Solineus

by L. James Rice

  Solineus clasped forearms with the man, and Rêmwûer leaned in to butt his forehead; a ring between his ears ensued, but the big cat meant well.

  Next, he turned to Yumûlu, and she spoke. “This is Kîger and his bride Mêlsok, their children Kêtû and Bolris. They are Ergôtrîts and know only a few Kingdomer words, but they will carry you to Mulshuhar.” She grabbed both his arms and butted his head; he should’ve worn his helmet.

  He blinked the concussion away. “Thank you. May you two live long together and build a pride worthy of your names.”

  She cocked her head with a toothy smile, her giant tongue lolling over one fang. “That was a very good blessing, Little-Furless, I think the spirit-smoke raised your Ilu soul. You return to us one day, Solineus of the Clanemudar.”

  “I will. I’ve a lot of returning to do, may as well make this another stop.” He climbed onto the back of the wagon, and with a snap of the reins the mules pulled him away from yet another set of new friends.

  He smiled.

  The first new friends where no one was left behind dead.

  17

  Future’s Witness Past

  Tantrums thrown and tantrums crashed,

  the willing waiting did treasure amass.

  Wondering wandering wonders,

  the bloated dead man’s blunders.

  A stab, a stoke, a murderous pig in a poke,

  the deception in sight,

  to build the weakness in your own might.

  Might, maybe, seeing sight the might,

  the fight outside of fright.

  — Tome of the Touched

  The family he traveled with shared about fifty words in the Kingdomer tongue with him, simple things like eat and sleep, but after a week of bouncing in the back of their wagon, he heard words he’d been waiting for: “Mulshuhar close, now.”

  He perked up, excited for the next candle or two. They rolled along a stretch of road a hundred strides from massive cliffs that fell into the sea, or Kônu Bay, as they named it. To the south its bright blue waters stretched to the horizon, and to the north a land of oranges, browns, and greens. The air was warm and dry, and if not for swarms of bugs wanting to suck his blood, he figured he might’ve found a version of paradise. But, the red domes of the city were nowhere in sight by the time they bedded down for the night.

  The next morning Kîger said it again: “Mulshuhar close, now.”

  This time he yawned and nodded, but by midmorning their wagon nosed into a slope headed for the sea, and on the horizon red-gold domes shown in the sun with an astounding glow. He’d never seen a city so beautiful, so huge, so pristine. “Son of a bitch… I made it.” He checked his tongue; he wasn’t there yet. But after damned near two years since blowing the bridge… had it been so long? Not yet, but close enough for him to accept the rounding error. Two years to reach this city in the hopes the Lady in his dreams wasn’t full of shit.

  He chuckled to himself and the family turned to stare, yapping between themselves about something.

  He stood and balanced with legs spread, the extra height enough to see a hundred ships harbored. The wagon bounced and he took a seat, sharing a laugh with the family.

  Mulshuhar was beyond beautiful, it was stunning, a city fashioned from stone a hundred shades of umber, ranging from light-golden to roasted chestnut, and either polished to a shine or rough cut. Houses and buildings sat capped by roofs of green or red tiles, but rising from its center was the Mehul-Shundelâ , the Palace of Red Domes, where every stone was a polished golden-umber and its three dozen towers sported glowing crowns of a deep, rose-gold.

  Winds rolled in brisk and warm from Kônu Bay, and as they wheeled down the sloping city toward the harbor, he found himself floundering to imagine how many people lived her. A wild array of people lined the streets in more fashions than he’d imagined, and the peoples ranged from loud and boisterous to wrapping their heads to hide their faces. But no matter what they looked like or how they dressed, the thing which boggled his mind was how many of them there were.

  The wagon stopped outside a long warehouse with a lurch, and Kîger and his family climbed from their seats, waving for him to climb down. “Here. Here. Done.”

  Solineus stepped to the man and smiled, slipped a silver dâgut into his hand. “Thank you.” And he bowed.

  Kîger held the coin up. “No, no.”

