City of Wind (Steel and Fire Book 4)

by Jordan Rivet

  “What is it?” Dara said quickly. “Did you see something?” She scanned the street behind her again but saw no sign of trouble.

  “Just you,” Siv said hoarsely.

  “Huh?”

  “Burning Firelord, Dara Ruminor, have you seen yourself?”

  “What are talking about?”

  “Where did you get that dress?”

  “Oh. Vine found it.” Dara brushed her fingers over the bloodred fabric. “She said it would help me fit in at the party. I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”

  “Vine Silltine has funny ideas about what blending in means,” Siv muttered. He fell silent, and a good thirty seconds passed before he seemed to realize he was staring directly at her neckline. She supposed it was rather deep. He cleared his throat elaborately and offered her his arm. “My lady?”

  Dara looped her arm in his, grinning.

  “You look nice,” she said. “New coat?”

  “I found it in a secondhand shop on the outskirts of the Garment District. Need to look the part of an up-and-coming pen fighter. I also walked by the manor house we’re visiting tonight. It’s even bigger than Wyla’s.”

  “Sounds like it’ll be quite the party.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Siv smiled down at her, and nearly walked into a mud puddle in his freshly shined boots before Dara reminded him to watch where he was going.

  “You’d better stay alert tonight,” she said.

  “I will. And I won’t drink too much, if you’re worried about that,” Siv said. “Don’t need to with you on my arm.”

  Dara smiled in spite of herself. If she’d known it would have this effect on him, she’d have bought a red Pendarkan dress a lot sooner.

  The Market District separated Wyla’s domain from Khrillin’s Garment District. They paid a few coppers to take a canal boat from the edge of Wyla’s territory. Siv insisted on helping Dara into the flat-bottomed boat. It was crowded at this time of the evening, and they squished together on a bench in the bow. Two men propelled the boat forward with long darkwood poles.

  A strong wind blew over the city from the Black Gulf, carrying the salt smells of the sea and the swampy aroma of the canals. Murky brown water slid beneath them. Once, a strange creature poked a multi-eyed head out of the water. It disappeared again before Dara could get a good look.

  The city had once been a natural river delta. Dozens of little islands had been carved up and divided many times over the years. Canals and bridges created a maze of pathways amongst the districts. Flags representing whichever Waterworker held the power helped to distinguish each region.

  “I’ve heard some boats use Watermight to go faster,” Siv said. “Their operators charge a premium.”

  “I can imagine,” Dara said. “The Waterworkers don’t do as much practical Work as we do in Vertigon. They use their power sparingly.”

  “Zage used to say that was the problem with having it all concentrated with only a few Waterworkers,” Siv said. “They get greedy and jealous.”

  “And violent,” Dara said.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to see any of that before we get out of here.”

  Dara didn’t answer. She appreciated that Siv wanted to free her from Wyla’s service early, but the more she got to know the woman, the more she doubted that would be possible. And Wyla still hadn’t decided how Dara was to repay her for that Watermight-assisted wave. Dara suspected Wyla was waiting until she knew whether or not her theories were correct before exacting her final price.

  Tonight, Dara intended to forget all about that. She tucked her arm under Siv’s and leaned her head on his shoulder, enjoying the sights and sounds of the Pendarkan evening. He rested his cheek on her head, his breath ruffling her hair.

  The canal boat soon left Wyla’s poison-green Jewel District and meandered amongst the fluttering red flags of the Market District. The main island boasted a lively bazaar selling food and imported goods for the residents of the city. The district was mostly for local commerce. The vast warehouses storing goods bound for northern lands were located in the port districts closer to the sea.

  In addition to the main island, barges carried floating markets through the canals of the Market District. Hundreds of lights swung from their decks, and clusters of smaller boats surrounded them like litters of nursing cur-dragons. Their boat barely squeezed past, the operators directing it with much swearing and bluster.

