well.
S ince she was going to talk to a Gardier prisoner, Tremaine didn’t change out of the Syprian clothes she had put on earlier, the dark pair of pants and the gold shirt with the sleeves that tied back. Her battered boots, an overcoat and a cap made it a comfortable and convenient outfit for tramping through the cold and muddy streets. She knew from speaking to Balin before that the Gardier woman found the signs of alliance between the Syprians and the Rienish disconcerting. Not disconcerting in a “my enemies are allying with each other” way, but disconcerting in a “my enemies are intimate with animals” way. The Gardier had never seen the Syprians as people.
Tremaine briefly considered a taxicab but automobiles made Ilias ill, so she decided to walk to the Port Authority. It wasn’t a long way and would give her a chance to work off her excess energy.
“We didn’t come this way before,” Ilias said, as the street she had chosen expanded into an open circular plaza. It wasn’t large by Ile-Rien’s standards, but it was almost palatial given Capistown’s lack of space. It was paved with a gray-veined stone that gleamed in the overcast light. In the center, surrounded by bright beds of early-spring flowers, was an oversize statue of a female figure swathed in robes and holding a sword.
“Nicholas likes back alleys,” Tremaine explained, turning onto the covered promenade that ran around the perimeter of the plaza. It was fronted by expensive shops, the local telegraph office and several cafés. The inclement weather had caused the café patrons to withdraw inside, but as she and Ilias passed an open set of double doors, Tremaine heard a mandolin chorus and smelled sweet bread. She sighed. She thought the Syprians would enjoy Capistown more if they had a chance to explore the places where people actually lived, and not just the refugee hostel and the government buildings they had been trapped in so long. She had heard of a confectionery somewhere in this district that sold chocolates shaped like seashells; maybe on the way back she could find it.
Ilias nudged her elbow, asking in a low voice, “Who are they?”
Craning her neck to get one last sniff of the café, Tremaine hadn’t seen the small group of people sitting on the paving stones just off the promenade, dangerously close to the motorcar and wagon traffic circling the plaza. They wore ragged cloaks over skirts of braided grasses and brief leather tabards, and both women and men had cropped dark hair with tribal scarring and tattoos decorating their sallow skin. None of them looked healthy, and the children and elders were close to emaciated. They had clay bowls set out on the pavement and were ostensibly selling jewelry made of polished stone and braided hair, though they were probably doing more begging.
“They’re Massian natives, they lived here before Capidara was colonized.” And if we don’t stop the Gardier, that’s better than what will happen to the Syprians, she reminded herself. The Gardier would simply exterminate the inhabitants of the Syrnai. And if by some miracle we do win the war, are they any better off? her self retorted. The rich forests around Cineth would tempt any number of land barons, eager for new territories to exploit, and the rest of the city-states were probably just as lush. The Capidarans already had the secret of building the spheres and what was left of the Rienish government couldn’t even protect its own people, let alone its otherworld native allies.
Ilias frowned, probably baffled at why the Massians were sitting in the street. “What’s colonized?” he asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar Rienish word.
She shook her head, tugging at the sleeve of his borrowed coat to get him to move along. “It’s not important.” And I hope you need never find out.
A light rain had started by the time they reached the Port Authority. One of Averi’s corporals met them in the foyer, a large
S ince she was going to talk to a Gardier prisoner, Tremaine didn’t change out of the Syprian clothes she had put on earlier, the dark pair of pants and the gold shirt with the sleeves that tied back. Her battered boots, an overcoat and a cap made it a comfortable and convenient outfit for tramping through the cold and muddy streets. She knew from speaking to Balin before that the Gardier woman found the signs of alliance between the Syprians and the Rienish disconcerting. Not disconcerting in a “my enemies are allying with each other” way, but disconcerting in a “my enemies are intimate with animals” way. The Gardier had never seen the Syprians as people.
Tremaine briefly considered a taxicab but automobiles made Ilias ill, so she decided to walk to the Port Authority. It wasn’t a long way and would give her a chance to work off her excess energy.
“We didn’t come this way before,” Ilias said, as the street she had chosen expanded into an open circular plaza. It wasn’t large by Ile-Rien’s standards, but it was almost palatial given Capistown’s lack of space. It was paved with a gray-veined stone that gleamed in the overcast light. In the center, surrounded by bright beds of early-spring flowers, was an oversize statue of a female figure swathed in robes and holding a sword.
“Nicholas likes back alleys,” Tremaine explained, turning onto the covered promenade that ran around the perimeter of the plaza. It was fronted by expensive shops, the local telegraph office and several cafés. The inclement weather had caused the café patrons to withdraw inside, but as she and Ilias passed an open set of double doors, Tremaine heard a mandolin chorus and smelled sweet bread. She sighed. She thought the Syprians would enjoy Capistown more if they had a chance to explore the places where people actually lived, and not just the refugee hostel and the government buildings they had been trapped in so long. She had heard of a confectionery somewhere in this district that sold chocolates shaped like seashells; maybe on the way back she could find it.
Ilias nudged her elbow, asking in a low voice, “Who are they?”
Craning her neck to get one last sniff of the café, Tremaine hadn’t seen the small group of people sitting on the paving stones just off the promenade, dangerously close to the motorcar and wagon traffic circling the plaza. They wore ragged cloaks over skirts of braided grasses and brief leather tabards, and both women and men had cropped dark hair with tribal scarring and tattoos decorating their sallow skin. None of them looked healthy, and the children and elders were close to emaciated. They had clay bowls set out on the pavement and were ostensibly selling jewelry made of polished stone and braided hair, though they were probably doing more begging.
“They’re Massian natives, they lived here before Capidara was colonized.” And if we don’t stop the Gardier, that’s better than what will happen to the Syprians, she reminded herself. The Gardier would simply exterminate the inhabitants of the Syrnai. And if by some miracle we do win the war, are they any better off? her self retorted. The rich forests around Cineth would tempt any number of land barons, eager for new territories to exploit, and the rest of the city-states were probably just as lush. The Capidarans already had the secret of building the spheres and what was left of the Rienish government couldn’t even protect its own people, let alone its otherworld native allies.
Ilias frowned, probably baffled at why the Massians were sitting in the street. “What’s colonized?” he asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar Rienish word.
She shook her head, tugging at the sleeve of his borrowed coat to get him to move along. “It’s not important.” And I hope you need never find out.
A light rain had started by the time they reached the Port Authority. One of Averi’s corporals met them in the foyer, a large
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