As Nara-Ya soon learned, three months was a long time to travel on horseback, especially across a flat, featureless landscape with few diversions. It was hard to stay away from the main roads in a place where sources of clean water were both scarce and well-mapped; at least once a week they would spot a band of Urqaani slavers marching across a distant ridge, prisoners in tow, following the only practical routes through the desert.
Nara-Ya always wanted to rescue the slaves, but Corran would have none of it. They were outnumbered—grossly outnumbered, he would emphasize—and they would argue, but he always won the argument in the end. The Urqaani did not carry rifles; they lacked the technology to make their own and their Makedan prisoners had few to steal, but they were masters of the crossbow, and there was little cover to protect the two from ranged weapons besides sheer distance. Nara-Ya had studied the many chips and scratches on Corran’s horn from her place on his back, and it was clear that he wasn’t one to run from an enemy without good reason.
As the autumn rains fell and as they traveled toward the South, the landscape went from desert to steppe, to tall-grass prairie, and after two months, they reached the vast mangrove swamp that marked the Tohasaeg River delta. After crossing the border at Creston Ferry, they at last entered Ephola.
There were towns here, something Nara-Ya had never seen before. Corran avoided them when he could, preferring to stop at the large provincial houses far from the main roads. Nara-Ya chose to stay in the woods outside and wait for him until he returned, sometimes a few hours later, carrying gunnysacks of food in his teeth. After two months of chasing down jackrabbits and digging for roots, she was glad for the gifts, but she wasn’t sure she trusted these pale people. In the mines of Arawai, she gleaned bits of information about the outside world from newly captured slaves, and the Makedans rarely had anything good to say about Ephola.
“I wish you’d go up to the houses once or twice,” Corran prodded. “They could give you clothing. Maybe they’d even let you take a bath.”
“I don’t need a bath, and my clothes are fine,” said Nara-Ya, using one hand to rummage through their provisions in search of apples, and the other to pick a louse out of her hair.
“You’re going to have to talk to another human some time, Nara-Ya. You can’t spend the rest of your life lurking in the bushes.”
“I don’t want to talk to any Epholans,” she said.
“You talk to me.”
“You didn’t try to kill me or take my land.”
“You don’t have any land to take, Nara-Ya,” he said. “The men responsible for all that unpleasantness are long dead, and their grandchildren are all but offering to adopt you. I suggest you take them up on it—call it reparations.”
“Why would they do all that for me?” she asked.
“Because even though Morklana and the Urqaani haven’t crossed Epholan borders yet, there’s no reason to believe she won’t eventually,” said Corran. “Since you’re the only person anyone has ever known to come back from Arawai alive, people want to hear what you have to say.”
Nara-Ya paused to considered his words, but then went back to her search, still not convinced.
They were skirting the edge of a town called Oak Grove, and were about to veer off the main road onto a dirt trail, when there was a snort from behind them. A man in a phaeton was driving a pair of small, brown quarter horses into town; Corran tossed his head high in the air when he saw the driver, who pulled the horses to a stop. The man removed his hat and stared at Corran in disbelief.
“I’ll be damned,” said the man. “I’m looking at a ghost right now!”
“I left Creston a week ago, John. Is it not in the papers, yet?”
“I didn’t believe the papers! I thought it was some fool hallucination thought up by drunken poachers! How on earth did you escape?” the man asked.
“I chewed through the ropes and kicked the head slaver in the block on my way out,” said Corran. He looked down at his legs, once white and gleaming, but now caked in mud up to his knees. “Remind me to stop by the farrier once I get to Hampton. My hooves have all gone to hell and I won’t have any left by the time I get to Illwen.”
“And I see you’ve brought a...lady, back with you,” said John, looking up at Nara-Ya. She gave him a hostile look.
“Sweet girl, but one of few words,” said Corran. “Are you still George and Harriet’s butler?”
“I’m getting groceries for the house right now, actually.”
“Any news from Illwen?”
John looked behind him and all around for eavesdroppers, and then shrugged. “Besides the Ducal Assemblage all but dancing in the streets when they heard the news that your ship was taken? Afraid not. That party is over by now, mark my words. I’m sure Creston sent a telegraph to the palace and the Times as soon as you left customs.”
“What have you heard about Braided Cord?” asked Corran.
John looked nonplussed.
