In the morning, Jordan awoke to hear Suneil leaving the wagon. Probably gone for a piss, he thought at first; but the man did not return.
This was just the sort of thing that kept one from falling back asleep. The sun wasn’t up yet, and it was frosty out there. Jordan had already been awake half the night, listening to Queen Galas tell Armiger her tale. When she finished he had fallen into a dreamless but apparently brief sleep. Now he tried several different positions—lying on his side, on his back with an arm over his face, even curled up—but he couldn’t get back to sleep and Suneil still didn’t return.
Finally he rose, shivering, and crept to the back flap to look out. The horizon was polished silver, as cold a color as Jordan had ever seen.
Suneil was standing very still, staring at nothing in particular. His hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of a long woolen coat. Every now and then he looked down and kicked a clod of earth at his feet.
Jordan eased the flap back and went to lie down again. The sight had disturbed him although at first he couldn’t decide why. By the time the sun peeked above the horizon and Suneil came back to salvage a last half hour of rest, Jordan had realized that he seldom seen so perfect a picture of a man struggling with an important decision; and it was significant that Suneil had said nothing in the past days to his niece or Jordan about any such worries.
*
In the middle of nowhere, with scattered fields to the left and right, Suneil said, “This is the city of Rhiene.”
“Huh?” Jordan stared at a slovenly peasant’s cottage mired in its own pigsty near the road. “That?” He had heard of Rhiene all his life. It was one of the great cities of Iapysia, fabled for its gardens and university. There was supposed to be a desal at Rhiene too, and great religious colleges devoted to its study.
Suneil laughed. They were seated together at the front of the wagon. Tamsin had decided to walk for a while, and at present she was a few meters ahead, tilting her head back and forth to some internal rhyme, her hands fluttering at her sides in time.
Suneil pointed to a tumble of low hills ahead. “There.”
The hills made an odd arc on the otherwise flat plain, dwindling in either direction. None was more than twenty meters high, and now that he looked more closely Jordan could see numerous buildings dotting the farther ones, and thin trails of smoke rising beyond them. A stone tower stood near the road ahead. Traffic on the road had increased during the past day until now they were part of a steady stream of wagons, horses and walking people, all headed towards the hills. Far off to the south, he could see another such road, converging on what he was beginning to realize was a long rampart of wavelike hills.
There was no city, however. Just those scattered buildings.
“I don’t understand. It’s underground?”
Again Suneil laughed. “No. Well, yes, parts of it. You’ll see.” He smiled mysteriously.
They followed the road around several bends. The land here looked as though it had become liquid at some time in the ancient past, and flown in waves that had then frozen in place. Giant boulders stuck up from the earth here and there; they seemed barely weathered.
Several side roads joined with theirs, until the stream of traffic was thick and loud. Vendors appeared walking up the road, offering sweet meats and fresh fish. Still there was no city in sight—but now Jordan heard seagulls, and saw several lift above the next rise.
The builders of Rhiene had wisely widened the road after that rise, because a good half of all the travellers who came here must have stopped dead in their tracks when they got there. Tamsin did, and Jordan stood up and shouted in disbelief. Suneil merely smiled.
First he saw the blue-hazed arc of a distant shoreline, and above that sun-whitened cliffs rising almost straight out of the glittering water. Then his eye took in the whole sweep of the place: those distant cliffs were kin to the crest their wagon had come to. In fact, the cliffs swept in a vast circle to encompass a deep flat-bottomed bowl in the earth. A lake filled most of the bowl; from here Jordan could see sailboats like tiny scraps of white feather dotting it. At the very center of the bowl, a spire of green-patched rock towered out of the water. Coral-colored buildings adorned the spire. He could see docks at its base.
“Rhiene,” said Suneil, pointing down.
The road wound down a set of switchbacks into what at first looked like an overgrown ruin. Rhiene was green with ivy, forest and lichen, and Jordan couldn’t make out the buildings until he realized the gardens he saw were all on the roofs of houses and towers. Rhiene sprawled along the arc of the cliff for kilometers in either direction, and tongues of jetty and wharf made the nearer shore of the lake into a tangle of geometry.
Seeing this made everything that had happened to him worthwhile. Jordan knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he didn’t care. He decided in that instant that Rhiene was where he wanted to live.
“It’s the most beautiful place in the world!” shouted Tamsin.
