Wildest Dreams (Fantasyland #1)(97)

It was freaking spectacular.

Although they’d run for hours, it was as if the horses sensed their journey was coming to an end, they wanted it to be done and their pace picked up as the riders in our party forged across the snow toward a well-trod road, then down the road to the valley and into the city.

When we hit it, glancing around and taking it in, I saw immediately that Sudvic couldn’t be any more different from Fyngaard.

The streets were cobbled, not paths of snow packed trails. The snow had been cleared and piled high into lots between the buildings that seemed to be there for that sole purpose. And the sound of the horses’ hooves pounding against the stone, something I’d never heard in real life, was way cool.

The buildings weren’t quaint and homey. Even so, they were cool in an olde worlde, higgledy-piggledy way. They were narrow and tall, one built right against the next with the roads winding through them showing there was no city planning whatsoever. Some of the buildings were four stories tall, others two or three. Some had peaked roofs, others slanted or dormered. All had square-paned windows and there were a number of windows I saw shuttered against the night chill. It was clear this city was highly populated, not simply from the dense pack of the buildings but also since it was the wee hours of the morning and there were people out bustling along the wood-plank, snow-cleared sidewalks or standing at the fire drums that were lit on street corners.

Another difference was that they didn’t have torches but tall black streetlamps that looked to be fueled. Their lights shone through glass-sided boxes that hung on hooks that alternately curved over the streets or sidewalks, cutting through the night and casting illumination on both.

I also noted Sudvic did not appear refined and cosmopolitan. There were a vast number of businesses and shops but no cafés with sidewalk seating, no fancy restaurants and from what I could see in shop windows, the wares were utilitarian, not elegant, expensive or sophisticated. There were definitely no fur shops here or spun glass. There were also shingles suspended above doors advertising solicitors, accountants, merchants and even insurance brokers.

And further, the few women I saw were dressed differently. They did not have the smooth, flowing gowns of wool or long cloaks I saw in Fyngaard and Houllebec. They had full skirts with a mass of petticoats and shorter cloaks that came down only to their waists.

Looking around, it seemed we’d ridden three or four hours from Fyngaard and gone to a whole other world.

Our party took a right and rode on. When we did I could see the bay coming toward us and I forgot all about nearly being poisoned and people all around me wanting me dead and all I could think was that I couldn’t wait to get there.

But once we arrived, I knew I could have waited a year and it would have been worth it.

When we hit the end of the street, Frey and his men veered their horses left and we were there, on the wharf, the galleons rising high into the sky to our right, the dock lined by buildings on the left.

There were huge wooden posts ascending from the water with thick ropes twined around fastening the ships to the dock or thinner ropes securing smaller vessels to the posts or to hooks screwed into the wood of the quay. All along the wharf there were piles and stacks of wooden barrels and crates, beds of tangled nets, messes of fish traps and enormous coils of bulky rope.

And the dock was waking up. Or, perhaps, it never went to sleep. Men were at work lugging, pulling, pushing, rolling, lifting and shouting.

And to the left, there were a great many pubs, all brightly lit, all clearly never closed, and lastly, obviously very popular. Outside, there were men standing around carrying or glugging from horns or pewter tankards and smoking fat cigars (not the thin ones of Fyngaard). They were also talking to, making out with or openly fondling women with great masses of hair, heavy hands at makeup and décolletage that rivaled Franka’s but this spilling out of flimsy (sometimes not-so-clean) tops that were gathered (or not, as the case may be) at the neckline with drawstrings, their br**sts made more prominent by wide belts cinched tight that covered their midriffs and laced up the center. Their full skirts didn’t sweep the ground but the hem fell several inches above their ankle. And they were apparently immune to the cold or drunk off their asses because none of them were wearing cloaks (though some wore fingerless gloves).

Doxies. They had to be.

Awesome!

The sounds of men at work, the cry of gulls, the creak of the ships and the smell of salt and fish filled the air. It was fabulous, every inch of it. And as we swiftly rode through, I saw avid eyes turn our direction but I didn’t really notice. I was busy trying to take it all in.

Then Frey pulled back on Tyr’s reins, tugged him to the right, Tyr veered that direction and we stopped facing a ship at the dock.

Frey straightened and I came up with him, looking left then right then up, up and up.

It was by far the biggest ship I’d seen and absolutely, completely, definitely the coolest.

This was all I was able to process as I heard running feet and Frey dismounted, instantly reaching up to pull me down.

I had my feet beneath me and I saw a young man, perhaps twelve or thirteen who had hold of Tyr’s reins. He was blond, very slight and had on breeches, ankle boots, thick wool socks and a thick brown sweater. His head was tipped back, eyes aimed at Frey.

“Take care of Tyr and then attend your lady in my cabin,” Frey ordered shortly while taking my hand and then we were on the move.