The other passengers came up to deck, pulling on half visors that covered their eyes. Yassen tightened his visor and wrapped a scarf around his neck. Most people could not recognize him—none of the passengers even knew of his name—but he could not take any chances. Samson had made it clear that he wanted no one to know of this meeting.
The hoverboat came to rest beside the platform, and Yassen disembarked with the rest of the passengers. Even in the early hours, the port was busy. On the other dock, soldiers barked out orders as fresh immigrants stumbled off a colony boat. Judging from the coiled silver bracelets on their wrists, Yassen guessed they were Sesharian refugees. They shuffled forward on the adjoining dock toward military buses. Some carried luggage; others had nothing save the clothes they wore. They all donned half visors and walked with a resigned grace of a people weary of their fate.
Native Jantari, in their lightning suits and golden bracelets, kept a healthy distance from the immigrants. They stayed on the brass homeland and receiving docks where merchants stationed their carts. Unlike most of the city, the carts were made of pale driftwood, but the vendors still wore half visors as they handled their wares. Yassen could already hear a merchant hawking satchels of vermilion tea while another shouted about a new delivery of mirrors from Cyleon that had a 90 percent accuracy of predicting one’s romantic future. Yassen shook his head. Only in Jantar.
Floating lanterns guided Yassen and the passengers to the glass-encased immigration office. Yassen slid his holopod into the port while a grim-faced attendant flicked something from his purple nails.
“Name?” he intoned.
“Cassian Newman,” Yassen said.
“Country of residence?”
“Nbru.”
The attendant waved his hand. “Take off your visor, please.”
Yassen unclipped his visor and saw shock register across the attendant’s face as he took in Yassen’s white, colorless eyes.
“Are you Jantari?” the attendant asked, surprised.
“No,” Yassen responded gruffly and clipped his visor back on. “My father was.”
“Hmph.” The attendant looked at his holopod and then back at him. “Purpose of your visit?”
Yassen paused. The attendant peered at him, and for one wild moment, Yassen wondered if he should turn away, jump back on the boat, and go wherever the sea pushed him. But then a coldness slithered down his right elbow, and he gripped his arm.
“To visit some old friends,” Yassen said.
The attendant snorted, but when the holopod slid back out, Yassen saw the burning insignia of a mohanti, a winged ox, on its surface.
“Welcome to the Kingdom of Jantar,” the attendant said and waved him through.
Yassen stepped through the glass immigration office and into Rysanti. He breathed in the sharp salt air, intermingled with spices both foreign and familiar. A storm had passed through recently, leaving puddles in its wake. A woman ahead of Yassen slipped on a wet plank and a merchant reached out to steady her. Yassen pushed past them, keeping his head down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the merchant swipe the woman’s holopod and hide it in his jacket. Yassen smothered a laugh.
As he wandered toward the homeland dock, he scanned the faces in the crowd. The time was nearly two past the sun’s breath. Samson and his men should have been here by now.
He came to the bridge connecting the receiving and homeland docks. At the other end of the bridge was a lonely tea stall, held together by worn planks—but the large holosign snagged his attention.
WARM YOUR TIRED BONES FROM YOUR PASSAGE AT SEA! FRESH HOT LEMON CAKES AND RAVANI TEA SERVED DAILY! it read.
It was the word Ravani that sent a jolt through Yassen. Home—the one he longed for but knew he was no longer welcome in.
Yassen drew up to the tea stall. Three large hourglasses hissed and steamed. Tea leaves floated along their bottoms, slowly steeping, as a heavyset Sesharian woman flipped them in timed intervals. On her hand, Yassen spotted a tattoo of a bull.
The same mark Samson had asked him to look for.
When the woman met Yassen’s eyes, she twirled the hourglass once more before drying her hands on the towel around her wide waist.
“Whatcha want?” she asked in a river-hoarse voice.
“One tea and cake, please,” Yassen said.
“You’re lucky. I just got a fresh batch of leaves from my connect. Straight from the canyons of Ravence.”
“Exactly why I want one,” he said and placed his holopod in the counter insert. Yassen tapped it twice.
“Keep the change,” he added.
She nodded and turned back to the giant hourglasses.
The brass beneath Yassen’s feet grew warmer in the yawning day. Across the docks, more boats pulled in, carrying immigrant laborers and tourists. Yassen adjusted his visor, making sure it was fully in place, as the woman simultaneously flipped the hourglass and slid off its cap. In one fluid motion, the hot tea arced through the air and fell into the cup in her hand. She slid it across the counter.
“Mind the sleeve, the tea’s hot,” she said. “And here’s your cake.”
Yassen grabbed the cake box and lifted his cup in thanks. As he moved away from the stall, he scratched the plastic sleeve around the cup.
Slowly, a message burned through:
Look underneath the dock of fortunes.
He almost smiled. Clearly, Samson had not forgotten Yassen’s love of tea.
Yassen looked within the box and saw that there was no cake but something sharp, metallic. He reached inside and held it up. Made of silver, the insignia was smaller than his palm and etched in what seemed to be the shape of a teardrop. Yassen held it closer. No, it was more feather than teardrop.
He threw the sleeve and box into a bin, slid the silver into his pocket, and continued down the dock. The commerce section stretched on, a mile of storefronts welcoming him into the great nation of Jantar. Yassen sipped his tea, watching. A few paces down was a stall marketing tales of ruin and fortune. Like the tea stall, it too was old and decrepit, with a painting of a woman reading palms painted across its front. He was beginning to recognize a pattern—and patterns were dangerous. Samson was getting lazy in his mansion.
Three guards stood along the edge of the platform beside the stall. One was dressed in a captain’s royal blue, the other two in the plain black of officers. All three wore helmet visors, their pulse guns strapped to their sides. They were laughing at some joke when the captain looked up and frowned at Yassen.
“You there,” he said imperiously.
Yassen slowly lowered his cup. The dock was full of carts and merchants. If he ran now, the guards could catch him.
“Yes, you, with the full face,” the captain called out, tapping his visor. “Come here!”
“Is there a problem?” Yassen asked as he approached.
“No full visors allowed on the dock, except for the guard,” the captain said.
“I didn’t know it was a crime to wear a full visor,” Yassen said. His voice was cool, perhaps a bit too nonchalant because the captain slapped the cup out of Yassen’s hand. The spilled tea hissed against the metal planks.
“New rules,” the captain said. “Only guards can wear full visors. Everybody else has to go half.”