“Perhaps you would like a guided tour?” said a nattily dressed young man who had appeared as if by magic at her elbow.
Tamsin looked him up and down. “Begone, you trotting swine,” she said.
The youth shrugged and walked away. Astonished, Jordan leapt down and went over to Tamsin.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“Everybody wants to make some coin,” she said. “Everywhere we go there’s people trying to sell you this or that.” She sighed heavily. “They hang around places like this, spoiling the moment for people like us.” The young man had approached another wagon, and appeared to be haggling with its oafish driver.
Suneil had clucked the horses into motion, so they began to walk. “‘Trotting swine’?” asked Jordan.
She blushed. “I read it in a book.”
They walked for a while, taking in the gradually expanding view. Tamsin said little more, but she didn’t seem to mind Jordan’s company either. After a while Jordan dropped back to the wagon and asked Suneil, “What will you do here?”.
The old man nodded to the city, which now spread around and above them. “I’ve got some old business associates here,” he said. “I want to see if I can call in some favours, and make a new start. The war’s over, after all.”
“Is this where you used to live?”
“No. That’s one of the advantages of the place,” said Suneil ruefully.
Jordan had a vivid idea of what a city at war would look like, based on what he had seen at the queen’s summer palace. Clear as that notion might be, he couldn’t picture soldiers in the streets of Rhiene. For all that it was a big city, it appeared sleepy and its citizens unconcerned. It took Tamsin to point out the placards here and there that were signed with a royal insignia. Jordan couldn’t read the script, so she translated. “It’s a decree from Parliament ending curfew and random searches. I guess the war really is over.”
“It’s not,” he said. “The queen is still fighting back. She’s trapped in the summer palace, but she’s got plenty of supplies and her people are still loyal.”
Tamsin looked at him strangely. “I see. You arranged this? Or a little bird told you?”
“I have my sources.”
“Oh ho,” she said. “Behold the grand seer.”
“Hey!” Suneil waved at them from the cart. “We go this way.”
They passed through high stone walls into a teeming caravansary. Here were soldiers—plenty of them—inspecting the cargoes of incoming wagons. While they went through Suneil’s possessions—with Tamsin squawking protests—Jordan took a look around. The place was just a broad quadrangle of pulverized straw with a few water troughs and sheds. It reeked of manure and wood smoke. All the visitors to the city who had no inn or friend to visit were crammed in here. They squabbled over cart space, water and offal buckets. It was wonderful chaos.
The queen had mentioned Rhiene in her story last night. Her tale had not enlightened him much as to the nature of the Winds. There was something to it, though, as of a mystery whose solution hung just out of reach. He had thought about it a lot, and was sure Armiger felt that sense of near-knowledge too; unless the general had already seen the answer Jordan himself could not.
He thought about this as he helped Suneil get the wagon slotted into a narrow space near one wall. Jordan went to find water and feed for the horses, and when he returned Suneil had changed into fine silk clothes.
“I’m going to visit my people,” he said. “Are you leaving us here, young man?”
Jordan shrugged. “With your permission I’ll stay the night and make a fresh start in the morning.”
“Good. You see to my niece. I’ll be back before dark.”
“Can we see the city?” asked Tamsin.
“If you’d like. Just don’t get lost.”
He left with a spring in his step. Jordan turned to Tamsin.
“How’s your ankle?”
“Good.”
“Up for some walking?”
She held out her hand, smiling. “Lead on, sir.”
*
Rhiene was much bigger than it seemed from above, and much dirtier too. The everpresent foliage hid a great deal, and Jordan supposed that was part of the idea. The overriding purpose for the greenery, however, was to keep the Winds at bay.
An ancient statue near the docks showed a man and woman raising their hands to the sky, holding flowering branches. Tamsin read off the plaque at the base of the statue. “The city was destroyed by the desal seven hundred years ago,” she said. “They rebuilt in secrecy, using wood harvested without killing trees. They struck a balance between creation and destruction, and the Winds let them continue to this day.”
“There’s supposed to be a desal here,” said Jordan. The statue stood in a busy square surrounded by ivied merchants’ houses. The city sprawled for kilometers in either direction, a fact visible from here because this square was emplaced on a knee of land that thrust out of the cliff wall. The cliff itself towered majestically above, and the vast sweep of it to either side was intoxicating.
