a sip. “Just look at Porsada Temple.” The white walls and spires seemed to shimmer above the dark waters. The reflection on the bay was ghostly, amidst the outline of ships. “Such a beautiful thing. It's almost enough to make one wish to be a Verenthane.”

  “It's very pretty,” Sasha agreed, dryly. “But I wouldn't go that far.”

  “You don't think it's a little revealing?” Selyna asked her princess, dubiously.

  “Oh nonsense, I think it looks wonderful.” Alythia considered herself in the full-length mirror. The gown was a radiant lime green, with flowing folds and a decorative bustle at the back. The front clasp was a gold and onyx brooch, pinned upon a somewhat lower bust than was typical for Petrodor. The brooch went well with the pins in her waves of dark hair, falling about her partly bare shoulders. “Oh I love these earrings, too. Where did you find them, Vansy?”

  “A wedding gift from Lord Nandryn of Valhanan,” said Vansy, fastening a lace tie at the back.

  “I must go through some of those boxes again,” Alythia thought aloud, adjusting the lie of fabric on one shoulder. So many gifts, they'd been piled into an entire cart for the journey from Lenayin. Upon the wedding train's arrival in Petrodor, there'd been a second, even larger round of gift-giving. Most of Petrodor's ruling classes had turned out for the marriage of the heir of Family Halmady to a Lenay princess.

  The splendour had been breathtaking. Long processions out along the Besendi Promontory to Porsada Temple. Families in colourful costume, with coloured flags flying in the breeze, before an azure ocean view. The Porsada Temple, as white as polished quartz against the sea, its spires soaring skyward. The ceremony itself, the guests asparkle with more jewellery than all the lords of Lenayin could possibly have owned.

  Ceremony enough to allow her to forget the disaster of her train's send-off from Baen-Tar. The turmoil and delays, the fighting, her father's absence when her betrothed, Gregan, had arrived to escort her to Petrodor. It had been a rebellion…and of course her wretched sister Sashandra had just happened to be leading it. Sasha had always hated everything that Alythia thought best about Lenayin, everything that counted for true civilisation. She had thrown in her lot with the pagan Goeren-yai to fight the Verenthane Hadryn in the north; which had meant that King Torvaal had been in Hadryn when her future husband had arrived in the capital Baen-Tar.

  Alythia had been so embarrassed, and so angry. But she was here now, and the wedding had been a wonderful success. For sheer finery, the Petrodor Families were a whole level above even Lenayin royalty. She and her two maids had worked all afternoon to select this dress and its accompaniments. She'd done some extra tailoring herself to get it looking this good. Princess Alythia was renowned as the most beautiful Princess of Lenayin, and that from a good crop, too. She'd show the Petrodor families she belonged.

  She turned
away from the mirror as Selyna and Vansy continued their adjustments. The chambers’ windows were many-paned, and worked into a light, wooden doorway that opened onto a balcony. Glass doors. Alythia had never seen such architecture. How wonderfully sophisticated beside the heavy stone and thick wood of Baen-Tar! The Halmady Mansion's walls were a sandstone brick, creamy yellow in colour, as was much of Petrodor. The chambers’ floor was polished floorboards, but downstairs, many of the important rooms were spanned with polished marble.

  Beyond her balcony, a firework streaked across the sky. Most seemed to be coming from the ships out on the harbour. Each ship shone with many lamps, and from this height, they seemed like a collection of children's toys, all lit up with festival charm. Alongside Halmady Mansion sat Torgenes Mansion, a beautiful building of three floors, great forward columns, many balconies and a sloping, red-tile roof. And, of course, great perimeter walls topped with spikes and guard posts…but Alythia had lived all her life in Baen-Tar, surrounded by enormous city walls as tall as five men, and such modest defences as these took little getting used to. Beyond Torgenes Mansion, the great, curving sweep of Petrodor Harbour continued, alive tonight with even more lights than usual.

  A door opened and Alythia turned to find Gregan Halmady paused in the doorway, staring at her. She curtsied and pretended a shy smile. “Good evening, my husband,” she said, with a forced effort to get her thoughts back into Torovan. Chatting with her Lenay maids, it was sometimes difficult. How strange to be married to a man who only spoke Torovan. “You look very handsome.”

  And he did. Gregan Halmady had twenty-five summers (three more than herself) and a breadth of shoulder that was pleasing. He had a round face and curly hair that grew out as much as down. That was odd too. Alythia couldn't recall having ever seen a Lenay man with such curly hair. He had nice eyes, a widish nose, and excellent taste in clothes. He was dressed now in an embroidered dark tunic with a wide Torovan collar and a silver clasp at the throat. There were rings on his fingers, a silver-pommelled sword at his hip and tight pants that tucked into knee-high black leather boots.