by Geoff Rodkey
“Li Homaya coming,” he said. “Everybody have to stop work. Say hello.”
Soon a wide lane had been cleared down the middle of the courtyard, from the gates to the palace steps, and columns of soldiers from the fortress stood at attention on either side of the lane. Most of them looked sweaty and rumpled, like they’d all been woken from naps and forced to run there at double speed. But at least their purple uniforms were actually buttoned over their bellies for a change.
We stood with the band, packed in alongside the rest of the crowd behind one of the columns of soldiers. Guts was scowling. He hadn’t wanted to quit playing.
“Pudda stupid.”
Salo lowered his voice. “Quiet, Guts man. Soldier hear you, end up in dungeon.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yeah, man. Li Homaya big boss. Make all the rules.” He pointed behind us, where a soldier was dressing down a frightened-looking merchant who he’d caught still trying to do business.
Salo elbowed Guts in the ribs. “Smile for Li Homaya, man! You go dungeon, whole band lose money.”
Guts wouldn’t smile, but he managed not to scowl as much.
Then a bugle and drum announced Li Homaya’s arrival. He galloped in, a large man with a moon-shaped face and a billowing cape, riding a white stallion. A squad of cavalry officers followed him.
As the crowd cheered—more out of duty than joy, it seemed like—he dismounted at the foot of the palace steps, handed the reins of his stallion to a waiting soldier, and climbed the steps to the portico.
His officers followed him up the steps while the rest of the cavalry entered the courtyard—a couple hundred surprisingly lean and tough-looking soldiers whose horses kicked up so much dust that an epidemic of coughing broke out in the crowd.
Once the dust had settled and the senior officers had taken their places behind him on the portico, Li Homaya faced the crowd and raised his hand in the air.
Everyone went silent. Their leader’s big head swiveled from side to side, taking in the scene. Even from a distance, it was pretty clear he was full of himself.
Then, in a booming voice, he began a long and boring speech, complete with a lot of fist-shaking and dramatic pauses. I couldn’t understand a word of it. The pauses were meant to give the crowd a chance to cheer him, and they did—but as I looked around, I saw a lot of stifled yawns and glassy looks.
Finally, he finished with a double pump of both fists, turned on his heel, and marched into the palace. The moment the door closed behind him, the cheering died away, the cavalry rode out, and the soldiers began to file back to the fortress.
Within minutes, the market was returning to normal. As the band got ready to play again, I noticed a line had formed at the palace’s main door. It snaked across the portico, a curious mix of people, both young and old, Native and Continental, with a few Mandars thrown in for good measure. Some waited in pairs, but not friendly ones—as they stood there, they bickered with each other, a few of them pretty viciously.
I asked Salo what they were doing.
“Want to speak to Li Homaya,” he said. “They have problem, need him to solve. He make rules. Decide everything.”
Soon the soldiers at the palace door started letting people in, and the line began to move. Every few minutes, someone would exit the palace, looking either joyful or angry—for the people in pairs, it was usually one of each—and another one would enter.
As the band played, I watched the people go in and out, amusing myself by trying to imagine what business they’d brought before Li Homaya.
Then a group of three Cartager men joined the line. They were a rough bunch, their clothes torn and dirty and their belts sagging with pistols and knives.
My heart skipped a beat as I realized all three of them were staring in my direction. They looked familiar, but I had no idea why.
I was racking my brain to think of where I’d seen them before when one of them pointed—not at me, but just past me—and when I looked over my shoulder and saw Guts playing in the band, I remembered.
They were pirates from Ripper Jones’s crew.
I tried to get Guts’s attention, but he was lost in his music. The band had drawn a pretty big crowd, and I didn’t want to make a scene by interrupting. They were still playing an hour later when the three pirates emerged from the palace.
They sauntered down the steps, pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and stood sneering at Guts.
The second he noticed them, he stopped playing. Gradually, the rest of the band did, too.
“Ay, Gussie,” the tallest of the pirates called out. “Where you get tha’ hook, boy? You got new frien’?”
“We you frien’,” said another. “You come back wi’ us! Play for Ripper.”
Guts’s face was twitching up a storm. “Die first, ye bada scum.”
The pirates’ smiles disappeared, and they moved to draw their weapons.
Guts leaped up, raising his hook with a snarl—but in an instant, a dozen band members and townspeople had jumped in to stand between him and the pirates.
Some of the townspeople had weapons of their own, and angry threats rained down on the pirates from all around.
For a moment, the Ripper’s men stood frozen, stunned to discover that Guts wasn’t the friendless outcast he’d been on their ship.
The facts of the situation began to sink in. They all took their hands off their weapons and began to back away, toward the street that led to the docks.
“You got lots new frien’, eh, Gussie? No worry. We see you a’gin.”
Guts looked too angry to speak. I decided to answer for him.
“Not likely,” I called out to them. “Burn Healy’s looking for your lot.”
Their leader turned toward me with a knowing glint in his eye.
“We loo’ for him, too. He gon’ have bi’ surprise wen he fin’ us.”
“We got new frien’, too,” added another, jerking his head in the direction of the palace.
