Liar's Island: A Novel (9 page)

“An exercise to strengthen the body and focus the mind,” Nagesh said. “Perhaps you could try it during your visit. Many find it very restful.”

They continued on, but Rodrick paused soon after at another open square, this one full of bare-chested men in yellow trousers and women dressed similarly, though they had on tight, midriff-baring tops of the same yellow. They tumbled and whirled about as adroitly as any acrobat Rodrick had ever seen, but this wasn't just a display of balance and athleticism: they were
hitting
each other, or trying to, and grabbing one another, flinging and rolling and springing up to strike again, legs and fists in a flurry of motion. An old woman with a long stick stood atop a short stone pillar, occasionally shouting instructions or insults or—very rarely—praise.

“They are from the Houses of Perfection?” Rodrick said.

Nagesh shook his head. “No. The monasteries are elsewhere. These students are far more raw, though the best of them will doubtless seek entry to the monasteries in time.”

Rodrick could only shake his head in wonder. They all looked sufficiently formidable to him. He could only imagine what the students at the monasteries—let alone their masters—could do. He followed Nagesh again, this time along a street steep enough that every step made his calves burn, which abruptly leveled out into an open-air market, scores of tables set up under canopies of silk and coarser cloth. Not as fancy as the shops they'd passed before, but bustling with activity, noisy with hawkers shouting about the quality of their wares, which encompassed everything from fine cloth to handmade brooms to mouth-watering skewers of grilled mushrooms. The air was a riot of smells, all wonderful. Rodrick realized he hadn't eaten anything since dinner the night before, and Nagesh seemed to take note of his sniffing.

“You are hungry? There will be a feast at the palace, but in the meantime, perhaps one of these humble places serves something suitable.” He strolled along a row of booths devoted to cookery, passing by several that seemed more than adequate to Rodrick, offering bowls of stew and lumpy potato cakes and plates of curious yellow rice and bits of fish in sauces that were creamy or red and so spiced they made his eyes water just from catching a passing whiff. There were other non-Vudrani people here, he noticed, some as pale as himself, many with Taldan coloring, others who might have been Osirian, and even a devilkin, doubtless from Cheliax, with bluish skin and tiny horns, arguing with a seller of delicate glassware about a price. A blue-eyed woman with short blonde hair, dressed in dark leather from head to toe, eyed him intently for a moment before disappearing down another row of tents.

“This will do.” Nagesh stopped at a booth that seemed no different from any other, except for the unusually long line of people waiting before it. Nagesh ignored them all and walked to the front, and the person already standing there in mid-order bowed and moved away. Nagesh took no notice of their deference, and the round-cheeked man at the booth smiled widely while wringing his hands in what Rodrick took as an unconscious sign of worry. Did that mean Nagesh was known as a dangerous man, or merely a powerful one? “How may I be of service?”

“Two of the kebabs, and two lassis.”

The man bowed, then skewered chunks of mushroom and grilled onion and some yellow fruit on wooden sticks as long as Rodrick's forearm and handed them over, followed by wooden cups full of something orange-yellow and sweet-smelling. Rodrick sipped his carefully, and his mouth filled with creamy sweetness, redolent with some strange fruit—it was like a pudding, but lighter. “Delicious!”

Nagesh nodded gravely and turned away from the booth, not bothering to pay. Rodrick wondered if he had an account of some kind with the cook, or if the thakur's advisors simply got to eat free. Being powerful had its perks.

He took bites of the mushroom, grilled and lightly spiced, and felt his energy come surging back as he matched pace with the advisor. They passed out of the market square, and he saw the blonde in dark leathers again, watching him from the top of a wall up the hill, this time. She was more severe than pretty, but any woman who showed such interest was worth a second considering look—alas, she hurried away again when she noticed him looking. Perhaps she was captivated by his handsomeness, but if so, why not give him a smile? If he'd had Hrym on his back, he would have assumed she was staring at that, but with him hidden away in a scabbard … She was probably just gaping at the fellow foreigner, or perhaps she recognized Nagesh's rank and wondered why he was walking with a swordsman wearing saltwater-stained trousers.

