by A. L. Knorr
The sight of the familiar stamp helped ground Jordan, and her heart seemed to settle back into something like its normal rhythm. Her knees still shook, though, so she leaned on the stone ledge behind her.
"Oh, yes?" Daws peered at the brand as though seeing it for the first time. "It was made in Skillen. I believe so, right."
"Maybe, but the engineer has a shop in Rodania."
Daws poked at the air and jerked his chin to the side for emphasis. "That would be the Lower or the Middle, most like."
"Yes, the Middle. She's a remarkable craftsman."
"Mhmm hmmm, to be sure," Daws agreed, but Jordan got the feeling he was mostly being polite. He clearly didn't know Arth. "You know what else is remarkable, that there dragon of yours."
Jordan peered back at Blue, who was dozing with half his head tucked under one wing. A line of drool hung from the corner of his mouth and dribbled over the top of a claw. "Yes, he is."
"How much you want for him? Fellow like that would be a great addition to the Towerhead."
Blue cracked an eye open just a fraction, evidently still listening to their conversation.
"Oh," Jordan turned back to Daws. "He's not for sale. Blue has imprinted on me." And I on him, Jordan admitted silently. "We can't be separated. It would kill him." Maybe it would kill me, too.
Her new winged status had sealed her emigration to Oriceran, but even so, she still had the option to go home and resume her human life. Blue, however, couldn't go to Earth. Jordan realized right then that their fate was sealed. Oriceran was now her home for good.
"Kill him, huh?" Daws stroked his sandpapery chin. "Well, we can't have that, now can we?"
"No," Jordan agreed, looking back at Blue, who had shut his eye again. "So, you work for something called ‘Towerhead’?"
Daws dipped his chin. "That's a yes. There's one hundred fifty-seven towers between here and the Skillen border. We guard the whole Maticaw shoreline." He swept an arm down the coast. "I'm the first tower on the north side, so you're lucky those hag-crows didn't sniff you out further up. There's nothing between here and Operyn. Nope."
"There's a sharpshooter at every tower?"
"Two, most times," Daws corrected her. "My partner went and got himself a case of the grippe." He chuckled. "Green as a troll's hair, he was."
"I'm sorry. That sounds awful."
Daws waved a hand. "He'll survive. Back tomorrow, more than like."
"He's a Nycht, too?"
" ‘Course. We all are." He peered at her. "What did you say your name was?"
"Jordan. How did you get this job?"
"Well, my father was a Towerhead Nycht, and his father before, and so on. This job keeps you, not t'other way around."
"Did you ever want to do anything else?"
Daws looked struck by this question. "Why would I…?" he paused, his dark eyes blinking. He stroked his chin meditatively. "I guess if you're asking what I might do if I wasn't this," he opened his hands palms-up and shrugged his shoulders. "Why, maybe I'd help people some other way. Sewing up holes instead of making them, if you get what I mean."
"Like a doctor?"
Daws shrugged. "But what's the use? Things just are. And here I am," he slapped a hand on the crossbow.
Jordan spied a neat stack of books in the corner under an overhang. "You like to read when you're not watching the skies?"
"Oh, love it. Only when Howy is on watch, of course."
"May I?" Jordan gestured to the books, curious about what a Nycht of the Towerhead would read.
"Of course. I don't get many guests out here; you can set up a tent and stay for a year, if you want."
Jordan laughed. "Thanks for the offer." She picked up a few of the books and shuffled over the covers one at a time. "These are in four different languages?" She looked up at Daws, impressed. "You know four languages?"
"Seven," he replied matter-of-factly.
Her jaw went slack. "You speak seven languages?"
"Speak?" He knocked his head side-to-side, indicating maybe, maybe not. "Predoian is particularly difficult to speak. I can read it fine, but that gargling in the back of the throat…" He put his fingers to either side of his windpipe. "Tough to master."
"Still. Seven! Where did you learn seven languages?"
"Seven's not so many," Daws said, blushing and looking uncomfortable. "Howy speaks twelve."
"What?"
