The harvest festival’s sun went down, and Kithamar changed its nature again, if only for a little while. Alys made her way through the streets of Longhill. She had rented costumes from a stitcher at the edge of the quarter. The seams weren’t even and the thread was weak, but for the moment she was swathed in ribbons of green and blue and black that swirled about her like river weeds. Her false fingertips clicked like rain against stone. Her mask was sewn with grey thread that was supposed to look like silver and had polished stones in it that could pass as valuable in bad light. The other costume was pale as bone, and she carried it under her arm.
The baker’s house was closed. He and his family were out in the streets and canals, and she rapped at the door to Sammish’s little room until she was certain that she wasn’t there either. The stars were out, filling the sky, and a wide, white moon was with them. The festival, like the wind, didn’t reach into the depths of Longhill, but Alys could still hear it. The subtle sounds of merriment, far away. The city was enjoying itself, and the combined voices and violins, drums and pounding dancers were like listening to someone talking in the next room. She considered putting the pale costume at Sammish’s doorway and going on her own, and wrestled with the reasons to leave and the reasons to be patient until Sammish arrived and the debate lost its importance.
Sammish had the leather satchel she used when she was carrying knives, and a sour expression. Alys could tell that she was trying not to snap when she spoke.
“You look ready for a night,” Sammish said. “What’re you meant to be?”
“Water nymph,” Alys said. “You’re a snow fairy.”
“I’m a what?”
Alys held out the pale cloth. “Snow fairy. Now strip off your day clothes and put these on. We’re going to Green Hill.”
Sammish took the costume like she’d been handed a dead animal. “Why?”
“When else are we going to be able to pass up there?”
“Why would we want to?”
“To look for the smoke woman. What else?” Alys said, surprised that Sammish hadn’t followed her thought. “Come on. You’ll be cunning in this. And it’s already paid for.”
For a moment, Sammish looked so lost and despairing that Alys thought she would refuse. But she took the cloth and motioned Alys to wait as she undid the lock on her room and vanished into the darkness. A few minutes later, she emerged. The costume was fine—white cloth that caught the moonlight and yellow dye in patterns like light under water, a leather mask that made her eyes look wide and exotic—but she wore it like it was a sack.
“How bad?” Sammish asked.
“They’ll bow down before you and ask for wishes,” Alys said. It was a lie, but it was the right lie, and Sammish managed a smile. They walked together through the narrow and twisting streets until one opened onto a square, and they were in Newmarket. The harvest festival was in its full fever. They wove their way through the crowds and music until they came to the streets where open carts were letting anyone ride without charge. Alys found one heading toward the northernmost bridge over the Khahon, the one that linked Riverport to Green Hill, and clambered aboard, careful of her false fingers. Her heart beat a little faster with every street they passed, and she imagined what a hunter in the forest must feel.
Riverport was alive with torches and lanterns and firepits. The rich smell of roasting pork and the sweetness of sugar beet mash mixed with the smoke. The peculiar combination brought back memories of other harvest festivals through her girlhood, of running after her mother through a crowd, of dancing on a rooftop she’d climbed to while the owner of the building shouted at her to come down, and of being carried on someone’s shoulders through a dance while sparks and embers flowed through the air around her. The flickering of the light made the buildings themselves seem to sway, and bluecloaks marched in force with a sand cart trailing behind them, watchful for any untamed fires.
At every house, servants or younger children handed out bits of sausage and ham, fresh-cooked game and bits of pumpkin-and-butter still warm from the oven. Many of the revelers on the street brought cups to dip into the bowls of hot juice and spiced wine. Alys thought she caught sight of Nimal dressed as an ancient Inlisc warrior, but it might have only been someone who looked like him. It was early yet to be running a pull. The city would be drunker the farther it fell into night.
Alys had lived in Kithamar from her first breath without ever crossing its northernmost bridge. Going to Green Hill was like walking to another world. Black water surged under them, churning white where the old stone broke it, the river cold and angry and filled with voices that had never known a human tongue. The air was more than chill; it was cold. Alys paused in the center of the span, looking west into the flow. For a moment, she felt very small, like she was a rabbit and the river a great dark owl that might kill her or might not, as its whim took it. Sammish took her hand, their fingers briefly weaving together. The uncertainty in Sammish’s masked eyes made her think she felt the same unease, and they walked the rest of the bridge hand in hand.
It took no time at all for Alys to realize how badly she had underestimated Green Hill.
If the life and light of Riverport had outshone the darkness and emptiness of Longhill, Green Hill transcended the world that Alys knew. The streets were lined with strands of tiny lanterns, each of them glowing like a firefly. Acrobats tumbled and jumped in the darkness, and jugglers made bright-colored balls flicker through the air and tossed up knives that they caught in their teeth. Between two great houses, an archway had been constructed, its stucco painted to look like stone, and a man and woman either spectacularly nude or costumed to seem so stood on its apex, singing with voices like gods. There were no bluecloaks; all the guards wore the red of the palace. The crowd that swirled around them wore costumes and masks unlike anything Alys had ever seen. If nymphs and fairies really existed, they would have passed here unremarked.
A man came by balanced on stilts and swooped improbably long arms down to offer bits of clove sugar to the crowd. A woman with long spirals of colored glass woven into her hair danced by, strewing flower petals. Palanquins shouldered by bare-chested men carried the highest families of Kithamar from house to house, weaving gracefully through the crowd. Everywhere she looked, she found people looking back. Some had disapproval in their eyes, some amusement. Alys glanced at Sammish and saw her own thoughts echoed there. In their rented costumes, they stood out like blood on a wedding dress.
“We could leave,” Sammish said.
Alys squeezed her friend’s hand and let it go. “Follow me.”
With her head high and her jaw jutting out like she was ready to fight, Alys bulled forward through the crowd. She would make them cut her down in the street before she let a bad costume and the contempt of the rich stop her. Sammish trailed in her wake, a flutter of yellow and white in Alys’s peripheral vision.
The palace itself rose up, high dark walls that blotted out the sky, and huge red lanterns that dripped from it like berries from a twig. As they came to its corner, the crowd grew thicker. Even the nobles were jostling for a better view. In Longhill, it would have meant there was a street fight. Alys didn’t know what it meant here.
A huge shape loomed up, vast as a sailing ship and draped with bright cloth and pale banners. At its prow, a man stood. Prince Byrn a Sal, the light and lord of Kithamar, raised his hands, and the crowd cheered. Alys saw now that it was a massive cart, pulled along by a team of thick-bodied horses with silver woven in their manes. The wheels were as tall as she was, and the sound of its weight grinding against the street promised broken stones. Behind the prince, others stood, looking out over the city and waving. The crowd shouted its delight. A man behind her started chanting It’s our year. It’s our year. She couldn’t guess what he or the ritual before her meant. It was like being in a dream.