unheard of in Fardohnya; another reason the people didn’t seem to mind what their king was up to. It is easy to be forgiving with a full belly.
Talabar came into sight the third day after Brak had traded his demon-melded ruby. Built from the pale pink stone of the neighbouring cliffs, it glittered in the afternoon sun, hugging the harbour like a woman curled into the back of her sleeping lover. Flat-roofed houses terraced the hills surrounding the bay, interspersed with palm-shaded emerald green parks and the tall edifices of the many temples that dotted the city. It was a beautiful city, not so stark and white as Greenharbour, or so grey and depressing as Yarnarrow. Only the Citadel in its heyday could rival its splendour.
It had been many years since Brak had been here. The last time he’d travelled incognito, another faceless soul in a vast city that thought his race extinct. The time before that was when Hablet’s great-grandfather was king. He had been known as Lord Brakandaran in those days—feared and respected by kings and slaves alike. He hadn’t much liked being known as Brakandaran the Half-Breed, but it was a useful persona at times and, he hoped, in certain circles at least, it had not been forgotten.
Brak rode through the gates of the city without being questioned. The guards were more interested in those bringing wagons, which the soldiers searched withvarying degrees of enthusiasm, depending on the wealth of the merchant and the size of the bribe they would collect to turn a blind eye. Corruption was something of an institution in Fardohnya. No selfrespecting merchant expected to do business without paying somebody something.
He rode through the crowded streets and let the feel of the city wash over him. One could learn much from the atmosphere of a crowded market place, a boisterous tavern or a bustling smithy. He picked his way past the glassworks, where furnaces glowed red in the dark, cavernous workshops; past the noisy meatworks where the butchers sang their thanks to the Goddess of Plenty before slashing the throats of their hapless victims with an expert flick of their wickedly sharp knives.
Talabar felt much the same as it always had. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary.
His horse shied from the smell of fresh blood that drained from the slaughterhouses into Talabar’s complex underground drains. From there it ran into the sea to feed vast schools of fish, who gorged themselves on the unexpected bounty, only to head lazily back out to sea where the fishermen waited with their long hemp nets.
The streets widened as he entered the clothing district, although the traffic didn’t thin noticeably. The clackety-clack of the looms in the busy workhouses filled the air like a pulse. A few streets later he was forced to dismount. He smiled as he led his gelding past a heated argument between a merchant, whose wagonload of baled wool had overturned and spilled across the street, and a verylarge, irate seamstress who was denouncing the poor fellow and his drunken habits loud enough to be heard back in Medalon.
Brak swung back into the saddle and soon entered a relatively quiet residential area. The streets were paved and the houses, although built close together, were those of prosperous merchants. They were not quite wealthy enough to own estates close to the harbour, and preferred to live near their places of business in any case. Their houses were in good repair, and many of them had slaves sweeping the pavement in front of the houses, or beating rugs from wide balconies that looked out over the street, and were shaded by potted palms and climbing bougainvillea.
By mid-morning he reached the most salubrious part of Talabar, closest to the harbour and the Summer Palace. A hundred generations of Fardohnyan kings, anxious to curry favour with the gods, had dedicated themselves to building ever more impressive temples in this city. Jelanna was Hablet’s personal favourite, so her temple
Talabar came into sight the third day after Brak had traded his demon-melded ruby. Built from the pale pink stone of the neighbouring cliffs, it glittered in the afternoon sun, hugging the harbour like a woman curled into the back of her sleeping lover. Flat-roofed houses terraced the hills surrounding the bay, interspersed with palm-shaded emerald green parks and the tall edifices of the many temples that dotted the city. It was a beautiful city, not so stark and white as Greenharbour, or so grey and depressing as Yarnarrow. Only the Citadel in its heyday could rival its splendour.
It had been many years since Brak had been here. The last time he’d travelled incognito, another faceless soul in a vast city that thought his race extinct. The time before that was when Hablet’s great-grandfather was king. He had been known as Lord Brakandaran in those days—feared and respected by kings and slaves alike. He hadn’t much liked being known as Brakandaran the Half-Breed, but it was a useful persona at times and, he hoped, in certain circles at least, it had not been forgotten.
Brak rode through the gates of the city without being questioned. The guards were more interested in those bringing wagons, which the soldiers searched withvarying degrees of enthusiasm, depending on the wealth of the merchant and the size of the bribe they would collect to turn a blind eye. Corruption was something of an institution in Fardohnya. No selfrespecting merchant expected to do business without paying somebody something.
He rode through the crowded streets and let the feel of the city wash over him. One could learn much from the atmosphere of a crowded market place, a boisterous tavern or a bustling smithy. He picked his way past the glassworks, where furnaces glowed red in the dark, cavernous workshops; past the noisy meatworks where the butchers sang their thanks to the Goddess of Plenty before slashing the throats of their hapless victims with an expert flick of their wickedly sharp knives.
Talabar felt much the same as it always had. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary.
His horse shied from the smell of fresh blood that drained from the slaughterhouses into Talabar’s complex underground drains. From there it ran into the sea to feed vast schools of fish, who gorged themselves on the unexpected bounty, only to head lazily back out to sea where the fishermen waited with their long hemp nets.
The streets widened as he entered the clothing district, although the traffic didn’t thin noticeably. The clackety-clack of the looms in the busy workhouses filled the air like a pulse. A few streets later he was forced to dismount. He smiled as he led his gelding past a heated argument between a merchant, whose wagonload of baled wool had overturned and spilled across the street, and a verylarge, irate seamstress who was denouncing the poor fellow and his drunken habits loud enough to be heard back in Medalon.
Brak swung back into the saddle and soon entered a relatively quiet residential area. The streets were paved and the houses, although built close together, were those of prosperous merchants. They were not quite wealthy enough to own estates close to the harbour, and preferred to live near their places of business in any case. Their houses were in good repair, and many of them had slaves sweeping the pavement in front of the houses, or beating rugs from wide balconies that looked out over the street, and were shaded by potted palms and climbing bougainvillea.
By mid-morning he reached the most salubrious part of Talabar, closest to the harbour and the Summer Palace. A hundred generations of Fardohnyan kings, anxious to curry favour with the gods, had dedicated themselves to building ever more impressive temples in this city. Jelanna was Hablet’s personal favourite, so her temple