Blankmap: Book I

8. Cloaked

In the distance Solomon could see the old woman picking her way through the throng of the street. He clambered down from his vantage point atop a fountain, awkward with the use of only one hand, and began running in her direction. The narrow street was packed much more tightly than it had been an hour earlier, and he found himself jostled at every turn by elbows and shoulders as he attempted to pick his way through it at full speed. Solomon caught up to the woman in front of a pastry stand. He tapped her bony arm, which felt like dry kindling to the touch beneath her sleeves, and she whirled around.

"Here," he panted. "Though you might have a hard time getting it off my hand. We've grown...rather attached."

She frowned. "Haste isn't your thing, boy. Neither are jokes. Pick a different way to get folks to like you. Now give me your hand."

Solomon extended his arm toward the old woman. The octopus looked at nothing in particular. Drying in the sun, it lost much of its radiance, and despite the battle it had waged against him Solomon found himself hoping that the old woman had a barrel of her own to drop it in. He was afraid of what might happen if the creature stayed out of water for too long.

The next instant there was a splash, and Solomon's arm was soaked to the elbow. The woman set down a now-empty bottle and slid a bag over the young adventurer's hand and wrist, cloaking the octopus in darkness. He felt the tentacles loosen and give way as she slid the bag down and twisted it into a bundle.

"Pleasure doing business with you. Here's your key. May you find something to open with it."

She dangled it out in front of him. He took the soft leather cord in his hand and slipped it over his neck, where it disappeared beneath his collar.

"And the hairs? From the... uhh, sea people?"

"Thessala. They're called the Thessala. Here."

From her wares she pulled out a small metal clip. In it were three long, fine hairs which glimmered gold in the noonday sun.

"Thanks," he said, shoving the clip deep into his pocket.

"I hope you'll find a safer place for those than your pants. They're worth more than gold to some folks."

"Then why let me have them?" Solomon blurted out.

"I said some folks, didn't I?"

The old woman turned on her heel. With a clatter she shoved the cart forward, and in seconds had vanished back into the crowd.

Solomon stared after her for a moment, only to jolt back to reality a moment later.

"The time!" he cried, burying his hand in his other pocket and retrieving his father's watch. He stared at its face, hoping to make sense of the symbols that ringed it, but it was impossible. Hoping that he wasn't too late, Solomon dashed back the way he had came, feet pounding the cobbled street as he took off down the hill towards the docks. He passed vendors selling smoked fish, ducked under the eaves of impossibly tall buildings where music streamed from paneless windows, and spun his way around Nishayans who moved as though underwater. He could feel himself closing the distance quickly, but not quickly enough--not knowing what the time was, he would not feel relaxed until he knew for sure that he was within the bounds allotted.

As he neared the place where the Petrichor was moored, he skidded to a halt. He could see Melion and the Irooj standing to the front of five other ri-Marij. He thought he could pick out Jara's close-cropped hair among them. Fanned out facing the ri-Marij, backs to Solomon, were (by his count) eight men and women. Despite the warmth of the day each of these strangers wore a hooded robe of purple as deep as the last shade of twilight before the curtain of night falls. At each of their sides, raised with intent, were staffs of white wood with glittering silver blades. The ri-Marij, so far as Solomon could tell, were unarmed. Several of them didn't even have shirts, much less weapons.