Rostick.
She stared at the intricate design of the fortifications, the newness of the construction. It seemed as if the entire kingdom had gathered together in this one bend of the river to raise an edifice that would fulfill a defensive purpose while also serving as an outpost for trade. There were the docks! Though the walls separated the docks from the city, she could see the masts of ships down below. And beyond the bridges and battlements, manors and halls, she could see at least seven towers and a fortress that overlooked the mouth of the river at the north edge of the city. And there were more ships by that fortress—hundreds of them. It was an armada. She had not realized so many ships could even exist, let alone be anchored together in a single massive harbor.
She stared at the docks, the bridges, the abbeys, trying to puzzle the pieces together. It was all new construction, not broken remnants from the past. There were shipyards everywhere. Why so many? What would these ships be used for?
The answer came to her—clear and undeniable. Invasion. These were warships, not fishing vessels. They intended to wage war. Her heart panged with dread. These were new. They would be sailing for Comoros to humble her father for expelling the Dochte Mandar from his realm. Her mind filled with the possibility of every kingdom attacking Comoros, just as Comoros had humbled Pry-Ree in the distant past.
She squeezed the pole of the scaffold, wishing she could somehow warn her father. Wishing there were a way she could prevent it.
“Ach stounzen! Bick trot lam! Ach stouzen!”
Someone was shouting at her from below. She looked down to see that a small work crew had slowly been assembling in the courtyard below. One of the men had noticed her and was pointing up at her and shouting.
She knew where the harbor was, and though it would be near impossible to find a single Dahomeyjan ship amidst such madness, she was convinced that she was in Rostick, where she had heard the Myriad One inside her order the man to take her. It still troubled her that the being clearly approved of the decisions she was making, but she dared not stray from her path—not when it was her only chance to be free. She needed to find the Argiver, the ship Collier had sent.
Quickly, she descended the scaffolding. A small crowd of workers had gathered to the base. They wore scruffy clothes pale with stone dust. Many held hammers and chisels.
“Doch nasten iffen. Tuzza breeg. Stounzen,” said the man who had shouted at her as she reached the bottom. She did not understand Hautlander, but his scolding tone transcended language. She shoved past him and started walking in the direction of a bridge she had seen that would take her to the river.
“Bick nuffen!” the man sneered at her. “Ick nuffen dorr!”
Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment, but the feeling subsided after she had left the onlookers behind. A tower bell sounded, and suddenly it seemed as if the entire city had been summoned to the streets en masse. Doors opened and Maia watched as men and women dressed in gray skirts and white aprons emerged from homes and shops. The wardrobe was fairly uniform and she noticed the women wore padded round circlets and veils and wimples.
Maia soon realized that people were staring at her with as much interest as she was looking at them. She was not veiled, nor was anyone else wearing such a long cloak. The color of her gown was conspicuous when compared to the monotones the other women wore. All of the looks made her nervous, though it was nothing compared to the shame she had endured at Lady Deorwynn’s hands. It made her realize that she was being perceived as an outsider, someone who did not belong in Rostick. People pointed at her, making comments in their throaty language.
Her cheeks were burning once again, but though the streets were teeming with life, this was not a crowd she could vanish into. She pressed on, fighting down the terrible feeling of being mocked and jeered at. Some of the women scolded her roughly as she passed. She did not know why, but Maia could tell that this was how the people of Rostick treated a woman who refused to conform.
She found the bridge she sought and crossed it. She was surprised to see the water was not fetid or reeking of dead fish, given the cramped conditions of the city. The water was as immaculately clean as the cobblestone streets . . . but how was it all kept that way? After crossing the bridge, she began searching the ships for any markings of Dahomey or Comoros. She needed to find someone who could guide her.
“Bick nuffen,” someone said at her sleeve, tugging her. She whirled and saw four young men dressed in wharf garb with dark scarves around their necks. “Bick nuffen trollen?”
Most of them laughed. One of them began fishing in his purse for coins. “Septem? Goch, drillow!” One of the other young men butted his comrade in the belly with his elbow and leered at her.