  They made it past the traffic jam around the market barges and continued through the waterlogged city. They were traveling northwest, away from the coast. A group of taller towers Dara hadn’t had a chance to investigate rose in the distance. Lights burned from windows at the very top like candle flames.

  “That’s the Royal District,” Siv said. “The King of Pendark lives in the tallest tower.”

  Dara sat up, leaning around Siv to get a better look. “He doesn’t have much power here, right?”

  “He’s not a Waterworker. His district has more tall buildings, but it isn’t any bigger than the others. His territory looks more impressive than it is.” Siv frowned, watching the towers in the fading light. “He keeps the peace as well as he can, I guess.”

  “Do you miss being king?” Dara asked, careful to keep her voice down so the other passengers wouldn’t hear.

  “No . . . or at least, I don’t think so. I liked some things about it, I’m not going to lie, but it was a lot of responsibility.” Siv took her hand, running his thumb along her skin. “I’ve picked up a different combination of responsibilities out here in the Lands Below. But I miss Vertigon.”

  “Me too.”

  They fell silent, holding hands and gliding onward as night fell. Dara knew Siv couldn’t let his kingdom go. For all his efforts to step away and start a new life, it was still his mountain, and he had a responsibility to get back to it.

  Dara remembered what Vine had said the other day. Would Siv make her his queen if he regained his throne? She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She wished they could stay like this: a normal couple who could ride a boat to a party without worrying that someone would kill them. Despite Lord Vex’s presence in Pendark and her obligations to Wyla, she felt safer here than she had in a long time.

  Red flags gave way to the midnight blue of the Garment District. A jumble of stalls selling secondhand or cheap clothing lined the outskirts. Farther in, the shops became finer and the streets and canals more sparsely populated. Tailors with quilted fabric signs advertising their services surrounded the inlet where the boat finally bumped against a dock. Siv and Dara scrambled over their nearest seatmates to disembark onto a large island.

  They walked up the main street, leaving the tailors behind, and entered a residential area. Dara guessed the well-to-do garment merchants lived here. The ground sloped steadily upward, and the streets quickly became less muddy.

  A woman carrying spools of thread on her back pointed them toward Khrillin’s manor. They turned a corner as instructed and could no longer see any water around them. That was unusual. Most Watermight practitioners preferred to live near the shore of whatever waterways they controlled, but Khrillin had built his house as near to the center of his island as he could manage.

  “Should be just around this corner,” Siv said. “I recognize that green house . . . Ah. Here we are.”

  The manor rose before them at last. Dozens of lights glittered around the outer walls. The flickering quality of the light indicated torches of flame rather than Vertigonian Firelights. That was unfortunate. Dara would have to rely on the power in the Firebulbs in her pouch if they got into trouble.

  Perhaps Siv was thinking of danger too, because he pulled her a little closer as they strode up to the gates. They were solid bronze, and the flickering torchlight made the bronze look almost like gold. He raised a hand to knock, but the door swung open before he touched it.

  “Welcome to the home of the Waterlord Khrillin. Your name, please?”

  “I am Sivren Amen, the pen fig
hter.”

  The door guard looked over a piece of parchment scrawled with names. Dara shifted her feet, preparing to reach for a weapon.

  Siv cleared his throat. “Uh, Dellario Darting said I was—”

  “Ah, here you are. Sivren Amen and a guest. Very good, sir. Please proceed to the house.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dara let out the breath she’d been holding. The guard didn’t ask for her name as he waved them toward the house. Wyla hadn’t specifically told her not to interact with any other Waterworkers, but she’d rather not have her attendance on record.

  They strode up a crushed gravel path toward the house. Khrillin’s courtyard was carefully manicured, a marked contrast to Wyla’s wild garden. The hedges and pathways looked almost too perfect. The front doors of the house stood open, and music and laughter drifted out into the night. Torchlight lit the scene, casting ethereal shadows across the path.

