Raised causeways ridged the city like the arms of a sunbeam, carrying both freshwater and travelers through the many sectors of Almasad. They were not like the ruins of Old Cor, broken and chipped away. The limestone gleamed white under the sun, bright as a shooting star. Palatial compounds, citadels, and paved plazas ran along either side of the riverbank, patterned in soft yellow, green, and bright blue. A royal palace sat on the only hill, surrounded by sandstone walls and towers tipped in winking silver. It looked down on the Ziron, its many windows and balconies empty. As Corayne knew, the royal court of Ibal was not here or even in the grander capital. They were farther south, in the mountains, hiding or biding their time. They know something is wrong, she thought, clenching her teeth.
Statues of ancient kings flanked the river, taller than a cathedral spire, their faces worn by the ages. The galley passed through their shadows, cast for thousands of years.
“Are those emperors?” Corayne said at the rail, looking on them with wonder. As in Siscaria, as in Galland, the ancient empire ruled here once. She searched their facades, looking for some hint of her father, of herself. But found none. “Old Cor?”
Sorasa leaned into the warm wind, looking at the water, not the bank. “Do those look like northern conquerors to you?” she said with a proud smile.
Indeed, the statues did not, their features and clothing different from any emperor across the Long Sea. Each sat astride a fine stallion, with a cloak of patterned silk and peacock feathers. They looked more like my mother, Corayne thought, seeing the same lips and cheekbones.
Leaning into the warm breeze, Sorasa straightened her spine. Whatever fear she felt at returning to her home seemed to disappear. “Ibal was born before Cor and still lives long after it died.”
For certain, Ibal was truly alive. Different parts of the riverbank crowded with boats or splashing children or the knobbled form of a crocodile. Long-necked white birds flapped overhead, hunting shining copper fish. People traveled the causeways on foot or carriage or horseback, fading into the distance in every direction. The Ibalets of the coast were golden, their faces a prism of color in every shade of sunlight. Those from the south and east were darker, their faces the rich, reddish color of carnelian or black jet. They hailed from farther lands—Sapphire Bay, Kasa, or even distant Niron, a kingdom nestled in the Forest of Rainbows. Their voices rose in every language of the south, some familiar to Corayne, some foreign as Ishei.
Where Ascal stank and overwhelmed, a riot upon the senses, Almasad was a balm. The air was sweet, perfumed by the lotus gardens adorning the Ziron. Music drifted through the streets, from performers in their plazas or private homes along the river. And the water itself ran clean, not like the fetid canals of Queen Erida’s capital. Corayne almost wanted to dive into the water as they eased toward shore, the clear green current inviting as any fine bath.
Another inspector met their ship at the docks. Corayne thought of Galeri back in Lemarta, bribes jingling in his pockets, his ledger full of falsehoods. The Ibalet officer seemed far more alert, her light, cream-colored clothing set with several badges of office looped together with gold chain.
Again, the navigator took up the captain’s mantle and met the officer as the crew unloaded in the usual chaos. The pair went over their surviving cargo, inspecting crates.
Corayne and the others gathered at the rail, watching the traffic below. Another galley was in port beside them, looking worse for wear, with torn sails and snapped oars sticking out like the quills of a porcupine. It listed to one side, leaning drunkenly, while its crew disembarked as swiftly as they could.
Corayne read the ship. Sardosi, black-and-white sails—a grain galley. The crew hastily rolled great barrels onto the dock, lest the ship sink right then and there with all its cargo.
“This is going to be a mess,” she said in a low voice, looking to Dom and Andry at her side. “Dock officers care more about cargo than passengers. We can give them the slip, move in pairs.”
Another barrel bounced down the gangplank, landing hard. After a second, its wood hoops burst, the barrel splitting open with a hiss of shifting grain. Both crews, well as the Ibalet officer and her inspection team, shouted in dismay.
On the rail, Sorasa slipped a slingshot back into her belt, her expression open and blank. “You first,” she said, grabbing Corayne by the arm. “Meet at the Red Pillar, the takhan,” she added to the rest, nodding at the impossibly tall obelisk rising from the city skyline. It was only half a mile away, Corayne judged, but through the densest part of the city.