The Floating Islands (2 page)

Trei put his cup down abruptly and left the kitchen. Then, ashamed, he hesitated at the base of a narrow stair, knowing he should go back.

“I’m sorry.” Araenè turned up, leaning in a doorway. She did look sorry. “I don’t … I don’t think I really believed that, about Rounn, until you said that. She sent us stones one time. Your mother. Fossils from the river, the kind that coil around, you know? My father loved them. And she sent me some really good recipes for salt-cured fish. I’m sorry she—they all—”

Trei made himself nod.

“Why’d you come here, though? Didn’t your father have family in other parts of Tolounn?”

Her tone wasn’t exactly hostile, but it was hard to see that kind of question as friendly, either. Trei’s other uncle, his father’s brother in Sicuon, had made it clear that summers were one thing, or had been when his father was alive, but as for taking an Island half blood into a good Tolounnese family—and, worse, paying the tax to register a half blood as a Tolounnese citizen—well, that was something else. Trei wasn’t going to tell her how he’d always thought his Tolounnese uncle and aunt liked him. But when he’d begged to stay in Sicuon, in terms he was ashamed to remember, his uncle had only given him some money and sent him away. Trei wasn’t going to tell this girl about that. He said nothing.

“Well … let me … Shall I show you the house, then? Your room? You can get something to eat later. Or I can bring you something. But if you’re tired now, that’s all right. Father says we’ll make the low attic over, but you can have my room for now and I’ll go in with Mother.”

Trei nodded again, warily. He could see how his cousin hated this disarrangement, but what could he do about it? He resolved to be very happy with the attic, as soon as possible.

Araenè led him up the stairs. One wall of the stairwell was pierced every few feet by a narrow window, each letting in a measure of light and air; Trei was surprised to see that it was now nearly dusk.

In the last light of the sun, high over the rooftops of Canpra, men with crimson wings drifted in a high, endless spiral. Trei pressed his palms on the windowsill and leaned out, staring up at them.

“What?” Araenè came back and glanced out the window. “Oh—you don’t have kajuraihi in Tolounn, do you?” She sounded pleased about this.

Trei ignored her tone. He leaned out farther, watching the fliers—the kajuraihi—until their slow, spiraling flight took them at last out of sight. He said, barely aware he spoke aloud, a sigh of yearning, “Oh, I have to learn that. I have to learn how to fly.”

Araenè stared at him in surprise. “Well, you can’t. A Tolounnese boy, join the kajuraihi? That’s Island magic.”

Trei pulled himself back inside, returned his cousin’s stare, and said nothing.

“Well, you might,” Uncle Serfei said judiciously the next morning when Trei asked him over breakfast. The breakfast was warm wheat bread with figs and honey, not the beef and eggs and sweetened buckwheat porridge of northern Tolounn. Aunt Edona had taken Araenè and gone somewhere, so it was just Trei and Uncle Serfei at the table.

Trei dipped a fig in honey and ate it slowly. He could see his uncle was glad that Trei had asked about the Island’s fliers, that he was anxious Trei should find a good place in Canpra and be happy here. Trei could not imagine being happy—but he longed to fly.

“You’re fourteen, isn’t that so? So you’re the right age for it.” Uncle Serfei spread honey on a slice of bread, regarding Trei thoughtfully. “It’s true we don’t want the Tolounnese getting a feel for dragon magic—especially now they’ve got Toipakom pacified; the Little Emperor is getting restless for another conquest, so it’s said, and there’s no obvious direction for him to turn but toward us. But then, you’re not Tolounnese anymore. In fact, you never were, really, were you? Your father couldn’t have registered you as a Tolounnese citizen until your majority, isn’t that the law in Tolounn?”

Trei nodded, although, distracted by his uncle’s comment about conquest, he’d only half heard the question. Trei had been very young when Tolounn had conquered Toipakom, but his tutor had made him study that conquest. Trei’s tutor had approved of the subjugation of Toipakom because, he said, it wasn’t right for a little island like that to take on the airs of a real nation. Trei’s father had shaken his head and said who cared what airs some minor country put on? But he had added that the Great Emperor was wise to allow the Little Emperor to conquer all the world, as trade could only benefit from uniformity of law and an absence of tariffs. Trei remembered that, because his mother had rolled her eyes and said something biting about Tolounnese aggression.

But Trei hadn’t quite put those comments together as suggesting a possible attempt to conquer the Floating Islands. He said, “You don’t really think …,” but then did not know how to complete that question.