“This way.” Nagesh beckoned, turning down a narrower street, and they marched uphill again, emerging on yet another level stretch—this was a city of tiers, it seemed. This area was even more full of temples—seemingly nothing but—with an open square dominated by a pair of those towering statues, one a man holding aloft great spheres that glowed with inner light, one a woman whose eight outstretched hands all held real dancing flames, blue and red and white and yellow.

“Welcome to the High-Holy District,” Nagesh began, but before he could expound on its virtues someone nearby screamed, and a horse someone had apparently doused in lamp oil and set on fire came bolting out of a side street, running straight for Rodrick.

8

Palace of Gardens

Without thinking, Rodrick drew Hrym, and a wall of ice grew in front of him, ten feet high and ten feet wide. The flaming horse—no, it wasn't a horse on fire, it was a horse
made
of fire—struck the wall and disappeared in a billow of steam. Rodrick stumbled back, sword held before him, looking for further attacks, but nothing came. A pale man in dark robes hurried out of the same side street the horse had come from, looked at the ice wall, gasped, looked at glowering Nagesh, and gasped again. He bowed so low his forehead almost touched his knees, at the same time holding up his hands, palms turned toward them. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was an accident—”

“Fool,” Nagesh said curtly. “Begone, and don't loose your abominable magics in public again.” The man backed away, bowing as he did, until he disappeared back into the street he'd come from.

“That was … unusual,” Rodrick said.

Nagesh thumped the ice wall with his knuckles and looked at the sword. “You acted quickly.”

“I don't like fire,” Hrym said.

“Mmm, I understand. How long will the wall last?”

“Magical ice melts slowly,” Hrym said. “It could stand for days, or…” The wall abruptly began to sag, rivulets of water running down the slope toward the street they'd trekked up, and in moments only a thin scrum of ice and a puddle remained. “I can make it go away.”

“Why did that man throw a burning horse at us?” Rodrick said. “Or are horses made of fire an everyday hazard here?”

Nagesh made a sound of disgust. “His name is Kaleb. He claims to be a conjurer, an illusionist, and a pyromancer. I believe he is a sorcerer, whose bloodline is somehow touched by fire. I met him briefly when he performed at a feast in the palace, eating fire and juggling balls of flame and the like. He came here to lean how to master elementals, and had sufficient natural ability—and gold, until he ran out—to convince some of our wizards to teach him. Apparently he has not yet achieved the mastery he sought. Though I've never seen anyone convince a fire elemental to take on the shape of a horse.” He shook his head. “He is of no consequence.” Clearly attempting to recover his equanimity, Nagesh stood straighter and gestured toward the statues. “As I was saying—this is the High-Holy District. There are temples, as you see, to some of our gods, and also many scholars, clerics, and mystics, from across the breadth of the Inner Sea. Ice witches, Kellid skalds, Osirian priests, wise women from the Mwangi Expanse who chew strange roots and see visions, and many others beside. Wizards, too, of course. There is more knowledge within this quarter than in all your great cities combined, I would wager.”

Rodrick would have been more interested in the High-Stakes Gambling District, if there was such a place, but he made appreciative noises anyway, keeping his eyes open for more flaming horses, occasionally turning his eyes skyward to watch the figures flying overhead. Most of the people he'd seen in the skies from the ship originated here, it seemed, borne aloft by magics. Some of them really
were
sitting on floating carpets. They must be worth a fortune, assuming they'd fly for anyone. You could smudge a bit of dirt on one and roll it up and transport it in a cart of ordinary secondhand rugs and no one would even notice it …

They continued walking for a while past temples and statues. Men and women prayed, or sat cross-legged in meditation, or leaned over tables scowling at scrolls, or bowed and chanted, or played games with stones on boards, or argued in booming voices about subjects that were incomprehensible even though the medallion of tongues let Rodrick understand the words.

Eventually they moved out of the High-Holy District, this time walking up a broad avenue lined by tall poles with flapping banners alternating with trees laden with sweet-smelling white blossoms. “The palace.” Nagesh gestured grandly, and Rodrick didn't have to fake his appreciation this time.