“It’s one of the opposition groups based out of the University, led by a young fellow named Donovan Brennan,” Corran explained. “George would know of him; he’s backed by the Castletons. I was in contact with him before I left. Is he still operating out of Illwen?”
“Ah!” said John, with sudden recognition. “I know who you mean—just didn’t know his name. That Makedan fellow from up north. Real young—cut his teeth as one of Decker’s couriers. I haven’t heard anything recently. I wish I could be of more help, but I try not to ask George too many questions. It’s tricky for everyone these days, isn’t it really?”
“I just wanted to make sure he’s not in any trouble,” said Corran. “He’s one of the few leaders I’d pull rank to save. Amelia adores him.”
“No news is good news, I suppose,” said John. “I’ll not hold you up any longer—I see you want to get to Illwen soon. Keep up the pace you’ve made since you left Creston, and you should make it to Illwen right before the next Assemblage.”
John tapped the horses with his whip and went on his way. Corran started down the road again, while Nara-Ya watched the phaeton until it was out of sight. She didn’t ask any questions about his conversation; it wasn’t any of her business. Besides, after escaping from Morklana and the Urqaani, she was in no hurry to get involved in someone else’s politics, which usually meant new enemies.
They turned south and followed the coast. The climate was turning tropical; they followed a beach road that spared them the sweltering misery of the jungle and gave them a commanding view of the South Sea. Around them, the landscape was becoming more rugged, as rolling hills became low mesas that jutted out toward the beaches. Far in the distance, half-shrouded in clouds, was a high, flat-topped tepui, and little black dots of great sailing ships could be seen out on the ocean, moving toward a point just out of sight behind it. The ships, and Corran’s sudden eager gait, suggested to Nara-Ya that they were getting close to Illwen. Ahead, where the tepui cut across the beach into the ocean, the trail became a rickety-looking boardwalk that wrapped around the foot of the cliff face. When they rounded the corner, Nara-Ya was amazed by what she saw.
In front of them was Illwen’s great harbor, packed full of huge ships that were scarcely visible through clouds of gulls and pelicans. The ships were docked at any one of the dozens of piers that stretched out into the harbor, and hundreds of men were swarming over them, unloading crates, hosing off the decks, shouting and cursing at the impatient merchants standing below. Up the slope from the harbor was block after block of great brick warehouses, and behind the warehouses, nestled between the first tepui and another, much higher one across the valley, was Illwen itself.
The city was massive, far bigger than any Nara-Ya had seen before. Corran had told her that a million people made it their home, a number too big for her to imagine, and he gave her a survey as they descended the boardwalk toward Harbor Street. Up from where they were was “Downtown,” where the highest buildings—mostly banks and offices, as well as Illwen’s great opera house—stood towering over the rest of the city, and partway up the hill above them was a beautiful palace of white marble and several ornate government buildings, all locked up behind a high, cast-iron fence.
The skyline was beautiful from a distance—blocks of row houses were interspersed with the occasional bell-tower, or a smokestack in the industrial areas—but when they entered the Harbor District, where the streets were crowded with Epholan workers on their way back from their lunch breaks, Nara-Ya suddenly felt vulnerable and out of her element.
“Don’t panic,” said Corran, sensing her rising fear. “It’s a bit noisy, but we’re not in any danger.
All around them, people pointed at Corran and whispered to their neighbors, and sometimes just stared. The working men in their scruffy, dirty clothes beamed with joy and slapped their comrades on the back when they saw the unicorn coming up the road. Corran only responded with the occasional toss of his head, until they reached a wide cross street, Hancock Boulevard, where his reception was decidedly different.
This, Corran explained, was the Park District, where Downtown ended and the apartments housing Illwen’s wealthiest elite began. The streets were lined with brick townhouses, bookstores and jewelry shops, and here and there was an open park full of soaring kapok trees and flowering jacarandas. Corran had to jostle his way through lanes crowded with carriages and bicycles. Nara-Ya wondered about the purpose of the humming wires overhead until a strange, metallic beast, its bell ringing and its wheels hissing over the tracks, sped past them, and she nearly leapt off Corran’s back in surprise.
“That’s an electric trolley car,” Corran explained. “It’s pretty full—it must be the end of the lunch hour.”
