Bladesinger Bartolo took his eyes momentarily off the ring to frown at Tapel and incline his head sharply in the direction of the infirmary. Tapel sighed and walked away from the arena, wishing he’d been able to start his training as early as all the Alturan boys. He wondered if he’d ever get rid of his Halrana accent. At least he was staying in the barracks, where his mother couldn’t keep an eye on him.
Unfortunately, today was Lordsday, and after practice he had to make his way to the Crystal Palace, so his mother could fuss over him.
Anything was better than that.
Fergus the ferryman gazed out at his city as he navigated the Sarsen.
White snow turned translucent as it warmed in the afternoon sun and dripped from the trees with a steady patter. The ice in the Sarsen was gone; fish were spawning in pools far from the city; and singing birds flashed into the green water, emerging with little wriggling prey downed with gusto.
Flowers dotted the riverside gardens in the Woltenplats and on the banks below the Crystal Palace: yellow daisies and shimmering summerglens, dainty white dewdrops and scarlet passionflowers. Bees buzzed as they flitted from one petal to another, and the hum of insects in the nearby Dunwood formed a melodious backdrop to any conversation away from the city center.
Mornings were misty and evenings cool, but at this time of year, at this time of day, there was no place better to be than Sarostar.
Fergus knew Sarostar like the back of his hand. He knew the histories of all the nine bridges and the stories of intrigue and politicking from the many years of the Crystal Palace’s turbulent history. He knew the names of each of the buried souls who occupied the Heroes’ Cemetery near the Academy of Enchanters, and he knew the best place to have a mug of cherl or buy a length of Alturan silk.
But most of all, Fergus enjoyed knowing the people. He loved Sarostar, and he made it his business to get to know as many of her residents as he could, something his job as ferryman facilitated. He knew when to talk and when to listen. He knew the right questions to ask, and how to nod and keep his mouth shut. His wife said he was too curious, but Fergus thought there was nothing wrong with being interested in people.
A city’s heart wasn’t just in her beautiful buildings and the tales that made up her history. It was in her people: the humdrum details of their daily lives; how they interacted with the city, buying and working and eating and loving. If Fergus the ferryman could live forever, he would never tire of his favorite people in all the world, the people of Sarostar, capital of Altura.
Yet Sarostar had changed.
Though ferryboats were again traveling the river after a cold winter, for once, Fergus the ferryman wasn’t enjoying the spring. He pulled on his oars, hauling against the Sarsen’s strong current, and scowled.
Fergus had never in all his life seen so many strangers in Sarostar. Over the last months the city had become a scene of intense activity; Sarostar’s nine bridges thronged with travelers from sunup to sundown. The demand for the services of the ferryboats was endless. Not only was half of Halaran traveling back and forth between the free cities and Ralanast, but there were also these people from across the sea, the Veldrins. Even Dunfolk now scurried through the city so frequently that people barely registered their presence anymore.
It was all so different.
There were so many newcomers, and so many of them looked suspicious! He looked at his current passenger, a prime example. Fergus had tried engaging the man in conversation, but his passenger stayed silent as a clam. The man’s manners were strange and his skin swarthy. He looked around the boat as if it were dirty, and sniffed disdainfully, looking pointedly at the pipe stuffed into Fergus’s belt. He was definitely a Veldrin.
Some of them settled in well, but many still pined for their home. Lady Amber, the high lord’s wife, had performed miracles, and a new district appeared in Sarostar’s north: the Veldonplats it was coming to be called. The people there had beds to sleep in and nightlamps to fill their houses with light, but it was a running joke in the city that there was an excess of nightlamps in the Poloplats market and a shortage of plain candles and oil lanterns. The Veldrins hadn’t taken well to enchantment.
One thing was for certain: they worked hard to perform to the high lord’s demanding schedule for fortifications. They knew what was coming, and their feverish stories had the whole city on edge. Just two days past, a Veldrin named Deniz had told Fergus about the fleet that would come from the west. When the time came, Fergus would fight.
Yes, some had settled in well, but not this one.
Fergus rowed hard against the current, the muscles in his shoulders and back straining with effort. As the afternoon began to fade to evening, Fergus’s passenger stared in dread at the Crystal Palace’s cycling colors. When the high lord opened the way home, this one would be happy to go.
“There we go,” Fergus said as the flat-bottomed boat gently nudged the dock near the Pens. “Two copper cendeens that’ll be.”
With a grunt the Veldrin handed Fergus a couple of coins and disembarked.
Fergus knew the high lord was doing the right thing, but that didn’t mean he didn’t long for the old days, when he knew every face in Sarostar.