"We grow up speaking Rodanian and some kind of English; there's a few different dialects, so it depends what our parents learned." He began to count off on his fingers. "Howy taught me Baldanese, I learned Predoian from that book there. My mom taught me Lakterin, because that's where her parents were from, and I learned German and Italian from books." He held up his fingers. "Seven. But Howy also speaks—"
"Wait, wait, wait. You speak German and Italian? Those are Earth languages."
Daws nodded, his brows drawn as if he was waiting for her to make a point.
Jordan spluttered. "But where did the books come from? What good are those languages to you?"
"Earthlings immigrated here, didn't they, before the Great War. Earth languages aren't uncommon to this day on Oriceran. No harm in learning them, even if they've changed somewhat." Daws waved his hand in a way that was becoming familiar to Jordan. "Books are easy to come by. The books aren't illegal; just the passing back and forth of them are, and I've got nothing to do with that. German and Italian are both fun to speak, they keep my brain sharp."
"That's why you learned them?"
Daws shrugged. "More or less. But maybe there's a part of me that hopes to meet up with someone from Earth one day, and if that happens, I'd like to be able to talk to them. Not just a descendant of an Earthling but an actual current-day resident. You know?"
Jordan nodded as she gazed at the Nycht with something like wonderment. "You could be a translator."
Daws flashed that big, good-natured grin of his. "Not much use for translators on the Towerhead, Jordan. A sharp eye, good aim, and some aerobatic capability are what matter here." Daws’ eyes dropped to Jordan's chest, and his grin slowly faded. He pointed to his own chest, "Something wants your attention."
Jordan looked down and saw that the locket was turning and flopping weakly against her breastbone. "Oh!" She gave a gasp. "It's working!" She handed Daws his books, her wings had begun to flutter impatiently. "It's nice to have met you, Daws," she said, shaking his hand again. "I have to go. But thank you again, so much, for," she gestured at the now peaceful sky, "you know."
"Anytime, Jordan. Anytime. You're dancing like you need to make water." He gestured into the trees behind the tower, "There's a privy in the bush over there."
"No, it's not that." Though, come to think of it, I could actually make use of a bathroom after the fright we endured. "I'm just looking for someone, and," she grasped the locket in her fist, "this is my signal that I'm close."
"Alright then," Daws smiled. "Come back and visit anytime. It gets mighty lonely up here on the Towerhead. Howy will sure be mad that he missed meeting you."
"Well, tell Howy I said hello, and that I've never met anyone who can speak twelve languages. That alone is worth coming back for."
Daws' grin widened, but Jordan didn't think he saw the whole poly-linguistic ability as being quite as impressive as she did.
"Oh," he said as she woke Blue up and set a foot up on the edge of the tower. "Try not to fly back to Rodania on your own. That's where you came from isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I know you have him," Daws nodded at Blue. "But these skies are dangerous right now, and they seem to be getting more dangerous by the day." His dark eyes became serious. "Have you got someone you can fly back with?"
"Maybe." Jordan was hoping that that ‘someone’ would be Jaclyn.
"If not, it might be worth paying for an escort if you can."
"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Daws." Jordan crouched beside Blue. "Have you got anything left, little buddy? We can't stay here for the night." Blue rais
ed his head and blinked solemnly at her. He huffed a sigh and got to his feet, half-opening his wings. "Good dragon." Jordan put her hand on his back. "I promise we'll rest soon. We're close now."
Jordan stepped up on the tower edge and Blue crawled up beside her.
"Good travels, Jordan."
"Thanks, Daws. Good luck to you." Jordan gave their new friend one last smile.
Jordan and Blue lit into the air. She waved back at the lonely figure on the tower. His elbow was resting on top of the deadly crossbow as he watched them resume their journey south.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time Blue and Jordan descended into the streets of Maticaw, the locket had taken on more life and was floating halfway between her chest and her chin. Without knowing where to start, Jordan headed for Cles's tower—the only familiar place to her in Maticaw. She and Blue landed in the busy market street not far from where they'd first met.
"Recognize the place, Blue?" Jordan asked her reptilian companion.