The people walking on this street were different from the ones by the Harbor. The men wore tailored suits and hats, while the women wore long, ankle-length bustle dresses and blouses over tight-waisted corsets. Unsurprisingly, they were all drenched with sweat, and most of them looked miserable. Nara-Ya started to giggle, in spite of Corran’s warning not to stare. What idiot would wear so much clothing in the heavy, humid jungle of southern Ephola? She noticed that though they also stared at Corran as he passed, their joy was muted, or nonexistent. She thought some of the men looked scornful of her friend, who seemed to be taking this road on purpose.
“Sorry about the crowds,” said Corran as they walked. “It’s the week of the Ducal Assemblage; every five years, the Dukes that serve as governors come to meet with the King and make national policy. Anymore, they come to take their wives shopping as much as they come for business,” said Corran.
“Why are some of them ignoring you?” asked Nara-Ya.
“Because seeing me alive and well doesn’t bode well for them,” Corran explained.
“Why not?” asked Nara-Ya.
“I mentioned that I am under the service of King Gordon as an ambassador,” said Corran. “That was a little evasive on my part. Let’s just say my professional relationship with the Royal House is...complicated.”
Corran took the side streets, deeper into the center of the city, and soon, the scenery changed again. The elegant brick townhouses disappeared, replaced by dingy timber and concrete tenements. Overhead, the stacks from a large factory belched smoke and pollution, and the drifting soot caked the buildings with black stains on their outer facades. There were unpleasant smells here—acrid chemical odors, and the funk of garbage and unwashed humanity rising from the throngs of people clogging the streets. The stifling, humid air made the smells stronger and added to the claustrophobic feeling; Nara-Ya was growing agitated. She wanted to be anywhere but here.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“The Iron Works District,” said Corran. “One of the poor neighborhoods.”
“Why are we here?”
“I’m looking for someone,” said Corran. “I have a friend who might be able to help you get home. That’s provided he hasn’t gotten himself thrown in jail, or worse.”
Corran heard a shout and saw a man walking toward them. The man was wearing a uniform, and there was another young man with him, dressed in simpler garb, looking up at Corran with a surprised, gormless expression.
“Corran of Mishkinshire, congratulations on your triumphant return!” said the man. “Welcome home. Everyone in Illwen has heard the news, and it’s the talk of the town, mark my words!”
“It’s better news for some than others,” said Corran.
“That’s a shame, but it’s the truth.”
“I’m looking for someone,” said Corran. “Someone you might be able to help me find, though not too easily, I hope.”
The man’s jovial expression faded, but he nodded. “I can help you find him,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s because my deputy and I were on my way to arrest him when we saw you.”
At this news, Corran gave the man a reproving look. “Tillman, you can’t do that—you know what will happen to him.”
The man looked at his deputy, and then looked up the road, to where a panhandler was weaving in and out of the crowd, trying to sell trinkets.
“Billy—go see if that man’s got a permit to do that,” he said.
Billy dutifully obeyed, and when he was out of earshot, Tillman turned back to Corran.
“I do my best to give leeway, but I am the Chief of Police, and I’ve got to do my job,” he explained. “The boy’s been here in the neighborhood, handing out pamphlets all morning, right out in the open where anyone can see him. It’s irresponsible, especially this week when we’ve got the Dukes and their security escorts filling up the streets and getting in our way. The boy’s smart, and he’s better-behaved than most of his lot, but he needs to grow some common sense.”
“Tell me where you saw him last, and I’ll talk some sense into him,” said Corran.
Tillman thought about it, and then nodded, giving Corran a stern look. “I’ll give you a ten minute head start,” he said. “The last I saw him, he was out in front of the Ginsbury Garment Factory on 37th and Main, talking to the women as they finished their shifts. I’d hurry if I were you, because I’ve already told some of my deputies where he is, and they might get there before I do.”
Corran bid Tillman goodbye and went up the road, at a trot this time. The road was full of people, but time was of the essence. Nara-Ya looked ahead toward a river of humanity moving up and down a cross street ahead of them in front of a large brick building. As they approached, she heard a voice shouting faintly from down the road, and Corran lifted his head and sniffed the air.
“Damned fool.”
Nara-Ya spotted a boy close to her age weaving his way through the crowd, stopping men and women and trying to talk to them, though most of them shoved him away and hurried on, trying to look inconspicuous. Nara-Ya was startled by their rudeness, until she noticed that as they were telling him to get away, many were surreptitiously snatching pamphlets out of his hands. As he got closer, she saw his face and didn’t seem all that perturbed. He held his stack of pamphlets in such a way that they were easy to grab in passing, and she realized that this was an elaborate and probably oft-repeated ritual, meant to protect the workers from suspicion.