I watched the pirates make their way out of the market, wondering what they meant by that.
Guts spit on the ground where the pirates had stood. “Pudda them porsamoras. I’m playin’ the palace tonight.”
THE PALACE
Li Homaya lived well. We were in a room the size of a small town, drenched in gold—gold statues, gold wall hangings, gold plates, gold silverware…all gleaming under the light of a dozen gold chandeliers.
There was a raised stage in the middle of the room, surrounded by big round tables set for ten. A couple hundred guests, all elegantly dressed and much older than us, milled around while servants in crisp uniforms snaked through the group, offering trays of fizzy red drinks in long-stemmed glasses.
I was the only non–band member who’d been allowed to tag along. As I watched the adults stare at us, I thought to myself that it was a good thing Salo had made us all take baths and buy new clothes. We still stuck out, but at least we smelled okay.
After we’d spent a few minutes standing around like awestruck cows, a palace official in a high-collared suit appeared and began to herd everyone into a line starting at the door.
Once we were all lined up, the official bellowed an announcement, and Li Homaya entered the room.
Up close, he looked like a well-dressed toad—tall and fat, with a bloated neck that spilled upwards out of the stiff collar of his uniform, nearly drowning his chin. He had tiny Cartager ears and wide-set eyes with a twinkle in them that managed to be both jolly and menacing at the same time.
On his left elbow was a haughty-looking military aide. On his right was a slender teenage girl in a purple velvet dress. She was Native, from a tribe I figured must be Dorono, because Salo had once said they were the prettiest. She had big dark eyes over a broad nose and a prominent, full-lipped mouth. Her black hair fell in thick waves down to the small of her back, and as I looked down the line of band members in front of me, I could see them all staring saucer-eyed at her.
Li Hom
aya slowly made his way down the line, letting the military aide introduce him to each guest, who all bowed deeply as they shook his hand.
The girl followed them, rarely speaking, and at first I wondered if she was Li Homaya’s daughter, even though she didn’t look a thing like him, or possibly his wife, although that seemed a little gross considering how young she looked.
It didn’t occur to me that she might be a translator until it came time for Guts’s introduction, and she spoke up instead of the first aide.
“His Excellence, Li Homaya Somio Malalo, Instrument of His Majesty King Illon and Viceroyal Authority of the Lands of New Cartage, welcomes you to his palace, to enjoy his food and drink and to offer the gift of your talent in return.”
She spoke in a clear, confident voice, and her Rovian was so perfect that if it hadn’t been for her accent, I would’ve guessed she’d been born there.
Guts grunted a nervous hello and bowed like he’d seen the others do.
A string of words burbled up from Li Homaya’s throat. Then he chortled, reached out to grab Guts’s hook, and raised it up so he could examine it while the girl translated his comment.
“Li Homaya wonders how you make music with this hook, as to him it looks good only to catch fish.”
Li Homaya guffawed again, clapping Guts on the shoulder with a meaty fist. As Guts scowled, the girl quickly added, “I think it is smart if you laugh now.”
As Guts stared at her, dumbfounded, Li Homaya’s eyes started to crinkle. And not in a good way.
I quickly jumped in with a loud laugh, raising my hand to my belly so I could give Guts a discreet elbow in the side.
He snapped out of it, managing to produce a half-decent fake laugh that seemed to salvage the situation. Li Homaya turned away and bellowed something as he gestured toward the stage.
The band immediately started for their instruments. The girl explained to Guts:
“Li Homaya wishes to hear a song before dinner.”
Guts nodded and went to join the band. Li Homaya swaggered off after them, leaving the guests who were still waiting for their introduction—which was most of them—looking annoyed.
I was wondering what I was supposed to do when I felt a hand on my arm. It was the Native girl.
“You are also from Rovia, yes? Li Homaya has invited a fellow Rovian to dine with you. You will find Mr. Angus Bon at the last table to the left.”
The table she pointed me toward was still empty when I reached it, but I found name cards at each place, written in fancy script and sporting names like “Sera Orellalo Mamoya Horrenio.” I circled the table until I found one that read “Ser Angus Bon,” and next to it, one that said “Ser Ug.”
I figured I was “Ug” and took my seat, excited to finally have another Rovian to talk to after two weeks in Pella.
Soon enough, the rest of the table filled with well-dressed, snotty-looking men and women speaking Cartager. The middle-aged man who sat in the place marked for Angus Bon had Rovian ears, gray-streaked red hair, and a thick, droopy mustache.
“Excuse me, sir, but—are you Rovian?” I asked hopefully.
“Mmm,” he said in a bored voice. “Suppose you’re the new one?”
I nodded.
“Barely out of the cradle, aren’t you?” He looked at my name card. “What kind of name is Ug?”
“It’s really Egg,” I said. “Short for Egbert. Masterson.”
“Masterson? No one prominent by that name. What province are you from?”
“Deadweather Island.”
He got a look on his face like I’d just thrown up on his shoes.
“Smashing,” he said.
Then he turned away from me and started speaking Cartager with the man on his left, a mound of flesh with jeweled rings on every finger.