“There is a desal,” said Tamsin. “I saw it on the way down.”
“Where is it?” He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to visit it or not, after what Galas had said about them. Knowing where it was, though, he would be able to avoid it.
“You can see it from here.” She stepped up on the plinth of the statue. “See?”
He followed the line of her arm. There was something out in the bay, offset slightly from a line he might have drawn to join the city to the spire at the lake’s center. From here it was visible only as a set of white spikes thrusting from the surface of the water. There were no boats near it, so judging its size wasn’t easy.
“I recognized it because we had one near where I grew up,” she said. “My father took me to see it once, when I was young. That one stood alone in the desert, like it was abandoned, but he said it was alive, and we shouldn’t get too close. It’s strange to see one underwater.”
“Well, at least it’s not in the city,” he said.
“Hey, get off that!” shouted a passing woman. Tamsin jumped down from the statue’s base. A few heads turned, but no one else stopped them as they ran down the hill to the docks.
In stories Jordan had read, a city’s docks was always the place where lowlife sailors and prostitutes waited to prey on travellers and lost children. He had always pictured the wharves of a seagoing city as full of one-eyed men with swords and nasty dispositions, with bodies in the alleys and kegs of wine rolling down from visiting ships.
Rhiene was not like that. Of course, it was an inland port; most of the traffic here came from barges that simply shuttled between the city and the far end of the lake, a distance large enough to cut a day or so off the travel time of wagons coming from the south. There was supposedly a river that emptied into the lake somewhere, and boats went up that too, but not, apparently, pirate ships. The docks were clean and well kept, and other than one disciplined work gang unloading a shallow single-masted ship, there was no great activity.
“This is pretty stale,” said Tamsin. “Let’s find the marketplace.”
“There might be more than one,” he pointed out.
“Whatever.”
They wandered in the crowds for a while, and though Tamsin looked quite blas� about it all, Jordan felt overwhelmed by the huge press of people. Hundreds visible at any time, and around every corner there was a new hundred. Most of the people in sight were dressed similarly, men in fashionable townsman’s jackets, the women in long pleated dresses that swept the road gracefully. He had to conclude that they all lived here. Could he live in such a place, with so many neighbors?
For a while they stood at the gates of the University of Rhiene, gazing at the sun-dappled grounds and ivied buildings. Queen Galas had walked here, he thought, and knowing this suddenly made her seem real in a new way. They had shared something, Jordan and Galas, if only the fact of having stood here.
In a flux of troubled emotions, he let himself be swept along by Tamsin, until they came to a market.
If Jordan had thought there were many people in the streets, this place was as crowded as Castor’s during a wedding, only the mob went on and on, dividing and subdividing into alleys and sidestreets. Lean-tos and carts stood along all the walls, and some enterprising men and women had simply laid their goods out on blankets in the street. A roar of voices welled from the press of people, animals, and running children. Smells of incense, manure, fresh-cut wood and hot iron filled Jordan’s head, making him dizzy.
Tamsin laughed. “This is the place! See, Jordan, this is the place to be in Rhiene!” She ducked into the press.
“Wait!” Shaking his head but grinning, he ran after her.
The chaos had an infectious energy to it. You could not walk slowly in this place. After a few minutes, Jordan found himself darting around like Tamsin, poking about on tables of turquoise baubles, then flitting over to a fruit seller, nearly stumbling over a one-legged woman selling cloth dolls from her mat—wishing he had more than the few coins in his pockets.
The only problem was, the roar of voices tended to trigger his visions. Every now and then Jordan had to stop and shake his head, because he would hear Armiger’s voice coming at him from within his own skull, or that of a doctor with whom the general was speaking. Such moments no longer frightened him, but they made it hard to concentrate on the here and now.
Then, in the very middle of the market, he was stopped in his tracks by another voice that rang sudden and clear in his mind:
“Go to the woman with the brown knapsack. Tell me what’s inside it.”
“What?” He looked around, blinking.
“I didn’t say anything,” said Tamsin. “Oh, look. A magician.”
There he was—a lean, well-groomed man standing on a little stage at the back of a short alley. A large audience stood in silence, listening as he recited something. His eyes were closed, and he had one hand touched dramatically to his forehead.