He bumped against her calf with his forehead and plopped down, exhausted.
Jordan spied a crumbling clock tower, from which she learned it was just after three in the afternoon. Her stomach rumbled, and she knew for certain Blue had to be hungry, too. They explored the market until a delicious smell drew them to a small kiosk where Jordan bought two enormous flatbreads wrapped around dripping cooked meat and vegetables. She and Blue wandered into a small park and sat down on the grass for their picnic.
If Blue had a preference for food he'd caught himself, he didn't show it. The dragon tore through his wrap, wolfing down the meat and the veggies, but only picking at the bread once he'd finished all the rest. He drank his fill from a small fishpond and came back to curl up at Jordan's side. Jordan finished every last morsel of her own meal and lay back on the grass for a rest. She watched her locket through half-closed eyes as it bobbed weakly at her neck. They dozed as the shadows grew longer and the air grew humid and cool.
Jordan finally roused Blue, who seemed much better after his meal and nap. They both rose and stretched. Jordan knew they'd both be sore the next day—probably for the next few days.
"So, where to?" Jordan murmured as she reached down to stroke Blue's head, gazing at the locket. It wasn't really offering a precise direction—more just floating there in the air. They left the small park as the clock tower chimed six, and began to walk.
The crowds had dwindled as the dinner hour drew close, but they still had to skirt Arpaks, Elves, and goodness knew what other species. From the corner of her eye, Jordan saw a short, fat man whose skin had the color and shine of mercury. She looked away even though she really wanted to stare.
The dust and noise of the busy marketplace swallowed them up. Jordan kept her eyes on the locket, watching to see if its behavior would change. When they passed an intersection in the street, the locket swayed left.
"This way, Blue." Excitement was building in her belly. She could hardly keep her hands from shaking and her eyes from misting up. Her mother was not far away; they could be upon her in a matter of minutes.
The locket led them downhill toward the harbor. Clouds were gathering on the horizon, muting the sun's rays as it swung lower and lower toward the water. Broad stone stairs led them past level after level of city streets. Looking left and right as they passed through intersections, Jordan spied all manner of blade signs for shops and services as well as what looked like gateways into private residential buildings, all hidden away behind walls smothered with vines and moss. The air grew increasingly cool and humid. They paused at a landing where a low brick wall cut off their progress. The locket, clearly unaware that there was no passage over the stone wall, kept tugging toward the water. The pull was stronger now, and the chain pressed into the skin on the back of Jordan's neck.
"Let's fly, Blue," suggested Jordan, propping a foot up on the short retaining wall. "It'll be faster than wandering the streets, and it seems like we need to go down to the harbor."
They took to the air and flew lazily over the city, toward the port. Multi-masted sailing vessels of all sizes shapes and colors drifted in and out. Tiny people ran to and fro on their decks and up and down the rigging as they either prepared to dock, or prepared to set sail. Less often, some strange-looking airship droned overhead to some unknown destination, or even hovered over the water, probably by magic. Still, the locket tugged Jordan toward the water.
Maticaw's port was a congested and active place. The stench of oil, the fug of smoke, and the heady fragrance of spices filled the air with a thick confusion of scents. Several parallel docks stretched out into the water and were crowded with vessels and people running about, carrying this and that, unloading and loading. Barrels were rolled; boxes and crates were pushed on carts, or magically winged through the air on platforms; smaller, more ornate trunks and cases were carried carefully by hand. Some of the humans and other species working in the port were dressed in elaborate clothing, but most were dressed in plain, homespun outfits. Almost everyone carried a weapon of some kind. Many of those at work were Arpaks and Nychts—some of them armed to the teeth and terrifying to behold. Jordan felt almost as though she'd fallen into the Caribbean, during the days of pirates and privateers.
She and Blue landed on a wooden boardwalk that followed the coast and linked the docks. Broad bays in between the docks were choked with vessels of all sizes, drifting, docked, or navigating the mess of traffic as best they could on their way in or out of port.