  “No?” Was the man unhappy with the gift? He offered another coin but Kîger smiled and waved it away.

  “No dâgut. Smedên.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a tiny coin, but its color spoke all Solineus needed to know: Red gold. Local coinage.

  Solineus laughed and smiled with a nod. “Smedên, where can I exchange coins?”

  “ Te te te…” The man pointed, then huffed before turning to his son. “Zêgu! Tompolê eñeû far rôchu.”

  The boy rolled his eyes but that was as close as he came to defying his father. He stomped down the street and Solineus followed after bowing again to Kîger and his wife.

  They crossed three broad streets and descended four steep stairs, then strode a half horizon down a street that never ceased being crowded. Again he wondered how damned many people were in this place. Tens of thousands was about the extent of his imagination.

  Zêgu stopped and pointed to a building marked by a wooden sign painted with four coins. Solineus slipped the boy a few dâguts, and he smiled, no longer irritated his father had sent him with the foreigner. “Thank you.”

  The boy bowed and bounded east, and Solineus strode into the coin exchange. The streets were crowded, but fewer than a dozen souls stood visible in this posh room. Rugs of matching and intricate geometric weaves covered much of the floor, but where the stone showed, it was polished orange marble, and the desks were carved from rosewood if he guessed right. He felt out of place in his armor and the Twins riding his back, and the workers here agreed, caring not a wit for his presence so far as he could tell, and he wondered if unwrapping the Ikoruv hilts of the Twins might change their minds. But he chose patience, standing in the soft breeze of a giant fan spinning above.

  Several wicks later a tap landed on his shoulder, and he turned to face a woman short enough and squat enough to be a Kingdomer, but she was pudgy rather than powerful. She did her best to smile. “Hedû?”

  “You speak Kingdomer?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Her accent was funny, but it was damned nice to understand someone again. “I need to exchange some dâguts for smedên.”

  “Yes. Of course. This way. There will be a three percent fee for any exchange.”

  She led him to a table and sat, but she didn’t offer him a seat. He reached into his pack and pulled out his pouch with Morik’s gift in it, untied it, and placed it in front of her. She sighed and pulled it to her with a disinterested grin, glanced inside, and her eyes didn’t leave for what felt a wick. When she looked up it wasn’t to him. “Ket! Ket!”

  A man standing nearby hustled away, and Solineus’ heart beat fast. What the hells? Then he felt a chair pushed against the back of his legs.

  “Please, sit.” She reached into the pouch and pulled out coins, thick and silver, some thin and gold, and she built stacks from them. “Did you come to Mulshuhar to buy a ship?”

  His head jerked as if from a spasm. Buy a ship? He swallowed, not certain what the hells to say. How much had the Kingdomer given him? Then he looked closer: the edges of one golden stack held a violet tint. Timôu, infused gold. He coughed. “I was considering it.”

  “Good!” She laughed. “We can’t exchange such an amount… not until tomorrow. You will need to sign some papers, a statement of value… and how you came by this wealth?”

  He nodded, keeping calm, no reason to raise undeserved suspicion. “That is well enough. King Sînhôlar the Ironwing, of the Kingdom of Helmveline, gifted me this sum for performing a task.”

  She slouched in her seat and eyeballed him. “You’ve some proof? A writ or statement?”

/>   He removed his pack and burrowed his hand to the bottom, pulling out the griffon cloak. “I have this.” He shook it out and draped it over a shoulder.

  She rose in her seat with a smile and a cough. “The king of… Well! This will take some time to document. We will make it clear you are an agent of Helmveline, this will speed things. We can exchange the silver and gold now if you’d like?”

  “That is well.”

  She snapped her fingers and a man placed a tray covered with stacks of smedên on the table. She started counting. “You aren’t of Helmveline, how did you come to serve the Ironwing?”

  “That is a story too long and sad to tell.”

  She nodded. “We’ll need your name for the documents?” Her voice was so smiley and pleasant now it made him want to laugh. He figured she might collect some small part of the exchange fee.