“Oh, well.” Uncle Serfei gave Trei a wry smile. “It’s something we think about here. Don’t worry; I’m sure nothing will happen. Tolounn hasn’t ever tried seriously to conquer us. Anyway, how could they?” He waved his bread in the air above the table, miming the height of the Floating Islands above the sea. “It’s just, we can’t help but be aware.… Not even the Emperors of Tolounn would provoke Yngul, but the Little Emperor is an aggressive man. If not Yngul, I’m sure he’s considering what less formidable nation he might conquer. Cen Periven, for example. Small enough to control, rich enough to pay for the effort ten times over—conquering Cen Periven would secure his place in history far better than merely taking little Toipakom! But if he wants Cen Periven, he’d need to take us first, unless he wanted to risk having us behind him while he attacked it, which I doubt.”

“But …,” Trei began, but stopped. If Tolounn
did
attack the Islands—but his uncle was right: he wasn’t Tolounnese anymore. Except he didn’t at all feel like an Islander, could hardly imagine feeling at home here. If he wasn’t an Islander, yet wasn’t really Tolounnese …

Uncle Serfei broke into Trei’s confusion, his casual wave and matter-of-fact tone dismissing it. “Anyway, none of that’s to say you couldn’t try for a place in the next kajurai auditions. Kajuraihi … ah. I meant to say, kajuraihi embody the spirit of the Islands, but that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? Though it’s true, in a way. Even nowadays.” He made a little self-deprecating gesture, absently layered more honey on the bread until it dripped off the edges, and ate it in a couple of bites.

Then he said, “Kajuraihi have been soldiers, Trei, a first line of defense for the Islands, but not for a long time. Now they’re more often couriers. Discreet couriers at the highest level, but still, fundamentally messengers. Does that sound like something you’d like to do?”

Trei didn’t answer. If the question had been just that—do you want to be a courier?—then the answer would have been
no.
But if the question was, are you willing to become a courier if it means you can fly?—in that case, he thought, the answer would be
yes.
Because when he imagined walking in the streets of the city, watching winged men soar overhead and knowing he would never be among them … the thought was almost a physical ache within him.

Uncle Serfei seemed to see something of this in Trei’s face. He added kindly, “Not
all
kajuraihi are couriers, of course. Some are attached to ambassadors’ staffs; some are ambassadors themselves. It’s sometimes expedient for the king to have a man with broad authority who can be in Cen Periven or Tolounn, or even Yngul,
fast.
Kajuraihi can fly faster than even the fastest ship can sail—it’s said kajuraihi can bend even the fiercest winds to their will.” He paused, and then said, “I don’t know whether that’s true.”

Trei made a noncommittal sound. He tried to imagine being an ambassador. It was not a position he’d ever felt any desire for, before. He said after a moment, doubtfully, “But my father
was
Tolounnese. I don’t … Your king surely wouldn’t want me to speak with his voice?”

Uncle Serfei waved a second piece of bread at Trei. “
Your
king, too!
You’re
not Tolounnese! You’re my nephew, Alana’s son, and as eligible to audition as anybody’s son. Anyway, that’s what I’ll argue when I petition for a place for you in the auditions.”

Trei nodded uncertainly.

“Mind, now, every boy dreams of the kajuraihi when he’s your age. Most don’t ever win their wings: it’s a hard path to follow, the one that mounts to the clouds. Best not to fix all your dreams on the sky, eh? I’m sure Alana’s son is clever enough for the ministry. Or you might even find yourself with a gift for magery, who knows?” Uncle Serfei looked wistful. “The odd mage used to emerge from the Naseida family from time to time, though we haven’t had one for the past few generations.”

Trei could hardly say anything to this. He certainly couldn’t tell Uncle Serfei that he didn’t want to be a minister of anything, or that magecraft would be even worse. Until he’d seen the winged men, Trei had assumed that he would someday be a merchant captain. Now … he just knew he wanted to fly. Trei looked up at his uncle. “I don’t care how hard it is. Please. I want to fly. I need …” His voice trailed off, and he opened his hands in inarticulate longing.

“Well, then, I’ll petition for a place for you,” promised Uncle Serfei, reaching to pat his shoulder reassuringly. “More figs? Bread? After breakfast, we’ll see about making a good, respectable Island boy out of you. Clothing, new shoes, what else? Let me see. We can register you at the library for the coming quarter.…”

It emerged that the library was where Island boys went to school. A common school. Trei’s heart sank at the thought: dozens of boys together in a large room, sharing their books and their teachers with the rest instead of having a private tutor—even the wealthiest boys.

