A hand tapped his shoulder, interupting his reverie. It was Anshala Praveri, purveyor of . . . (he tried to remember) . . . spices?
“Pilot said to give you this,” she said, and she handed him a roll of paper.
Uncurling it, he discovered the map that had been pinned on the wall of the cabin section. Nothing had been marked on it since last he had seen it, and for a moment he was lost as to why it had been sent to him. Then his eyes traveled down to Rasya’s mark, and the strange position it occupied. South of the river’s mouth by several miles, her initials were entirely circled by a thin ring of land that jutted out from the coast. A few narrow channels gave access to enough water that the surveyors had labeled it a bay, but it hardly had the kind of access one would require for a major port. Unless time and tides—and earthquakes with their smashers—had resculpted that narrow arching tongue, opening wide one entrance to the sea . . .
And the seas have risen, he reminded himself. He felt the paper fall from his hands, heard the rustling of Anshala’s clothing as she bent to retrieve it.
“What is it?” she asked him.
For a moment he couldn’t respond. “A safe port,” he said at last. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “A truly sheltered harbor.” How many were there in the human lands? He could remember only three, and each had become—for obvious reasons—a center of human commerce. If Lopescu and Nyquist had discovered one here, then their journey was truly blessed.
And then the Glory came around the southern point of the jagged land mass, and he saw.
Ships. They were scattered across the bay like so many thousands of birds just come to land, bright wings fluttering in the noontime breeze. Open-sea ships with rank after rank of weathered sails, coastland yachts with slender masts and peaked canvases, private boats that whipped about their more massive brethren with playful alacrity, some so tiny that a human weight against the spar was enough to shift their course. White upon white upon white upon white, all glistening in the dual skylight: silver from overhead, gold from the east, creating dual shadows that played upon the waters like nuporps, sporting in the multiple wakes. There was smoke as well, mostly from the numerous tugs that wove in and out of the traffic, guiding the larger ships to their safest route. But for most the crisp northeasterly wind was clearly enough, and sails bellowed full as ship after ship wended its way through the harbor’s narrow mouth with no more power than Nature had provided.
If these are to be our allies, Damien thought in awe, then we may yet triumph. But if they turn out to be our enemies . . . then we’re in deep shit. He did notice that few of the larger ships had any kind of visible armament, which was marginally reassuring. And certainly it was hard to imagine the creatures they had fought in the rakhlands—vicious and sun-sensitive, shadowbound and animalistic—having anything to do with this glorious display, or with the society that founded it.
But the Evil that we came here to fight is subtle, and its tools may vary. Don’t give in to assumptions, he begged himself. Even as he felt optimism flood his body like fine wine, making his senses swim. Even as he tried to ignore the fact that a part of his spirit was souring like the wind itself, that a voice inside him rang with the force of a thousand chimes: These are my people, oh, God. Thy people. And see what wonders they have wrought, all in Thy Name!
The coastline to the east of them rose quickly to meet a line of mountains which made it possible to see the city even from this distance. Immense and sprawling, Mercia carpeted the lower slopes in a tapestry of terra cotta tile, gleaming numarble, whitewashed brick. In the center of the city several buildings soared among the others, and sunlight glinted on their heights. One looked like a cathedral. The others could have been . . . anything. Damien raised his eyes above, saw a mountainside terraced for farmland, with the maize and sienna velvet of thriving crops already rippling along its heights.
The sound of winches tightening drew his attention back to the middeck—and up to the rigging, where sailors were scurrying to gather up the sails. Evidently Rozca had received some sign that they were to remain here, for the great anchors were released to fall into the sea even as the last of the sails were furled. Then, as if in response to the Glory’s actions, a small rowboat was lowered from the rear of Toshida’s ship, to make its way across the waves to them.
Damien hurried to the head of the boarding ladder, where the ship’s officers had already assembled. Rasya was gazing out across the harbor, and as Damien watched her study the foreign ships—as he noted the adoration and envy that filled her eyes—he wondered if any mere man could ever inspire such depths of emotion in her. Probably not. Which might be just what had made them so compatible as lovers, he reflected; both their hearts were given over to greater things.
The ladder shifted as it was grabbed from below, then rattled against the side of the ship as a single man climbed it. It wasn’t Toshida this time, nor one of his advisers, but a guard whose uniform and bearing hinted at considerable rank. He climbed up onto the deck somewhat awkwardly, trying to manage the maneuver with a thick roll of fabric tucked under one arm. When he was finally on board he straightened himself regally and addressed them.
“His Eminence Toshida, Lord Regent of Mercia, bids you welcome to his port and to the Five Cities of God’s Grace which bless these shores. He requests your indulgence and your patience while he sees to the details of your welcome. In that there has been no western expedition in centuries—and never one like yours—preparations for your disembarkation may possibly take longer than tired travelers would prefer. For this he apologizes.”
“I am instructed to ask if there is anything he can send aboard which would make your wait easier. Mercia is eager to welcome its guests.”
For a moment there was silence, as each passenger and crew member digested his message. At last the captain ventured, “Fresh fruit’d be welcome.”
“A damned relief,” one of the touchier passengers muttered.
“Fresh meat,” another dared, and the woman beside him added, “but not fish.” That drew a chuckle.
“Soap,” Rasya offered. “Lubricant.” She shut her eyes part way as she tried to remember what conveniences had run short in the last few weeks. A few of the sailors made suggestions of their own; half were for food items. One was for alcohol.
“That’s it,” the first mate said at last. He looked at the captain.
Rozca nodded. “We’ll pay for it all. Keep a tally of what’s brought on board and take care of all of it once we’re settled in.”
“The goods are a gift of the city,” the officer informed him. “A celebration of your arrival here against tremendous odds. His Eminence will permit nothing else,” he said quickly, forestalling Rozca’s argument. “Verdate.”
The captain swallowed his words with effort, then bowed his head. “Like the man says.” Damien suspected he was secretly pleased, despite his token resistance. A gesture like that was an excellent omen.