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Authors: Carolyn Ives Gilman
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sails came down and the ship swung downwind of its mooring.
The captain had brought the ship in at dawn for a reason. His orders were to transport the prisoner into the city before many people were abroad. The vessel held only one passenger. The fewer who knew of his presence, the better Governor Tiarch would be pleased.
The captain and three marines escorted the passenger on deck. His grey Lashnura skin was gullied deep with wrinkles, and his hair was white; but he stood erect, taller than the stocky Tornas who guarded him. His face, lean with years of hardship, held an expression of unfathomable sadness. It was a face a little like the barren mountainside behind the city—rough and sheer, beyond control or comprehension.
A six-oared scow with an enclosed cloth awning in the stern bumped up against the ship’s hull, and the men turned to it. Now the prisoner’s head bowed again. One of the boatmen put out a respectful hand to help him step from the accommodation ladder into the rocking scow. Though the help was not needed, the old man murmured a word of thanks. The boatman, an Adaina, gave a gesture of respect and murmured, “Ehir.” The Torna commander frowned at this. He ushered the old man under the awning, and pulled the curtains tight.
On the maps, Tornabay lay at the mouth of the river Em; but the river had long ago disappeared underneath the crowded buildings. Where it once had met the sea, Tornabay had extended long wooden fingers into the bay, spawning warehouses and shops over the water. By now a boat could sail far into the mazy waterways between buildings, and the sense of where the land ended and the sea began was hazy. As they pierced deeper into the watery lanes, the smells of the city changed: from the salt and seaweed of the harbour, to the fish and oily rope of the outer wharves, to the rancid tar and offal of the inner wharves, to fresh-baking bread and wood smoke as they neared the inner city.
They landed where a flight of slippery marble steps descended to the water from a broad plaza lined with the stately houses of Inning authority in the Forsakens. They crossed toward the centre of the grand colonnade that faced the bay. Seagulls and pigeons competed in the broad, empty square. The building dwarfed the five men as they climbed the wide steps and passed beneath the pillars. The great bronze doors stood open.
The captain did not recognize the Navy Office functionary who met them. “I was to report to Tiarch with the prisoner.”
“Thank you, Captain,” the official replied. “Commodore Joffrey will be taking charge from here.”
“My orders came direct from the Governor.”
“There is a new commander of the Fourth Fleet. You should have been informed.”
There had been a letter, but the captain hadn’t thought it would affect his mission, hatched in the utmost secrecy. It appeared that much had changed in Tornabay in his absence. Some Fluminos flunky no one had ever heard of thought he was taking over the reins from Tiarch. “Very well,” he said, standing aside. Then, under his breath, “We’ll see how long this lasts.”
The official cast a curious look at the captive, but the old man was gazing off into the distance. He followed abstractedly as the official led the way through the broad, quiet corridors of the state house.
Commodore Joffrey was working in the bright, high-ceilinged room he had chosen as an office. The tall windows faced south into a courtyard where imported Inning plants bloomed in the brief Tornabay summer. The arms and trophies of war decorated the opposite wall, marshalled in columns. In the centre of the room, a mahogany table was set in gleaming silver for two. When the old man was shown in, Joffrey rose from his desk. He was a young Torna officer, so newly promoted that the ink was still wet on his commission. He had seized this situation away from Tiarch to prove a point about his authority; but in fact he had very little experience dealing with Grey
The captain had brought the ship in at dawn for a reason. His orders were to transport the prisoner into the city before many people were abroad. The vessel held only one passenger. The fewer who knew of his presence, the better Governor Tiarch would be pleased.
The captain and three marines escorted the passenger on deck. His grey Lashnura skin was gullied deep with wrinkles, and his hair was white; but he stood erect, taller than the stocky Tornas who guarded him. His face, lean with years of hardship, held an expression of unfathomable sadness. It was a face a little like the barren mountainside behind the city—rough and sheer, beyond control or comprehension.
A six-oared scow with an enclosed cloth awning in the stern bumped up against the ship’s hull, and the men turned to it. Now the prisoner’s head bowed again. One of the boatmen put out a respectful hand to help him step from the accommodation ladder into the rocking scow. Though the help was not needed, the old man murmured a word of thanks. The boatman, an Adaina, gave a gesture of respect and murmured, “Ehir.” The Torna commander frowned at this. He ushered the old man under the awning, and pulled the curtains tight.
On the maps, Tornabay lay at the mouth of the river Em; but the river had long ago disappeared underneath the crowded buildings. Where it once had met the sea, Tornabay had extended long wooden fingers into the bay, spawning warehouses and shops over the water. By now a boat could sail far into the mazy waterways between buildings, and the sense of where the land ended and the sea began was hazy. As they pierced deeper into the watery lanes, the smells of the city changed: from the salt and seaweed of the harbour, to the fish and oily rope of the outer wharves, to the rancid tar and offal of the inner wharves, to fresh-baking bread and wood smoke as they neared the inner city.
They landed where a flight of slippery marble steps descended to the water from a broad plaza lined with the stately houses of Inning authority in the Forsakens. They crossed toward the centre of the grand colonnade that faced the bay. Seagulls and pigeons competed in the broad, empty square. The building dwarfed the five men as they climbed the wide steps and passed beneath the pillars. The great bronze doors stood open.
The captain did not recognize the Navy Office functionary who met them. “I was to report to Tiarch with the prisoner.”
“Thank you, Captain,” the official replied. “Commodore Joffrey will be taking charge from here.”
“My orders came direct from the Governor.”
“There is a new commander of the Fourth Fleet. You should have been informed.”
There had been a letter, but the captain hadn’t thought it would affect his mission, hatched in the utmost secrecy. It appeared that much had changed in Tornabay in his absence. Some Fluminos flunky no one had ever heard of thought he was taking over the reins from Tiarch. “Very well,” he said, standing aside. Then, under his breath, “We’ll see how long this lasts.”
The official cast a curious look at the captive, but the old man was gazing off into the distance. He followed abstractedly as the official led the way through the broad, quiet corridors of the state house.
Commodore Joffrey was working in the bright, high-ceilinged room he had chosen as an office. The tall windows faced south into a courtyard where imported Inning plants bloomed in the brief Tornabay summer. The arms and trophies of war decorated the opposite wall, marshalled in columns. In the centre of the room, a mahogany table was set in gleaming silver for two. When the old man was shown in, Joffrey rose from his desk. He was a young Torna officer, so newly promoted that the ink was still wet on his commission. He had seized this situation away from Tiarch to prove a point about his authority; but in fact he had very little experience dealing with Grey
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