  People strolled through the garden and milled around the front doors, clad in fine coats and bright dresses in a hundred colors. Vine had been correct about the red dress helping Dara blend in with the other guests. One or two men might have glanced twice at her, but with Siv holding her tight, they soon looked away.

  Most of the guests were young, exceptionally beautiful, and well dressed. The few older, uglier men in attendance had clusters of attractive younger people gathered around them, sipping wine from crystal goblets and laughing at their jokes. The men smoked long pipes, and a halo of smoke lingered above the garden.

  The entryway of the manor house featured a grand fountain constructed entirely of glass. The crystalline shapes sent multihued light dancing across the entryway. Flickers of Watermight flowed through the stream like a cascade of diamonds. Dara wondered if the Waterlord himself controlled the flow, or if he employed lesser Waterworkers to create the spectacle. She trailed her fingers in the water as she passed, trying to draw some of the Watermight to her hands. She caught a hint of movement in her direction. Then she noticed the other people gathered to admire the fountain didn’t dare touch the water. They watched her warily until she pulled her hands out of the fountain and dried them surreptitiously on her skirt.

  Music floating from a corridor on the opposite side of the entrance hall drew the partygoers further into the house. They glided toward it as if called by a siren.

  “There are more people than I expected,” Dara said.

  “Me too,” Siv said. “This is enough people for a royal feast.”

  They paused partway down the corridor, where a group of women wearing wide, colorful skirts blocked their way.

  “Do you see your friend anywhere?” Dara asked.

  “Not yet. Let’s go in and see if we can find some food.”

  They squeezed past the women and reached a pair of double doors halfway along the corridor, which opened into a grand dancing hall. The room was smaller than the Great Hall in Vertigon, but more people packed into it than Dara had ever seen at a royal feast. The atmosphere was less formal too. Instead of sitting at banquet tables, everyone stood, danced, or leaned on tall, round tables arrayed around the edges of the hall. Glass candlesticks lit the space, enhanced by the fanciful attire of the couples whirling past.

  Serving girls carried trays of drinks and bite-size foods through the crowds. They were all dressed in wispy fabrics that made them look like fairies, or perhaps sea sprites, further evidence that spring was starting to warm the city. One of the girls, whose shimmering dress was a glistening hue that made Dara think of mist at twilight, glided up to them as they lingered by the doors.

  “May I offer you a soldarberry tart?” she said. “It’s a rare delicacy imported all the way from Vertigon Mountain.”

  Dara and Siv grinned at each other as they each took one of the treats and thanked the serving girl. The familiar burst of sweetness on her tongue made Dara think of home.

  The serving girl was still standing beside them, shifting from foot to foot in her dainty slippers. “Excuse me.” She blushed bright red, making her look younger than she had appeared at first. “Are . . . are you Siv the Slugger?”

  Siv blinked, and Dara was sure he puffed out his chest. “Why yes, I am.”

  “I saw your fight against the Blade from Bell Coast,” the girl said. “I thought for sure you were going to lose.”

  “Uh, thank you.”

  “But then you broke his nose!” the girl said. “It was brilliant. All that blood.”

  “Right, yeah.” Siv tugged on the collar of his new coat.

  The girl grinned at him for a moment. Then she gave Dara a quick look up and down and turned to glide back into the crowd with her platter of soldarberry tarts. “Enjoy the party.”

  “These Pendarkans sure like blood, don’t they?” Siv said. He waved at another server, a muscular woman carrying a heavy tray of drinks.

  “Did you really break someone’s nose?” Dara asked as she accepted a goblet of wine. She didn’t like wine, but having a drink in her hand would help her blend in with the guests.

  “I barely remember that fight, to be honest. When I’m in the pen, it’s like something takes over me. Turns out that something really likes to punch people.”

  Dara raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be a knife fighter?”

  “It’s easier to subdue your opponent with a knife if you knock them cold first. Besides, this way I haven’t had to kill anyone.”

  “At all?”

  “Not in the pen.” Siv rolled his shoulders. “I’ve done enough killing defending myself and my friends over the past few months. I don’t much like the idea of slaughtering people for gold.”