“What’s he doing?” asked Nara-Ya.
“Before I left, there was a big fire at a garment factory in a different part of town, and about a dozen women—mostly your age—were trapped inside and killed. The company that owned the factory spends hundreds of thousands of Epholan pounds each year buying off the local inspectors so they don’t enforce the safety laws. When the company moved into their new facility in the Iron Works District, Donovan wanted to try to unionize them,” said Corran. “They’re taking pamphlets this time—there must be some interest.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“If the police don’t get him first, the company will send out some thugs to rough him up. I just hope he knows when to stop and flee the scene,” said Corran.
The girl then noticed that the boy was propping himself up with a cane, as his right leg was slightly twisted at the thigh.
“It looks like he’s already been roughed up,” she said.
She also noticed that behind his shabby, Epholan clothes, bent reading glasses and messy, shoulder-length black hair, his complexion was noticeably darker than the men around him. When he finally noticed Corran standing in the crowd, his eyes grew wide, and his face lit up with a smile. There was no mistaking it—he was a Makedan, like she was. He walked toward them as fast as he could, and when he reached them, he patted Corran on his broad neck.
“I heard the news just this morning!” said Donovan, beaming. “Friend, you have no idea what it’s been like these past few months. I am so glad to see you alive!”
“I’m glad to see you alive, too, and a little surprised,” said Corran. “Tillman said he’d give me ten minutes to find you before he came after you himself. That was five minutes ago.”
This was alarming news, and Donovan scanned the street around him for the dreaded police.
“Nara-Ya, why don’t you help him up, and I’ll at least get us out of Iron Works,” said Corran.
Corran knelt to his forelegs, and Nara-Ya took Donovan’s cane from him and helped him crawl onto his back in front of her.
“Thank you miss—”
He was momentarily startled when he saw her striking red eyes, but before he could say anything else, Corran stood up and resumed his hasty trot toward an obscure alleyway, and Donovan had to struggle to keep his balance.
There were some very pressing questions Nara-Ya wanted to ask him as they went, but the boy was far more interested in what Corran had to say, as he explained the circumstances of his capture, escape, and return to Ephola,
“I’m trying to decide if I should invite myself up to the Ducal Assemblage for a homecoming party—or would that be tacky?” Corran asked.
“I think it would be amazing!” said Donovan, with a laugh.
“That’s why I don’t ask men your age for advice,” said Corran. “Do you still live with the Castleton boys?”
Donovan shook his head. “Cliffside is too posh for me. I never felt comfortable there. Besides, I don’t think the funicular operator trusts me. I rent a flat above the Orchid and Woodstar in the Harbor District.”
“Who else knows you’re there?” asked Corran.
“Just the Castletons and Mick, in the kitchen downstairs. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” said Corran. “When Nara-Ya and I were passing through the Park District, I happened to spot him checking into a hotel.”
Donovan was suddenly very quiet, quiet enough where they could all hear the sounds of hoof beats coming up from behind them. Nara-Ya looked behind, and saw a squad of police on horseback, still a long way away, but approaching rapidly.
“Corran—we’re being followed!” she cried.
“I know. I could smell them coming—but I can’t very well gallop through these streets without trampling someone.”
“What happens if they catch us?” asked Nara-Ya.
“You, they’d probably let go,” Donovan explained. “Corran they’d give a stern talking to and then send him on his way, but me, they’d arrest, charge, and then hang for treason first thing in the morning.”
Corran turned down another, equally crowded alley in an attempt to lose the police, but this was going to be a failed tactic, and Donovan was starting to panic.
“You’re the only unicorn left in Ephola, Corran—people are going to recognize you and tell them where we went! Especially if you’re taking us back toward the Park District!”
“This from the only Makedan in Illwen who isn’t selling furs or in a traveling sideshow, who likes to hand out pamphlets right in front of the factory he’s trying to unionize! Don’t lecture me about staying hidden!”
“Just get me to the fabric market! There’s a manhole that will take me underground, and I can find my way from there!”
Corran took a roundabout course to the fabric market to gain some time, but the chase came to a stop when he made a wrong turn down an alley, and found himself in a cul-de-sac. There was a low wall in front of them, low enough for the two humans to climb over, but not himself.
“Get down, both of you!” he ordered. “Nara-Ya, help him over the wall, and then go wherever he takes you!”
“What about you?” asked Nara-Ya.