  “Solineus Mikjehemlut.”

  She blinked and cocked her head. “A Mikjehemlut, of the Emudar?”

  His heart hit his throat, and it took a flicker before he could speak. “Yes.”

  “From the deep north, yes, we’ve had dealings with the Emudar on several occasions over the past decade.”

  “You have?” He rocked back in his seat, staring. “Who?”

  “Oh, goodness, I don’t remember every foreigner’s name!” And she laughed. “Which raises the question of how in the world you came so far from the north to meet the Ironwing, and then somehow travel all the way here?”

  “Dumb luck, I suspect.”

  She laughed again, then lay the Timôu coins in neat rows and covered them with a thin paper. She passed over them with a charcoal stick, flipped them, and did so again. “Sign here, and here.” She flipped the sheet, so he signed both sides. Then the man brought a scale, and weighed the coins in order, denoting their weight on the sheet. Her brow sweated and she clucked each time she dropped a coin on the scale.

  “That it? What’re they worth?”

  She blinked. “Hmm? Well. A quarter million smedên at the very least.” Her giggle was nervous. “You are a very rich man, Lord Mikjehemlut.”

  “I am?” The notion felt peculiar. The five thousand four hundred and thirty-two smedên she’d given him for the regular coins had felt a fortune flickers before.

  She touched his hand. “I’m single.” She laughed. “Just kidding! But I could be. I’m not kidding about that.” And she winked.

  And the man who’d brought the tray said, “And I wouldn’t even blame her for leaving me.”

  He glanced between the two. They laughed, and he joined in, relieving a strange pressure in his gut.

  “Ho! Well, my being a wealthy man, where might I find an inn?”

  They looked to one another and the man answered. “The Golden Swordfish is expensive but popular with the wealthiest merchants.”

  Solineus shook his head. “I don’t need gold forks, but I don’t want no rats in my bed neither.”

  She answered this time. “The Timber and Nest , two blocks straight south, on your southern-right. You won’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.” The talk of wealth faded, and his mind turned. “You mentioned Emudar… Have you seen any of my people recently?”

  “No, can’t say I have, but then I don’t visit the docks and I’ve only dealt with them once personally. So many foreign ships and traders…” She shrugged.

  “I thank you. Both of you.” He grinned and strode from the bank exchange standing tall and a little bemused by how life turned in peculiar circles. His strides took him to and past the Timber and Nest Inn and all the way to the wharf’s docks and its array of ships.

  Not one, but four, Luxun banners snapped in the wind. Docked near each other, he couldn’t resist checking to see if the Entiyu Emoño sat tied off. She and her captain weren’t there, but what he really looked for was any sign of a Silone vessel.

  The length of the wharf and docks made him swear he’d walked a horizon in one direction, but once to the end he turned and began the walk back, his nerves flaring every time her heard a voice with what he figured a Tek accent.

  “Son of a bitch, Solineus Mikjehemlut. I reckon I find you in the damnedest places!”

  The Silone voice with an Emudar accent lurched his heart and he spun, knowing who’d found him. “Hadin Elost…” The scrawny man was as scruffy as the last time he saw him at Choerkin Fost, and his feet still bare.

  But it was the face behind him that stifled his voice and brought the Lady’s words back to him: I won’t tell you who you were, but who you are and who you will be awaits you far to the west, in Kônu Bay. It was a bit like looking in a mirror.

  Lord Adinvan Mikjehemlut.

  “Father?”

  The Serenading Swallow you say?

  Oh, you cleverest of crows,

  green-eyed and black-souled,

  treading the charred stone once ablaze.

  No, not yet.

  Walkers on Fire, Walkers on Glass,

  chewers of the nail to the very last,

  the past, aghast.

  Waltzing the field of unbreakable broken!

  Burn your feet and freeze your soul,

  oh don’t you know, You know, you Know,

  your horrifying future can only survive

  because of your missed and forgotten past.

  — Tomes of the Touched

  City of Whispers

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