The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 18: Saviours: Section III: Kirin

"Where is everyone?" he asked.

Vasthes walked to the curtain and rested his head against one of the wooden posts holding up the canopied tower. He gazed out in the direction of Ledan and the ships docked alongside the Eralia. "Ashore. There's to be a celebration. They've got the Masseni prisoners trussed up for parade, and the Anouti senators are making a public declaration of their allegiance."

"Safeta," Kirin corrected without thinking.

Vasthes turned. "What?"

"Safeta, not senators." Kirin forced himself to sit up. As his feet touched the deck his vision blurred. He caught a whiff of his own stench, then sniffed his armpit. Augh.

Vasthes glared, raising a hand to shield his eyes. He stepped out onto the Eralia's deck. "They killed my brother; I'll call them what I like."

A man of Lorar had killed his brother, but Kirin wasn't suicidal enough to tell Vasthes that. "It was the Masseni who did it. You just said yourself the Anouti are our allies now."

Kirin blinked his eyes clear, then stood up and followed Vasthes outside.

"Better they weren't," Vasthes said bitterly.

Kirin bumbled to the railing and leaned over. The water below sloshed against the hull, its churning currents a deeper blue compared with the ocean of the northern Helit. Ledan's harbour was bigger than the one at Venius, curved and swooping and filled with warships. Most of the boats were obviously Lorai and Anouti designed, but one in particular dwarfed all the others, her bold decoration a shock of colour against the backdrop of the plain sandstone colossi of Ledan.

The Ziphax.

Marianus had captured a Masseni vessel, and not just any ship, but the pride of Kemassen's fleet.

"Come on." Vasthes gave Kirin's shoulder a friendly slap. "Let's watch the parade."

Kirin walked with Vasthes to the gangplank, but lingered at the top of it to look out on the spectacular view.

Most of the Anouti buildings looked the same to Kirin. They were hard, angular things the colour of the desert, with trapezoidal arches whose entrances stood like slanted feet atop the paved roads. Palm trees and fountains dotted the city, but altogether she blended into the desert beyond.

The desert, men claimed, was all the protection Ledan required.

"Come on, Lupo! It's too hot to stand here." Vasthes had already bolted halfway down the gangplank.

The sun was blinding—too hot and too bright. Raising his elbow to block it out did little, and he was sweltering in even his thin tunic. Maybe there was something to the cloaks and headdresses southerners sometimes wore.

Kirin's feet drummed the gangplank all the way down.

Beneath the rectangular sandstone buildings that lined the street, shade swallowed Kirin and Vasthes whole, cooling Kirin's skin. The pungent stink of the fresh catch mingled with the warm scent of baked bread. Kirin was torn between breathing through his mouth to avoid the fishy pong and sniffing deeper to enjoy the undertones of yeast and spice.

It seemed strange that Ledan should smell of bread. Oran hadn't smelled of bread. But then, no one had ever claimed southerners didn't eat.

Kirin's stomach growled.

From one of the ocean-facing temples along the dockyard, a priest in bright blue robe hurried outside, pursued by an angry temple butcher brandishing a fish.

The sight was enough to make Kirin laugh, and while he was distracted, a stumpy, scraggly-haired woman pushed past him. She was fat, squat, and brown-skinned. When she turned her glare on him, he was met with frightful yellow eyes and a furry brow that stretched across both eyes.