  “But if it comes down to it, you’d kill rather than be killed, right?”

  “I guess so.” Siv frowned into his goblet. “When you’re in the thick of things, it’s hard to stop.”

  Dara touched his hand to show she understood. She thought of how it felt to hold the Fire, to draw in torrents of power, to never want to let go. It was harder to stop, the more power she held. Everything was more complicated for both of them than it had been back when they used to practice their dueling together. She missed those days sometimes.

  “Friends, friends. Why so serious? This is a party!”

  Dara started as a man strode up to them and dropped a bejeweled hand on Siv’s shoulder with a thump. He was clad in white from head to toe, and he had a large, luxurious beard, with tiny jewels woven into it on fine wires of silver.

  “No one comes to the home of Khrillin the Waterlord to have serious, sober conversations,” the man boomed.

  “You must be the man himself,” Siv said.

  “Guilty.” He shrugged his broad, white-clad shoulders. “And you are Siv the Slugger. Glad you could make it.”

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Siv said. “This is Dar—”

  Dara shot him a quick look.

  “Darlanna,” Siv said.

  “A pleasure.” The Waterlord clasped Dara’s hand, his grip firm and slightly sweaty. “I adore your dress.”

  “Thank you.” Dara extracted her hand from his and dropped into a brief curtsy, hoping he wouldn’t be able to sense the Work Wyla had wrought on her arm to confirm their bargain. If he noticed, he didn’t let on.

  “Come, come, have another drink, friends.” Khrillin waved for a nymph-like servant, though their goblets were still full. “I must go greet more of my guests. We’ll talk later.” He clapped Siv on the shoulder again and strode away.

  Dara turned to Siv as soon as he was gone. “Darlanna?”

  “Sorry.” He grimaced. “Had to think fast.”

  “Could be worse. So that was the Waterlord?”

  “Seems like a sociable fellow.” Siv stared after him for a moment. Then he turned back to her with a sly grin. “I know you’re not going to drink that wine. What do you say we abandon these goblets and have a dance?”

  Siv set both of their drinks on one of the small, round tables and pulled Dara out to the crowded dance floo
r. He looped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. She didn’t know the dance, and it quickly became clear that Siv didn’t either. The music was fast, and the moves were energetic, involving a lot of bouncing and spinning. The wide-skirted Pendarkan party dresses turned the dance floor into a constant whirl of colorful pinwheels.

  They tried a few spins, imitating the other couples as well as they could. Dara whirled a little too fast and nearly knocked Siv over when she spun back into him. He caught her before she could spin away again, and didn’t let go.

  They abandoned all attempts to get the steps right.

  Siv held her close against his chest, not bothering to sway in time with the music. She leaned into him, pressing her face into the side of his neck, breathing him in. He ran his fingers through her long, loose hair.

  “Do you remember our first dance?” he said softly.

  “The Cup Feast. How could I forget?”

  “I was going to tell you I loved you then,” he said. “That long ago, and I was sure of it.”

  “But I stormed away.”

  Siv chuckled, pressing his face into her hair. “I could have done a better job of communicating.” He was silent for a moment. The music changed, slowing to match their pace as they turned slowly across the floor. “I’m glad I got to introduce you to my father.”

  Dara lifted her head and met his eyes. He looked grave and proud. Like a king.

  “He was a good man,” she said. “And so are you.”

  Siv frowned, a shadow crossing his face. “Not yet. But I think I can become one.”

  Dara tugged on his beard and drew his face down to hers. They kissed right there in the middle of the crowd, and the other revelers paid them no attention. Dara wished they could do this forever: dance and kiss and dare the world to bother them.

  It felt indulgent. It felt like stolen time, to dance, to be together, to enjoy each other’s company.

  It felt too good to be true—so Dara almost wasn’t surprised when her arm went as cold as ice.

  “Uh-oh.” She stopped, waiting for the feeling to subside.