My cheeks flushed hot. I felt angry and stupid at the same time. But I didn’t know what to do about it, so I just stared at my plate until the band began to play.
They weren’t quite as sharp as usual—I think partly because they were nervous, and partly because the audience reacted to them like a bunch of dead fish—and I spent most of their opening song trying to think of something smart to say to Angus Bon so he wouldn’t think I was an idiot just because I was from Deadweather.
I came up with something I thought was surefire, but he was so determined to ignore me that it wasn’t until after the main course had been served that I managed to find an opening.
“Mr. Bon, could you tell me: is it possible to buy Rovian books in Pella? I’m quite starved for a good read.”
“There are no good reads in Rovian,” he said with a sniff.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all second-rate knockoffs. The only Continental literature worth reading is Cartager.”
I was shocked—and insulted, because Rovian books were all I’d ever read, and the best of them I loved like they were people. By the time I recovered, Angus had gone back to chattering with his neighbor, but I interrupted him, blurting out, “What about Basingstroke?”
He turned back just long enough to give me a look of scorn. “Wouldn’t wipe my dog’s feet with that book. It’s rubbish.”
Then he went right back to ignoring me.
My cheeks burned again. I wanted to get up and leave, but there was nowhere to go. So I sat and stewed, and tried to think up some clever insults.
A few minutes later, dessert arrived, on covered dishes with silver lids. One of the servants had been announcing each course in Cartager, and his description of the dessert stirred up a lot of excitement.
In spite of my anger, I got excited myself. For all its fantastic food, the one thing lacking in Pella Nonna was good dessert, and I dared to hope the palace might serve us jelly bread.
Then the lids came off, revealing sections of an oversized citrus fruit sprinkled with mint on a bed of whipped cream. I couldn’t believe my eyes, and I had to taste the fruit to be sure I wasn’t mistaken.
It was ugly fruit. And judging from the faces of everyone at my table as they worked their jaws over it, they thought they were eating something rare and exotic.
Angus Bon was as pleased as the rest of them. I couldn’t help smiling.
“You know, that’s ugly fruit.”
“Mmm?”
“It’s ugly fruit. Comes from Deadweather. Mostly pirates eat it. But only because they can’t afford oranges.”
He stopped chewing for a moment, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sneered through his full mouth.
It didn’t matter that he wouldn’t believe me. I knew the truth. And any man who thought ugly fruit was a delicacy had no business telling me what books were worth reading.
AFTER THAT, I was as happy to ignore Angus Bon as he’d been to ignore me. But while the band played its set after dessert, it occurred to me that as nasty as he was, he might be able to answer a question that still stumped me.
So when the final course of coffee and nuts was being served, and his Cartager companion had tottered away from the table for a moment, I asked Angus:
“Why aren’t there more Rovians in Pella?”
“Ignorance,” he said. “Most of them don’t realize the Banishment Law was never meant to apply to honest men. And more’s the—”
“There really was a Banishment Law?” So much of what Captain Racker had told us turned out to be wrong that I’d figured it was just something he’d made up to scare his crew.
“Course. There still is—but it was only meant to stop the slavers. Instead, it just drove out all the accountants. Now, there’s a field where Rovians excel—”
“Wait—what slavers?”
“The ones on Sunrise. I mean, if there’s one thing this town needs, it’s some decent accountants. The Short-Ears—”
“There’s slavers on Sunrise Island!?”
“Course! How else would they keep that silver mine going? Don’t interrupt.” He must have had a lot of wine by this p
oint, because his speech was getting slurry. And he wouldn’t stop going on about accounting.
“The Short-Ears, for all their cultural superiority, cannot add or subtract to save their lives. Their bookkeeping’s disastrous—”
“Who are the slavers? Is it Roger Pembroke who’s behind it?”
“Haven’t the slightest idea. Wouldn’t set foot on Sunrise if you paid me. All that new money. It’s crass…But the thing with the Cartagers—it’s like they’ve got some kind of religious objection to proper financial recording—”
“And the slaves come from over here? In the New Lands?”
“Stop changing the subject!”
“Just tell me where the slaves come from!” I’d stopped caring about being polite. I just wanted to know what he knew.
He sighed, then propped his elbow on the table and put his chin on his hand.
“Far as I know…or care…the slavers have a racket going with one of the northern tribes. Moku. Nasty business, that bunch. Real savages. Not like the Flut—now, there’s a tribe with business sense. Actually some decent accounting talent if they’re properly—”
“So the Moku sell slaves to men from Sunrise Island?”
“You really are quite tedious. It’s a miracle they let you in here. Are you somebody’s nephew?”
“But why would they sell their own people to Roger—I mean, to Rovians?”
“No, no. Don’t be stupid. Moku don’t sell Moku. They sell their blood enemies. Okalu.”
The bejeweled Cartager had come waddling back. Angus gave him a boozy look of relief and turned away from me.
“So there’s still Okalu left? Up north? And the Moku sell them as slaves to Roger Pembroke?”
Ignoring me, Angus started up a new conversation with the Cartager.
I raised my voice. “Are there still Okalu? Up north?”
