“You’re supposed to be a young, green merchant seeing this place for the first time. Whatever you’re thinking, don’t hide it so well for once.”
He must see my reason, because his expression changes almost immediately, turning into the bright excitement of a tourist.
Within a few hours, we are allowed to disembark into the bustle of Cyprene’s docks. As soon as his feet touch dry land, Nolan lets out a sigh of relief, one I suspect is no performance. The horses follow, and then Tychus, as I am strapping our gear onto their saddles.
“You’ll want to move away from the docks to find decent lodging. Go up the hill. I prefer the White Gull myself, though I’m afraid the owner doesn’t let to strangers.” He begins to depart, then pauses. “I’m headed that direction myself. If you don’t object to a guide, I can bring you to where the better guesthouses are. You’d be surprised how many appear clean… until you find a plump cockroach swimming around your soup.”
Immediately, suspicion fills me. New to town and with obvious resources, Nolan must read like an easy mark. Even if Tychus’s intentions are no more than directing us to an overpriced guesthouse that feeds him a cut, it would be a poor start to appear like a pair of rubes. I give Nolan a little shrug, as if it’s up to him. There’s enough wariness in his face that I know he has the same misgivings.
Still, he smiles and says: “Incredibly kind of you, sir. That would be very welcome.”
Tychus returns the expression. “Come. My baggage will be sent later.”
I take one last look at theSquid’s Shadow, hoping to see Cleophas. But the captain is busy with her own obligations, likely readying for wherever the winds and waves will bear her next. Which leaves me carrying a twinge of jealousy as Tychus leads us into the chaos of the docks with an easy familiarity. If only it could be so simple and relaxed for Nolan and me. We have no allies here. Anyone we pass may be one of the heretics we are searching for, or a Renderer searching for us. My only solace is that the Renderers have no reason to keep hounds in Cyprene; the Goddess’s Chosen haven’t had a foothold here for decades. Can’t hunt where there’s no prey.
Still, nothing is sure, and my attention is fractured as I fight the crowds to keep a few steps behind Tychus and Nolan while also taking in this new world. Phrygis, a bustling mainland port, is dull as dirt when set against Cyprene, which pulses with the brisk, vibrant energy of fruitful commerce. There are ships clearly from the mainland, and ships that clearly aren’t, bearing goods and sailors from places I cannot begin to guess. We pass a gathering of dark-complexioned sailors clad in ochre and burgundy playing an elaborate dice game, elbow through a clutch of pale, heavily tattooed men dipping mugs of black beer directly from a barrel. I catch a whiff of spiced tobacco on one corner; on the next, the scent of something more potent suggests this as a likely origin for much of the Devoted Lands’ black-market goods. But for everything I observe, it’s what I don’t that stands out.
“Odd to see no clerics in such a busy place…” Nolan puts a name to it. “And the Flame… it’s nowhere to be seen.”
He’s right. Anywhere else, I’d see the Goddess’s fingerprints in the forms of insignia and greetings, hear the calls of the clerics to prayer, reminders that Tempestra-Innara is near, even when they aren’t. Here, the absence of them renders the city into an entirely different entity than any I’ve known. Here, the Goddess is wholly absent.
“Astute,” Tychus replies. “It does surprise many of the newcomers, to not see the Goddess’s presence. It is here, of course,” he hedges, “merely in a quieter fashion than you’re used to.”
Though accepting Tychus’s help is a ruse, I’m quickly thankful, as it’s clear we won’t find it anywhere else. The people of Cyprene appear to be especially adept at minding their own business, to the point that I have to force my attention straight ahead to make it appear as if I know wheremybusiness lies. Tychus may have tagged us as marks, but no need to draw any other bottom-feeders. The avenues turn from wide and open to winding and narrow and back, disorienting in a way I can’t help but wonder is intentional. The best signposts are the cliffs that tower above the warehouses, shops, and dwellings.
“Those carvings,” Nolan notes as we walk, sounding sufficiently awestruck by the ever-present views of them.
“Work of the Salt Goddess’s followers,” Tychus explains, “created over generations. An unparalleled show of devotion. The Salt Goddessused to reside in those tunnels and passages, when they weren’t traveling the tides. Now they are mostly home to certain, uh, factions of the city. Some benign, some not. But regardless, I would strongly advise against entering them without knowing exactly where you need to be. They go deeper than you’d imagine, and many an unwary soul has gotten lost.” He glances back at me and winks. “Or worse.”
“Avoid the cliffs of no return,” I say. “Gotcha.”
We reach a cobbled plaza, where Tychus stops abruptly, drawing the hood of his cloak. Over his shoulder, I finally see a hint of the Goddess: the flame insignia—an antiquated version, at least—embroidered onto the sleeves of a blue uniform worn by two men loitering near a fountain. But the flame isn’t the only sigil I spot. Graffiti is scrawled on the fountain, an array of unfamiliar symbols… the same sorts as in the Renderers’ letter.
Nolan clears his throat to tell me he’s seen it too, then shifts impatiently. “Is there a problem?”
Tychus shakes his head. “No… but wait a moment, if you would.”
Across the plaza, the uniformed pair spot a third man, descending on him like wolves on prey. I can’t quite hear what’s being said, but the man—some common worker by the look of him—wears an expression of subservient fear. When one of uniformed men plucks a stray thread from his shoulder, the man flinches.
“Who are they?” asks Nolan.
“Caerula—sworn peacekeepers of the Goddess in Cyprene,” Tychus replies. “At least, that’s what they present themselves as.”
“Then why avoid them? If they represent our Goddess…”
“They do, but not like you’re used to on the mainland.” Caution enters Tychus’s voice. “They claim to serve Tempestra-Innara, but they mostly serve themselves. Be warned, the last thing you want to do in Cyprene is fall afoul of them.”
I’m more interested in the fact that Tychus wants to avoid them. It doesn’t come as a shock that another passenger on theSquid’s Shadowmay engage in less-than-honest dealings in Cyprene, but as bland as Tychus struck me, I didn’t expect anything of note.
By the fountains, money is handed over, an interaction that seems to be invisible to the people passing by. Then, the Caerula head downa different avenue without taking note of us, presumably onto their next shakedown. Once they are gone, Tychus’s jovial attitude makes a speedy reappearance, leading us forward again. I take closer note of the graffiti as we pass, but it’s not confined to the fountain; I spot it on walls and down alleys, along with the usual insults and raunchy renderings. But both fade the farther we get from the docks, until we are making our way up a gently sloping street lined with a mix of guesthouses and taverns.
“What about this one?” I can tell by the edge on his words that Nolan is tiring of this charade with Tychus. He indicates a plain but well-kept establishment as gray as salt, with a matching cat sunning itself in a window box.
Tychus looks appalled, waving a ringed hand dismissively. “Absolutely not. The rooms there smell like they’re used to store old cheese. And that cat has never caught a mouse in its life. There are much nicer places farther up the avenue. Come, I’ll show you.”
Oh, I bet he will. We are clearly heading to whatever guesthouse Tychus has some useful connection with, passing by more places of lodging before a sunny, almost garish, yellow building appears at the broad intersection of streets. The sign is painted with the silhouette of a bird, and a man I take to be the proprietor leans beside the open door, clad in a stained apron and smoking a pipe.
“This will be more than adequate,” Nolan says sharply, peeling away from Tychus. “Sir, do you have space available?”
