Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(68)

Only in the last forty years, with the stability of Comonot’s peace and the Southlands needing to rebuild, had Porphyry finally begun to see the trade its founders had hoped for. I’d seen Porphyrian merchants at Goreddi markets my entire life; many had settled in the Southlands to run that end of their import-export operations.

Porphyry’s ancient treaty with the Tanamoot meant that the city had a very different relationship with dragonkind. The community of exiles that Eskar had been courting, trying to persuade them to Comonot’s cause, could never have existed in Goredd. We liked our dragons transient and clearly marked with bells. Even Porphyrian attitudes toward ityasaari, if Abdo’s upbringing in the temple was any indication, spoke of a very different dragon-human dynamic. I was eager to see it in action.

Abdo was just plain eager. The moment his city had drifted into sight, he had climbed onto the capstan and bounced with uncontainable joy.

Movement in the sky caught my eye. Dark shapes swooped and dove over the mountains behind the city. They darted in and out of sight, possibly dozens, too swift to count or keep track of. I tapped Abdo’s shoulder and pointed. “Dragons!”

Abdo shaded his eyes with his good hand. Those will be our exiles. They’re permitted to fly at the four corners of the year, during our Games of the God and Goddess at the solstices and equinoxes.

“Don’t tell me we made it here by midsummer!” I cried. Somewhere in all my illness, I’d lost count of the days.

Ingar, with us at the prow, questioned a scurrying sailor. “Midsummer was five days ago, he says. This is the last day of the games.”

We’d reached Porphyry only five days after Kiggs and Glisselda had planned that we should, months ago, in the comfort of Castle Orison. We’d had enough mishaps and unexpected detours that I could hardly believe we’d been so timely.

I just hoped other things the Queen and prince hadn’t been able to plan for—the progress of the dragon civil war, and whether it would move south into Goredd—had not yet made our journey superfluous. I’d have to find the Goreddi embassy as soon as I could, contact the Queen, and learn what was happening.

Our ship put into the eastern harbor, at the cargo docks. I’d been shy about inflicting my Porphyrian on the crew, but as we waited for the gangway, I spoke to the young boatswain standing near us. “Have you the knowing for where we are able to find this desired thing, the Goreddi pigeon coop?”

The lad goggled at me.

What are you doing? asked Abdo, elbowing me with unnecessary severity.

I’m asking him where the Goreddi embassy is located, I said.

No, you’re not, said Abdo. Besides, I’m sure he doesn’t know. You may have stupid-foreigner license, but that can be stretched only so far.

Stupid-foreigner license? I asked.

Porphyrians expect you to speak badly and have the manners of a goat; we find it amusing when you do, and a little disappointing when you don’t. The sailors are subtly leaning closer, even now, to hear what absurd thing you’ll say next.

I glanced over my shoulder. An elderly sailor grinned toothlessly at me. Embarrassed, I turned back to the gangway, which was almost down.

“I do need to find the embassy,” I told Abdo. “And we should get you to the temple of Chakhon and this priest, Paulos Pende.”

Later, he said, looking ready to bolt off the ship as soon as he could. I want to go home first and rest.

Ever since he’d quit the temple—for reasons he still hadn’t made clear to me—Abdo had lived with his aunt Naia, an accountant for a shipping firm. Her apartment was near the harbor market, in a neighborhood called Skondia. Abdo’s grandfather, who would’ve returned to Porphyry months ago, was to have informed Naia we were coming.

The harborside was full of sailors, stevedores, cargo cranes, crab pots, and fishwives; gulls aggressively darted around, stealing scraps. Abdo slipped through the churning crowd, as skilled and nimble as the gulls. He was hard to follow, not least because I didn’t know which way we were supposed to be going. I’d spot him beside a piled net, lose him, glimpse him near a guano-coated pylon, lose him again, and then see him materialize beside a musician playing some sort of miniature oud. We worked our way east, finally emerging into emptier, shadier, gently sloping streets lined with apartment blocks.

I had not been keeping track of Ingar, hoping maybe he’d trip over a fishing line and fall into the sea, but he’d doggedly kept up with us.

The bottom floor of Aunt Naia’s apartment building held stores and businesses; Abdo led Ingar and me to the stairs, wedged between a bustling tavern and a net-repair shop. A waft of cardamom tea and frying greeted us; a baby’s cry echoed down the stairwell. Neighbors, descending in the dimness, exclaimed happily at Abdo and stared at Ingar and me. His aunt’s flat was at the top, four floors up.

A short, rounded woman, dressed in a practical yellow tunic and trousers, answered Abdo’s knock. Her chin-length brown hair was divided into countless tiny twists tipped with blue and green ceramic beads. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched upon her nose; a stylus protruded from behind her ear. She beamed at the sight of Abdo and held out her arms to him.

Abdo burst into tears and collapsed against her bosom. She staggered back a step in surprise, then held firm, kissing his head, holding him tightly, waiting out the tears. “Sweet bean,” she muttered into his hair knots. “What’s this, then?”