Page 128 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

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South

Rauca, capital of the Ersyr, was the largest remaining settlement in the South. As he threaded his way through its jumble of high-walled pathways, Loth found himself at the mercy of his senses. Mounds of rainbow spices, flower gardens that perfumed the streets, tall windcatchers accented with blueglass—all of it was unlike anything he knew.

In the moil of the city, only glances were spared for the ichneumon at his side. They must not be as rare in the Ersyr as they were farther north. Unlike the creature of legend, this one seemed not to be able to speak.

Loth edged through the crowds. Despite the heat, he had covered himself to the neck with his cloak, but it still made panic coil in him when someone came too close.

The Ivory Palace, seat of the House of Taumargam, loomed over the city like a silent god. Doves waffed around it, carrying messages between the people of the city. Its domes shone gold and silver and bronze, as bright as the sun they mirrored, and the walls were spotless white, arched windows cut into them like patterns into lace.

It was for the House of Taumargam that Chassar uq-Ispad worked as an ambassador. Loth tried to go toward the palace, but the ichneumon had other ideas. He led Loth into a covered market, where the air was sweet as pudding.

“I really don’t know where you think you’re going,” Loth said, through cracked lips. He was sure the animal could understand him. “Could we stop for water, please, sirrah?”

He might as well have held his tongue for all the good it did him. When they passed a trove of saddle flasks, each crystalline with water, he could bear it no longer. He fumbled the purse of coins from his bag. The ichneumon looked back at him and growled.

“Please,” Loth said wearily.

The ichneumon let out a huff, but sat on its haunches. Loth turned to the merchant and pointed to the smallest bottle, spun from iridescent glass. The man replied in his own tongue.

“I speak no Ersyri, sir,” Loth said ruefully.

“Ah, you are Inysh. My apologies.” The merchant smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. Like most Ersyris, he had golden skin and dark hair. “That will be eight suns.”

Loth hesitated. Being rich, he had no experience of wrangling with merchants. “That . . . seems very expensive,” he muttered, conscious of his paltry store.

“My family are the best glassblowers in Rauca. I can hardly taint our good name, my friend, by underselling my skills.”

“Very well.” Loth wiped his brow, too hot to gainsay. “I have seen people wearing cloths about their faces. Where can I buy one?”

“You came without apargh— why, you are lucky not to be sand-blind.” With a click of his tongue, the merchant shook out a square of white cloth. “Here. This will be my gift to you.”

“You are too kind.”

Loth extended a hand for the cloth. He was so afraid the plague might seep through his glove that he almost dropped it. Once theparghcovered all but his eyes, he gave the man a handful of the gold coins from his purse.

“The dawn shines on you, friend,” the merchant said.

“And on you,” Loth said awkwardly. “You have already been so generous, but I wonder if you could help me. I am in the Ersyr to find His Excellency, Chassar uq-Ispad, who is an ambassador to King Jantar and Queen Saiyma. Might he be in residence at the Ivory Palace?”

“Ha. You will be fortunate to find him. His Excellency is often abroad,” the merchant said, chuckling, “but if he is anywhere at this time of year, he will be at his estate in Rumelabar.” He handed Loth the flask. “Caravans leave from the Place of Doves at dawn.”

“Could I send a letter from there, too?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Good day to you, sir.”

Loth stepped away and drained the flask in three long swallows. Panting, he wiped his mouth.

“The Place of Doves,” he remarked to the ichneumon. “How beautiful it sounds. Will you take me there, my friend?”

The ichneumon took him to what must be the central hall of the market, where stalls offered sacks of dried rose petals, bowls of spun sugar, and sapphire tea, fresh from the kettle. By the time they emerged, the sun had dipped toward the horizon and stained-glass lanterns were being lit.

The Place of Doves was impossible to miss. Overlaid with square pink tiles, it was surrounded by a wall that connected four towering dovecotes, shaped like beehives. Loth soon worked out that the nearest was for mail heading to the West. He stepped into the cool honeycomb, where thousands of white rock doves nestled in alcoves.

On his last night in Cárscaro, he had written Margret a letter. And he had an idea of how to get it past Combe. A bird-keeper took it now, along with his coin, and promised it would be sent at dawn.

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