The town rose over the next crest, and so did her heart at the sight. Houses and shops as pretty as a scene out of a play. Tiny dark temples filled with smoke and clingings and clangings and noise and laughter and shouts. Life. The quick, speedy movements of a people who ferociously enjoyed their short time under the sun.
Ariel stepped quickly past the first great pier that stuck out into the bay: fishing ships were unloading net after net of catch, and she really didn’t want to witness that. By ancient law the rules for the World Under the Sea and those for the Dry World were different—but that didn’t mean she had to witness the more distasteful aspects of their differences.
And speaking of differences, the changes in Tirulia from the last time she had been there were immediately apparent.
Three guards—no, soldiers—stood in a boyish cluster at the front of the docks, puffing their chests out, smoking, and bragging to a trio of girls who seemed so familiar Ariel could almost see them swishing their tails while flirting. They were rosy-cheeked with blushes as the boys regaled them with tales of their exploits.
“…they put up quite the fight, let me tell you. But that didn’t stop Andral and me from gettin’ them all out…”
“…aye, we torched the place good. Not a barn left standing…”
“…orders. Got the chief of the village myself, I did…”
“See what I got? Pretty, ain’t it? It was just lying out, practically begging to be took…”
Put up a fight? Torched the place? For Tirulia? Seizing people in the mountains, burning villages to the ground? Looting?
As Ariel looked around she noticed even more soldiers wandering among the crowd. Some had an extra medal on their lapels, some had bandages where their hands once were. New recruits wore their uniforms with an air of cockiness, finding every excuse to touch their caps when a lady looked their way. One scratched the back of his head with the muzzle of his gun.
Ariel shuddered. Eric had taken her to see a ten-gun salute at the castle; it was a tradition that honored Tirulia’s connection with the sea and the old sea gods they used to worship. An explosion of modern fire and gunpowder was thought to be pleasing to the occasionally warlike Neptune.
But the gunshots were utterly terrifying, especially because they didn’t come from the clouds or the waves or the sky or the rocks, the proper places for thunder.
Ariel had thrown herself to the ground under a cannon and covered her ears until Eric had taken her into his arms and told her it was all right. That had almost made it all worth it.
And here was a man scratching his head with a gun. There were men with guns all over the market. Carlotta had spoken truly—this was not the same peaceful and sleepy seaside town it was half a decade before.
The place wasn’t completely transformed, however. Past the soldiers was the usual line of stands and carts displaying vegetables, fruits, cheese, dried meat. Customers haggled over prices while eyeing great stalks of leafy things.
There was also an amazing scent of fresh-baked…something.
Baking wasn’t a thing under the sea. When Ariel lived at the castle with Eric she had tried breads, cakes, pies, rolls, and sweets, and found them all mystifying （though delicious）。 They were like nothing she had ever eaten before and sometimes came to her plate still warm, which was also an odd way to eat food. Eric had bought her twelve different kinds of pie at a fancy shop in town and laughed as she had a bite of each, swooning.
That was the old Ariel. The one who dove right into town life and interacted a little too closely with a puppet show, poking at things in shops that were for display only, dancing to music that was probably just for listening to. Now she stood back and watched. Was this the result of age, and experience, and time? Or of not having a voice for so long? Had quiet observation just become a habit?
Maybe this would provide an excuse for her to gather more information.
Observation is all well and good, but only if it leads to a thoughtful plan of action!
She followed the delicious aroma until she came to a small bakery. In front of it a young man with red hair—not half as bright as Ariel’s—was setting out savory pies.
She pulled out her little satchel and went through the things in there: gems, pearls, coins, bits of mismatched and sea-changed jewelry that could be useful. Two coins looked like the same kind she had seen other people use; with those in her palm she cautiously approached the stand. She felt like she moved slower than when she was younger, as if the water on the Dry World had become heavier and thicker.