We crossed over Trickster’s Bridge to the lower city. The massive bridge, an inspiring feat of architecture, spanned the north end of the lake where it thinned into marshes. On the east side was the bridge tower, nicknamed the Finger for its height and bulbous middle, and all that remained of the lakeside fortifications of the original city. Now, most of our wall circumference lay on the west side of the lake, where the newer part of Silasta sprawled, less elegant than the old but equally important. If the old city was the face of Silasta—beautiful, with its glimmering buildings, graceful archways, and famous flowering vines—then the lower city was the internal organs, pulsing with commerce, learning, and enterprise.
The Talafan nobleman was staying in one of the best guesthouses in the city, near the school complex just near the northwest bank of the lake, only a short walk from Trickster’s. The proprietor visibly struggled with her competing urges to protect her expensive guest and to stay on the right side of the grim-faced Order Guards, but in the end she directed us to the gaming room across the street where the Talafan was deeply embroiled in a game of four-strike. He sat cross-legged opposite three local opponents, a small pile of polished bird bones in front of him and a frown of concentration on his thin, clean-shaven face. It was hot inside, the room lit with scented oil braziers and urns of steaming sweet tea constantly refilled by servants as the guests played.
The other players noticed us before the Talafan. One was well born, wearing Credo Bradomir’s haughty nose and brow. The others I didn’t recognize, but the sumptuous fabric of their clothing and the jewels in their hair suggested wealth. All three gave a start at the sight of us. In the corner, the musician stopped playing.
“Lord Ectar, may I beg a moment of your time?” I spoke in my best Talafan, inclining my head.
He stood gracefully, gray eyes taking in the tattoos on my arms, and bowed low. His cosmetics were skillfully applied and his fair hair floated lightly into its clasp at his nape, unoiled. “Credola,” he replied. His voice surprised me; it was young, rich, and pleasant, at odds with his rather ascetic visage. “Of course. What may I do for you?”
I led him outside and introduced myself. His eyes widened at my family name, flashing quickly to my arm and then back again. I could practically see the vying forces of opportunism and cultural bias warring across his face, though he moved little more than a fraction. “I hoped to meet you, Credola Kalina,” he said, speaking now in our language. “I have a business proposal for your family. Perhaps—”
“Lord Ectar,” I interrupted him, but as politely as I could. “We must speak about the gift you brought the Chancellor earlier today.”
“The leksot? A marvelous animal. Maybe your family enjoys one as a pet as well? I feel it will soon be the fashion.” He looked immediately more comfortable. Gifts and bribes for women were far less challenging for a Talafan than directly doing business with one. He spoke good Sjon, not just the simplified Trade tongue that most merchants shared across borders. He must have studied us, and he’d have been a fool to come to Silasta expecting to deal only with men. But the habits of home are hard to break. I would make it as easy for him as possible. For all the talents I might lack, appearing less than I could be wasn’t one of them.
“I’m afraid the creature appears to have carried a disease,” I told him, watching his reaction closely. “Our physics need to examine everyone who came in contact with it, for everyone’s safety.”
“A disease? Nonsense!” Ectar folded his arms, his tone indignant, but the light spilling from inside the gaming room was too good to hide the draining of color from his already pale face. “I traveled with it for two weeks.”
“The creature sickened and died, Lord Ectar,” I said, lowering my gaze and spreading my hands, helpless. “And it infected several others. I, too, have been summoned to the hospital.” He didn’t need to know, yet, who had fallen victim to the disease.
“Just a precaution, Lord Ectar,” one of the Order Guards chimed in. “We take public health seriously in Silasta. You’ll need to bring any of your servants who handled the creature, as well.”
The line between his eyes deepened. Before he could protest, I added in Talafan, “Please, Lord Ectar. I asked to accompany you. I am fascinated by the Empire, and hope to visit someday. Perhaps we could pass the time in quarantine together?”
He looked me over. Talafan and their expressionless faces! But this, this I was good at. I read hesitance but also curiosity in his eyes. Perhaps it was not just business that had driven him here, far from his pampered existence in the Empire. Behind me, the Order Guards took a leisurely step closer. Across the street, several passersby stopped to watch. A couple of women kissing enthusiastically in front of the next building stopped their fun to stare. An earther preacher rambling on the nearest corner mumbled off into silence. The silhouettes of Ectar’s gaming companions were visible from where we stood, as they hovered, listening, on the steps inside. Ectar’s gaze traveled back to the Oromani family tattoo on my arm.
Opportunism, curiosity, a desire to avoid a scene; whatever it was, it won. He bowed deeply. “Of course, Credola Kalina. How do you say it? There would be … much honor?”
I smiled. “Thank you. We have a litter for yourself and one for your servants.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “They can walk. They have never been carried before; let us not begin now. Maybe I can share with you?”
The Order Guards blocked his impertinent step toward the litter, but I nodded. “It would be my honor.”
It was a short but strange journey to the hospital, which was back on the other side of the lake, not too far from the Finger. Ectar seemed both fascinated by me and slightly repulsed, as if I were a strange animal who had inexplicably learned to speak. Here, family was the cornerstone of our culture and our honor. Women contributed to families with our learning and skills, just as any other adult, and when we wished to have children we chose our most trusted male relative—a brother or an uncle, usually—to help raise them within the family. In the Empire, women were forced from their own families and expected to live as a kind of pampered ornament in the home of an unrelated man, who would then take the woman’s children as his own. They lived what seemed to me a bizarre, intolerable existence, unable to choose their own lives, careers, or the number, gender, or even specific identity of their romantic partners. So we spoke tentatively, politely, but always conscious of the undercurrent; I was as peculiar to him as he was to me.
The physics at the hospital escorted us to a well-lit upstairs room, where Jovan and Credo Lazar waited. Lazar looked frantic, a wreck of a man. Sweat drenched his tunic from armpit to waist, his manufactured curls wilted sadly about his bulbous face. Two of his servants sat quietly in the corner. Jovan, given new lease by a fresh task, looked as impeccable as ever as he sat straight-backed and cross-legged on one of the pallets, watching the Credo wobble around the room. The smell of fortified kavcha assaulted us. The tiny, spectacled physic with us wrinkled his nose in disapproval. “Credo Lazar,” he said, his voice deep and authoritative for such a diminutive figure, “there is to be no food or drink in this room. We need to observe you unimpeded.”
Lazar noticed us at last. His face went through a few contortions as he tried to balance his outrage and fear with his instinct to flatter potential business partners. “Lord Ectar,” he said at last, in a passably neutral tone.