A young woman in peasant’s garb emerged from the audience. She went hesitantly up to stand beside the magician, and at his urging, opened the pack she’d been carrying. As she displayed each of the items inside, murmurs then applause ran through the audience. Shortly thereafter a small rain of coins landed at the magician’s feet.
Jordan and Tamsin watched for a while. The magician was guessing the contents of people’s bags, pockets or just what they held in their clenched fists. He was always right. The crowd was amazed, and all too willing to pay to watch the performance continue.
Every time the magician was presented with a puzzle, Jordan heard something no one else seemed to hear. This man had the same power Turcaret had possessed, a limited power to speak with the Winds—or at least with mecha. When Jordan concentrated he could see, almost as if he were imagining it, something like a diaphanous butterfly hovering above the crowd. When the magician commanded it, the invisible thing wafted over to the satchel, bag, case or box, and penetrated its surface with fine hairlike antennae. Almost like a mosquito, he thought.
Jordan’s heart was pounding with an excitement he had not felt since he had sat by the lakeshore and learned how the waves spoke. There was no trick to what this man was doing; Jordan could do it. What was amazing was that the little mechal thing allowed itself to be commanded—and the Winds did not rain fury on the magician for commanding it.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Tamsin.
“Wait. I want to try something.”
“Oh, forget it, Jordan, you’ll lose your shirt. He’s got the game rigged somehow.”
“Yes, and I know how.”
“Go to the jewelbox held by the man in green and tell me its contents,” commanded the magician.
Jordan closed his eyes and, in his mind, said, “Come here.”
The butterfly was clearly visible now, like a living flame over the dark absences of the crowd. It was like no mechal beast he had ever seen; it was more like a spirit. It hesitated now over the man the magician had ordered it to, then drifted in Jordan’s direction. It circled his head, as though inspecting him.
“Return.” It was the magician, calling his servant.
Who was the stronger here? Jordan smiled, and said, “Stay.”
“Return! Return now!”
The crowd was beginning to mutter.
“Ka! Return to me at once!”
“What are you?” Jordan asked the fluttering thing.
“I am Ka. I am test probe of the Ventus terraforming infrastructure. I am a nano-fibre chassis with distributed processing and solar-powered electrostatic lift wires. I am—”
Jordan had been wondering for days what he should ask the next thing he spoke to. “Do you speak to the Heaven hooks?”
“No. I report to desal 463.”
Faintly, he heard the magician announcing that today’s performance was over. The crowd broke into guffaws and jeers. Someone demanded their money back.
“Jordan,” hissed Tamsin. “What are you doing? Let’s go?”
“Wait.” Then, to Ka, he said, “Will you tell desal 463 that you spoke to me?”
“Yes.”
“No, don’t do that!”
“Okay.”
Jordan opened his eyes. Okay?
“The show’s over,” said Tamsin. “Let’s go.”
“I’m doing something.”
“No you’re not. You’re standing there like a slackjawed idiot. Now come on.” She pulled on his arm.
“Ka, where are you! Please Ka, come back!”
“You are not empty,” said Ka.
It took Jordan a moment to figure out what it meant. When Jordan closed his eyes, he could see the mecha all around him, a ghostly landscape of light. The crowd, the magician and even Tamsin were visible only as shadows, holes in the matrix.
“Am I mecha?” he asked Ka.
“You have mecha in you,” it said.
“Ka!” cried the magician, aloud this time. He stood alone in the alley, hands clasped at his sides. He seemed on the verge of tears.
Jordan wanted to know more, but Tamsin was pulling at him, and he felt pity for the poor magician, who did not know what was happening. “Return to your magician,” Jordan told Ka.
Ka fluttered away. A moment later Jordan opened his eyes to see the man raise one hand into the air as if caressing something. His shoulders slumped in relief, then he began swearing and looking around.
The magician’s gaze fell on Jordan, and stopped. What could he do? Jordan met his eye, smiled ironically, and shrugged.
The magician recoiled as if Jordan had slapped him. Then he backed away and raised one finger to point at Jordan. “You get away from me!” he shouted. “Get away, you hear?”
“Jordan!” Tamsin shook him. “Come on!”
They ran together into the crowd, Tamsin worried, Jordan stunned with new possibilities. He wanted to ask the magician where he’d found Ka, how he had discovered he could command the thing, why the desal tolerated his manipulations of a minor Wind. Above all, Jordan wanted to know why the Winds would speak to him and this man, and no one else here.
