Read Online The Tropic of Serpents: A Memoir by Lady Trent (A Natural History of Dragons) by Marie Brennan - Free Book Online
Authors: Marie Brennan
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time indoors to get away from the wind. But carry on with your work; this parasol is shading us both.”
I hadn’t needed her exhortation to continue. Line by line, the people were taking shape beneath my pencil, surrounded by crates and ropes and warehouses and shops, with little boats bobbing in the water at the lower edge of the scene. Drawing at speed was something I’d practiced these past few years; the images I produced lacked the polished elegance of my youthful art, but I’d improved greatly in my ability to capture the subject accurately in a short span of time.
By the time Mr. Wilker returned, I had enough of it down that I could fill in the remainder without trouble later on. “Is it very far to our hotel?” I asked, tucking my pencil away and closing my sketchbook. Certainly there would be other sights worth seeing beyond the docks, but I hoped to manage some individual portraits. Sailors the world over are a visually fascinating lot.
“Actually,” Mr. Wilker said, “it seems our plans may have changed. See that fellow at the corner there, beneath the yellow awning? The short one, with the band of gold around his forehead? He’s a messenger from the palace, sent to watch for our arrival. The oba has invited us to be his guests.”
I blinked at him in startlement. “At the palace? Surely not.”
“It seems so,” Mr. Wilker said. “And we’re expected to come straight on. The messenger brought horses, and he says we needn’t worry about our trunks.”
No doubt the gesture was intended to be helpful, but in my travel-frayed state, it struck me as faintly sinister. “What is this messenger’s name?”
“Faj Rawango,” Mr. Wilker said, with the careful air of one who doesn’t trust his tongue not to trip over the unfamiliar syllables. He too had studied the language, but Faj Rawango was not a Yembe name. Was the man a foreigner, or did he hail from one of the other peoples that made up the nation of Bayembe?
I didn’t realize Mr. Wilker and I had both fallen into a brief silence until Natalie broke it by saying, “Well, we cannot refuse such an honour.”
“No, of course not.” I replaced my sketchbook and drew the satchel up onto my shoulder. “And I suppose there isn’t much to be gained by delaying. Come, let us go meet this Faj Rawango.”
We descended to the ship’s longboat and were taken in to shore, disembarking on the salt-stained wood of the docks near where Faj Rawango stood. He was, as Mr. Wilker had spotted, a small fellow by the standards of those around him; in fact, he was a bit shorter than I. His skin, though still dark, was lighter and more reddish in tone than many of those around him.
Lacking a better option, I greeted him in the Yembe manner, touching my heart, and received the same in return. Natalie and Mr. Wilker echoed us both. But once the formal greetings were done—a rather lengthier process among the peoples of that region than among Scirlings—Faj Rawango spoke in our own tongue. “The oba regrets putting you to the trouble of a further journey, but you will rest in more comfort in the royal palace, in Atuyem.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Mr. Wilker said. “Our arrangements are for rooms in a hotel near Point Miriam. We had hoped to perhaps gain an introduction on some future date, but had no thought of imposing on his time and generosity so soon after our arrival.”
Faj Rawango dismissed this with a wave. “It is no imposition. He has met many Scirling merchants and soldiers, but no scholars. He is very curious about your work.”
The last time a foreigner with a title had taken an interest in our work, it had not ended well. That, more than anything in the messenger’s words, put apprehension in my heart. But what could we do? As Natalie said, we could not refuse this invitation. I cursed the politicking that preceded our journey. Necessary though it had been to procure our entrance to Nsebu, it had apparently drawn rather more of
I hadn’t needed her exhortation to continue. Line by line, the people were taking shape beneath my pencil, surrounded by crates and ropes and warehouses and shops, with little boats bobbing in the water at the lower edge of the scene. Drawing at speed was something I’d practiced these past few years; the images I produced lacked the polished elegance of my youthful art, but I’d improved greatly in my ability to capture the subject accurately in a short span of time.
By the time Mr. Wilker returned, I had enough of it down that I could fill in the remainder without trouble later on. “Is it very far to our hotel?” I asked, tucking my pencil away and closing my sketchbook. Certainly there would be other sights worth seeing beyond the docks, but I hoped to manage some individual portraits. Sailors the world over are a visually fascinating lot.
“Actually,” Mr. Wilker said, “it seems our plans may have changed. See that fellow at the corner there, beneath the yellow awning? The short one, with the band of gold around his forehead? He’s a messenger from the palace, sent to watch for our arrival. The oba has invited us to be his guests.”
I blinked at him in startlement. “At the palace? Surely not.”
“It seems so,” Mr. Wilker said. “And we’re expected to come straight on. The messenger brought horses, and he says we needn’t worry about our trunks.”
No doubt the gesture was intended to be helpful, but in my travel-frayed state, it struck me as faintly sinister. “What is this messenger’s name?”
“Faj Rawango,” Mr. Wilker said, with the careful air of one who doesn’t trust his tongue not to trip over the unfamiliar syllables. He too had studied the language, but Faj Rawango was not a Yembe name. Was the man a foreigner, or did he hail from one of the other peoples that made up the nation of Bayembe?
I didn’t realize Mr. Wilker and I had both fallen into a brief silence until Natalie broke it by saying, “Well, we cannot refuse such an honour.”
“No, of course not.” I replaced my sketchbook and drew the satchel up onto my shoulder. “And I suppose there isn’t much to be gained by delaying. Come, let us go meet this Faj Rawango.”
We descended to the ship’s longboat and were taken in to shore, disembarking on the salt-stained wood of the docks near where Faj Rawango stood. He was, as Mr. Wilker had spotted, a small fellow by the standards of those around him; in fact, he was a bit shorter than I. His skin, though still dark, was lighter and more reddish in tone than many of those around him.
Lacking a better option, I greeted him in the Yembe manner, touching my heart, and received the same in return. Natalie and Mr. Wilker echoed us both. But once the formal greetings were done—a rather lengthier process among the peoples of that region than among Scirlings—Faj Rawango spoke in our own tongue. “The oba regrets putting you to the trouble of a further journey, but you will rest in more comfort in the royal palace, in Atuyem.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Mr. Wilker said. “Our arrangements are for rooms in a hotel near Point Miriam. We had hoped to perhaps gain an introduction on some future date, but had no thought of imposing on his time and generosity so soon after our arrival.”
Faj Rawango dismissed this with a wave. “It is no imposition. He has met many Scirling merchants and soldiers, but no scholars. He is very curious about your work.”
The last time a foreigner with a title had taken an interest in our work, it had not ended well. That, more than anything in the messenger’s words, put apprehension in my heart. But what could we do? As Natalie said, we could not refuse this invitation. I cursed the politicking that preceded our journey. Necessary though it had been to procure our entrance to Nsebu, it had apparently drawn rather more of
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