The locket continued to pull Jordan out to sea, tugging at her neck with more strength. There was nothing there except for ships. Is my mother on one of the vessels in the harbor? Jordan followed the locket’s trajectory, which didn't seem to be pointing to any particular ship. "This makes no sense," murmured Jordan, scratching her head.
A burly fellow with a carpet balanced on his shoulder spied the confused Arpak woman. "Trouble, miss?" He was a barrel-chested man with a bald head and kind eyes.
"What's out there?" Jordan asked, pointing out at the horizon.
"You don't know?" the man's brow wrinkled. "Rodania. You're Arpak; it's your city, and you don't know where it is?"
She frowned. "No, I know where Rodania is, I just…" She blinked down at the locket and wrapped her hand around it. "Is there anything else?"
"Trevilsom prison is beyond Rodania, and after that, nothing but miles and miles of ocean until you reach Potakwa." He gave the kind of suspicious side-eye that Jordan was beginning to grow weary of. "Where are you from?"
She sighed. "Thanks for your help." She mustered a smile for the kind stranger. "I'm looking for someone, and this…" she held up the locket, "…tells me that she is out there." She pointed at the horizon. "But it's just pointing out to sea. The locket would only work if she were close by, so she can't be all the way across the ocean, and it's not pointing at any of the ships. Can you see my dilemma?"
"Maybe at the trade office?" the man offered with a doubtful look.
"Trade office?"
"Aye," he said. "It's a small island not far off the coast. The mist makes it hard to see sometimes. It's just there," he pointed a finger the size of an American hot dog.
Jordan peered out at the horizon. He was right; there was a small something swaddled in cloud that, if one didn't look closely enough, could easily be missed. Jordan's heart resumed its excited thrum as she let go of the locket. It drifted forward and strained at her neck in the direction of the shadowy blob nearly swallowed by fog.
"Thank you," Jordan shot a huge grin at the stranger. "I would have totally missed it."
"Welcome," he said, bobbing his head humbly. He shifted the carpet to get a better grip and said, "Luck to you," before lumbering away.
***
The trade office might more aptly have been called 'Trade Rock'. A dark gray mess of rock slabs, piled high like a messy jumble of books, jutted up from the water. The slabs made a kind of layered tower on one side of the island. On the other side, clusters of modular buildi
ngs emanated light from small, round windows. In the center, a fortress had been carved out of what looked like a single large block of granite. A sturdy, handmade, wooden sign on posts with carved out letters had been driven into the black sand on the narrow beach. The sign was long and very tall, because it listed ‘Maticaw Trade Office’ in what must have been nearly twenty languages; there were too many to count at a glance.
Jordan and Blue landed on the small strip of beach, the black sand swallowing up the soles of Jordan's boots. The locket was now pulling hard enough to bite into Jordan's neck and make her wince. Jordan took it off and held the locket in her fist instead. It surged forward behind her fingers.
"We're close, Blue." She gazed up at the huge stone building. "So close now." She walked up the beach. Blue gave a squawk and flapped his wings, making Jordan turn. He took to the air after some sea bird, and Jordan watched him fly up into the mist and disappear.
"When you gotta eat, you gotta eat," she murmured, feeling suddenly bereft. She trudged onward. The sand became slabs of off-kilter rocks, which became steps. She climbed them to the base of the fortress. It now took real effort to hold the locket, and she wrapped the chain over her hand to help her grip it. She took a deep breath through her nose. My mother is in this building.
The fortress loomed, and Jordan shivered at a cool gust of wind that cooled her neck and ruffled her hair and feathers. A huge wooden door, both tall and wide, sat askew, like a shutter on a haunted house. Not sure what the protocol was, Jordan knocked on the wood. The sound from her knuckles was dull and quiet and not likely to be heard by anyone not holding their ear on the other side.
Jordan grasped the large iron handle, the metal ice cold under her hand. She pulled, and the heavy door opened a crack and then banged shut again, pulling free of her hand. She yanked with more strength, and the door swung heavily and silently open. She stepped inside and propped the door open with her back, bracing her legs against the concrete floor. Her eyes worked to adjust to the gloom.