“These are mostly boys from ministry families,” Uncle Serfei explained. “And the sons of magistrates, scholars, famous physicians, men like that … important men, you know.”

“Mages?”

“No, no.” Uncle Serfei gestured extravagantly. “The mages have their own school somewhere. No one knows where. Maybe in Canpra, maybe somewhere not exactly on Milendri at all. It’s said a boy with the gift will find it himself when he’s ready. No, the boys at the library aren’t likely to be mages. But plenty of those boys will have posts in the ministries someday, so it’s important they know one another. Now. The quarter changes in just a few days, I believe, so you can start at the library then. If you apprentice with the kajuraihi later, that’s fine, but a little while in library classes will do nothing but help you.”

“Does Araenè go to the library for classes, too?” Trei asked. He did not want to attend classes with ministers’ sons—and he didn’t think he liked his cousin anyway—but at least she would be someone he knew.

Uncle Serfei gave him a startled look, then smiled. “Girls do sometimes, in Tolounn, don’t they? No, Trei. Island girls have private tutors sometimes. A few write tolerable poetry, I suppose, but it’s not as though they are going to be scholars or ministers or magistrates, is it?”

Trei thought of how his sister would have responded to this comment, but he said nothing.

Island clothing was lighter, cooler, and far more brightly colored than anything worn in northern Tolounn. Trei put on a sleeveless green shirt, which he belted with a gold sash over sapphire-blue pants. He felt like he was dressing in a costume, not in real clothing. Trei knew he should go find his cousin and her parents. But he sat cross-legged on the bed, gazed out the window, and didn’t move toward the door.

Outside his door, someone clapped. Araenè opened the door without waiting for his call—well, but it
was
her room, really, Trei supposed—and stepped in. She wore a dark green dress with a gold sash, and her hair was pinned up with a pearl comb. She looked far more elegant than she had the previous evening, but no more friendly. She looked Trei up and down. He felt his face warm, but said nothing.

However, his cousin made no comment about his change of clothing. “Do you like steamed fish?” she asked. “I used skin-on taki fillets and made silver sauce, only I used wine instead of lemon, and less sugar.”

“Oh?” Trei wondered what he was supposed to say to this.

Araenè sighed and turned to go. She said over her shoulder, “Supper’s always half past sixth bell, so we’d best move along.”

The fish was delicious. You peeled the black skin away and drizzled the translucent sauce over the flaky fish. There were thin green-flecked pancakes to go with the fish. You tore off pieces and picked up bits of fish with them, then drizzled on more sauce and added some crunchy green vegetable he didn’t recognize and ate the packets you’d made. Flavors then unfolded one after another in your mouth, complex and wonderful. Trei slowed down after the first bite to make his food last longer.

“Araenè is truly gifted,” Aunt Edona said fondly, noting Trei’s expression. “Her husband will be a lucky man.”

“If she were a boy, she’d earn a place in the king’s own kitchens,” Uncle Serfei added, smiling proudly at his daughter. “She’d wind up a master of all the eight arts and five arts and be famous.”

Araenè didn’t look pleased by these compliments. Her mouth tightened, and she fixed her eyes on her plate. Trei said almost at random, to break the uncomfortable pause, “Eight arts and how many?”

“Sauces and creams, relishes and chutneys, mousses and whipped dishes, savory dishes with fruit, meat dishes, fish and seafood, vegetable dishes, and breads,” Araenè recited to her plate. She looked up, frowning fiercely. “And the five confectionary arts: cream sweets, frozen sweets, grain sweets, sweets made with fruit, and pastries. People in Tolounn don’t know how to cook.”

“Now, Araenè—” Aunt Edona began.

Her daughter just looked stubborn. “Not really cook. Cen Periven has real chefs, but Tolounn? Just heating things until they’re edible isn’t really
cooking.
” Her lip curled in disdain. Trei thought of how the food at his home had differed from the food made by his friends’ servants, about the way only his mother, unlike the mothers of his friends, had sometimes taken over the cooking for his household. His mother’s occasional tart comments about Tolounnese cooking, heard and disregarded all his life, fell suddenly into place. He asked Araenè, “Do you really know how to make all those things? Sauces and mousses and savory things and all those others?”