Ah, but that’s just the question Armiger came here to answer, he reminded himself. Armiger himself can’t speak to the Winds.
Though they were now two streets away, he concentrated and said, “Ka, why are the Winds after me?”
The reply was faint, but he was sure Ka said, “You are not empty. So you may threaten Thalience.”
That was a new name. Or had he misheard it? “Ka, who is… Thalience?”
He heard a mutter, but could not decipher it. Tamsin had dragged him to the gates of the market.
“What was all that about?” she demanded as they stepped into the quiet street. Jordan laughed, shaking his head.
“I’m not quite sure,” he said. “Maybe we’d better get back to the wagon.”
She gave him a long look. “Maybe you’re right,” she said.
*
Suneil was waiting for them at the wagon. He looked upset. Tamsin ran up to him and embraced him.
“How did your meeting go?”
Suneil grimaced, and disengaged himself from her arms. “I had to make some… concessions,” he said. He wasn’t looking at her, but glanced at Jordan, then turned away. “In business and… power… you have to do what it takes to get what you want, sometimes.”
Tamsin cocked her head to one side. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing that’s going to matter in the long run,” he said. “When you get older, Tam, you’ll understand why I made this decision. It’s in our best interests.”
“Tell me,” she said. Jordan stood back, arms crossed, and watched. Something was very wrong here.
“You know I was an important minister in the queen’s cabinet before the war,” said Suneil. “That’s why I had to run. Why we had to run. You were all I could salvage of the life Galas had given us—my favorite niece. Parliament went on a witch hunt—hanging everyone who was involved in our work. I did what I had to do to make sure they didn’t come after us, but it was prudent to leave the country all the same. And certain men know what I did, and are willing to forget our life before—now that the queen is dead.”
“The queen is not dead,” said Jordan without thinking.
Suneil sat on the bottom step of the wagon’s hatch, and peered at him. “You know that for a fact, don’t you, young man?”
“Who cares?” said Tamsin. “What about your meeting?”
“Actually, it’s very important that Jordan Mason knows with absolute certainty that Galas is alive,” said Suneil. “Because my partners needed a guarantee of my loyalty to them, and if Jordan weren’t the man he’s pretending to be, the deal I made this afternoon wouldn’t go through.”
Jordan knew it in that instant. “You’ve sold me.”
Suneil looked him in the eye. “You are a wanted man, Jordan.”
“Wanted? Not by the law,” said Jordan. “Only by—”
“Me.”
Jordan turned. Brendan Sheia’s sword hovered centimeters from his throat. The square-headed Boros heir smiled grimly as four men emerged from behind Suneil’s wagon, their own blades drawn.
“Uncle!”
Suneil grabbed Tamsin by the wrist as she tried to run to Jordan. “I don’t like this any more than you do,” he said. “This is what we have to do to prove our worth to the new powers in Iapysia. Don’t you see? We can go home now.”
“Bastards! Let him go!” Tamsin struggled against her uncle.
Brendan Sheia ignored them. He was pacing around Jordan, inspecting him as one might a prize horse. “I remember you now,” he said. “You were with those foreign spies at the banquet. You were sick, if I recall. Nearly spoiled dinner.”
Jordan glared at him. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Sheia’s sword flashed up. “You brought the Heaven hooks against our house! You destroyed our ancestral home, incited the Hooks to kill my ally Turcaret, and when you were done you ran into the night, and the Hooks followed! We have it from our witnesses.”
His confrontation with Turcaret in the Boros courtyard had been seen, Jordan realized. But had Axel and Calandria been arrested as well? “What about—” Sheia hit Jordan across the jaw. He staggered, and was grabbed roughly by two men and hauled to his tiptoes.
“Stop it!” screamed Tamsin.
“Silence,” hissed her uncle.
Sheia bowed to Suneil. “Lucky thing you chanced on Mason, old man. You’ll get your honor and your title back. I can’t guarantee the money and lands, of course… but in this new age, what guarantee have we of anything?” He flipped a hand negligently at Jordan. “Take the boy.”
The two soldiers holding his arms yanked Jordan into a quick-march; then they were out in the streets, and he was being thrown over the side of a horse, hands and feet bound.
The good citizens of Rhiene watched and commented, but did nothing to help as Jordan was carried away.