The thakur's palace was made of white marble, mainly, but there was no end of gold, too, ornamenting the fluted towers and delicate archways. They walked up the broad steps, Nagesh nodding to guards who were armed with scimitars but probably didn't need anything more than their bare hands to deter unwelcome visitors. They stepped through an open archway and into a vast courtyard, full of bubbling fountains and low benches, roofed by trellises of vines. Many of the benches were occupied by young Vudrani men and women dressed in flowing silks and countless jewels, some reading, some laughing, some trailing their hands in the water of the fountains and looking appealingly pensive. Servants—themselves dressed as finely as lords and ladies Rodrick had seen in other lands—circulated among them holding trays and pitchers, bowing and gliding.

“Are these courtiers?” Rodrick said.

“These are mostly the sons and daughters of members of the Maurya-Rahm, those who govern and advise the thakur. This is a favored gathering place for those youths blessed with powerful families. They come to see and be seen, to further the fortunes of their families or to make their own connections.”

“I can see why they congregate here. It's a beautiful place.”

A faint disturbance in the air passed by, blowing Rodrick's hair, and he stepped back.

“Do not be alarmed,” Nagesh said. “It's just a djinni on some errand. They are all bound, here, and serve.”

Bound genies as servants! It was not entirely surprising, as he'd received a djinni as a messenger himself, but to have beings of such legendary power pass by without arousing any comment from the locals … This truly was a strange place.

Nagesh continued, leading him to a set of golden doors, these guarded by men holding spears, though the weapons looked more ornamental than functional. Still, a spearhead of gold would gut you as neatly as one made of steel if driven in with sufficient force. The guards opened the doors so smoothly that Nagesh didn't even have to break stride, and Rodrick followed on his heels.

He'd expected to enter the palace proper, but instead, they stood in a garden, larger than some farms Rodrick had seen. Everywhere fruit trees flowered, and paths wound among them, perfumed by blossoms of every shape and hue. Songbirds fluttered and filled the air with music, and there were more fountains, stone wrought to look like trees and vines and branches. There were fewer people here, but he caught glimpses of some, older than those in the outer courtyard and even more richly dressed, walking in pairs or alone on distant paths. An earth elemental passed by on an adjacent path, a mobile statue of immense size, and no one paid it any attention. They probably had creatures like that as groundskeepers here.

“These gardens are not so fine as the thakur's own at the center of the palace, but they are pleasant enough,” Nagesh said. A servant—Rodrick could tell because he was only dressed as richly as a Taldan noble—with a shaved head appeared, bowing low. “I must take my leave of you now, Rodrick, and Hrym. This man will show you to your rooms. You will be honored guests at a feast tonight, and you will meet with the thakur afterward. In the meantime, please rest, or explore the palace.”

“I get free run of the place, then?” Perhaps Rodrick's larcenous reputation hadn't preceded him.

“There are some areas you may not enter, but they will be … clearly marked.” Nagesh bowed and turned, strolling away.

“Lead on, my good man,” Rodrick said.

The servant didn't speak, just bowed again and gestured along a pathway.

Rodrick followed the man, asking one or two questions, but the answers were brief and factual. Sometimes servants were useful gossips, but apparently not this one. They left the gardens and entered a grand hall with an actual roof over it, though the place was so full of statues and more fountains and plants in huge pots that the transition from garden to interior seemed gradual. The floors were polished marble, the walls decorated with friezes depicting gods and strange scenes, one or two familiar from his reading of Vudrani fairy tales—a woman with a scimitar confronting a tiger-headed rakshasa, a man wearing a snow-capped mountain on his head like a crown, a monkey with a scepter, a tower of those strange creatures called elephants standing on one another's backs.

The servant pointed out doors that led to baths, other gardens, the library, the dining hall, and many more places, and finally bowed and pointed to a wooden door in an archway. “Your room.” He opened the door, and Rodrick stepped inside.

“This is fit for a—” he began, but the servant was gone. “King,” he finished. “Or at least a prince. Maybe a duke.” He drew Hrym and gave him a look. “Don't you think?”