Donovan took his cane from her and slid off Corran’s back, but Nara-Ya refused to move. Corran was her only friend, and it had taken her weeks to learn to trust him. Could he really abandon her like this, and thrust her into the care of a stranger?
Horse’s hooves could be heard somewhere in the distance.
“Nara-Ya, I’m serious! You need to move, now!”
She held his mane in an iron grip. Finally, he reared up onto his hind legs and dumped her onto the cobblestones. She hit the ground with an “oof!”, and before she struggled back up onto her feet, Corran galloped away and rounded a corner, out of sight and out of reach.
Donovan, meanwhile, was busily stacking crates in a vain attempt to reach the top of the wall. When he ran out of crates, still a few feet short, he turned to Nara-Ya.
“Can you get up there?”
She examined his stack and then the wall. Without a word, she leaped effortlessly to the top.
“Now, help me up!”
Nara-Ya knelt down, anchored her foot around a metal pole behind her, and grabbed Donovan by the arms. She hoisted him onto the wall, just as the police rounded the corner and spotted them.
“Jump!” Donovan cried, just as the first bullets whizzed past them.
They leapt off the wall and landed in a heap down below. Nara-Ya faced the open street next to them and started looking for something to use as a weapon, but Donovan was already using his cane to lever open the lid of a manhole. Nara-Ya heard voices shouting and getting closer, just as Donovan began to climb down a ladder into a dark space below.
“Follow me—hurry!” he hissed.
Donovan moved aside to give her room as she shimmied down the ladder, and then he pulled the manhole cover shut behind him, cloaking them in darkness. Nara-Ya felt the rest of the way down until the ladder ended, and she lowered one foot until she felt the ground. Her sandal squelched down into about a half-inch of foul-smelling mud, and she moved to the side of the sewer wall as Donovan followed her.
She heard the police above, shouting orders at each other to split up. They didn’t seem to notice that the manhole cover had shifted. Donovan went to the wall, and though she couldn’t see him in the darkness, she could hear him shuffling along, muttering to himself.
“I left it around here somewhere...right here.”
There was more shuffling, and then a burst of light as he lit a match and held it to a large candle. This illuminated the room they were in, a long, muddy tunnel that seemed to run diagonally beneath the road above.
“It’s an old tailrace, from before they tore down the paper mill and turned it into the fabric market. It’ll take us right to the Harbor District,” Donovan explained. “We’re lucky it’s the dry season—this tunnel is usually flooded in the summer.”
“Is Corran going to escape?” asked Nara-Ya.
“He’ll be fine, trust me,” said Donovan.
“You said they’d kill you,” said Nara-Ya. “I don’t know what you were doing that was so much worse than Corran running from the police.”
“Corran is a different order of citizen than I am.”
“How so?” asked Nara-Ya. “Who is he, really? He kept hinting at something, but he never told me directly.”
She heard Donovan chuckle, amused. “It all depends on whom you ask,” he said. “If you ask half of the nobility and most of Ephola’s titans of industry, they’ll say he’s a traitor and a usurper who sympathizes with Makedan savages—people like you and I. If you ask the working poor, and the other half of the nobility on up to our deceased previous monarch—who unfortunately didn’t like to put things in writing until one minute after the last minute—they’ll say he’s the rightful King of Ephola.”
Donovan paused to investigate a small hole in the wall, which he seemed to have never noticed before, but decided that it didn’t lead anywhere and continued on, still talking.
“—Unfortunately, that all-important first half of the nobility has our present King wrapped around their bony fingers, which is why the Iron Works District has become such a hellhole.”
“Can’t the King do whatever he wants?”
“No puppet King does what he wants. He does what his backers want, or he suffers the consequences,” said Donovan.
“Then he should just let Corran be King,” said Nara-Ya.
“He’d suffer the consequences of that, too,” said Donovan. “He’s like a kitten stuck up a tree—he doesn’t belong there and he doesn’t want to be there, but he can’t figure out how to get down on his own. I just hope he knows that once the aristocracy chooses a permanent replacement, which ought to be soon, he’s as good as dead anyway.”
Nara-Ya thought back to Morklana’s autocratic rule, and how wonderfully uncomplicated it was by comparison. She followed Donovan through the dark tunnels, glad that they were out of reach of their enemies, but wondering what had become of Corran, wondering where Donovan was taking her, and feeling her stomach growl as she felt the day’s first pangs of hunger.
