Faresi refused to take the shortcut, so after emerging abruptly from the forest the next morning they paid the guard-post soldiers the customary bribe and continued on to Sündalǚ through farmland, crossing the River Lü a couple of times.
The grey-walled city of Sündalǚ rose out of the river delta, and the grey and red castle out of the city. Behind it, offshore, was the volcano. The wide, paved road passed through an imposing gate, and then another, both guarded by proud soldiers with gleaming breastplates and red cloaks and helmets.
Smells assaulted them. It was market day, and the city was warm and crowded. They crossed the first of the many arched stone bridges and in the canal saw the long line of flat-bottomed boats piled up with cabbages and so on, and townsfolk bargaining on the steps. Children with sticks shooed away the birds. Different canals had different kinds of food. Sündalese was a tonal language; three or four (five?) other languages could also be heard. Small wooden shrines hung from the side of wooden buildings; sometimes the buildings were stone. The largest buildings were capped with great domes. People wore wooden clogs over their shoes. Many of the beggars were missing limbs. The thing they couldn’t help but notice was all the colour—the city was full of colours, in food, dress, fabric, paint, signs, tiles. The city bustled and brimmed over. After a week on a quiet mountain road it was overwhelming, at least for some of them.
Faresi pulled up in front of Jethro’s shop and they piled out with their gear and precious cargo. A sign hung above the door painted brightly with a red curly shoe before a couple of crossed needles. The shrine featured a pair of duelling monkeys dressed as fools.
“I have to find the stables,” Faresi said. “But go in and introduce yourselves. I won’t be long.”
Jethro lived with his apprentices Sam and Anya in the rooms above his shop. A thin dog with spectacles and a limp, Jethro was thoughtful and welcoming. After showing them to their room, he went back to work in the back of the shop, it being Kinday.
Jethro’s shop was one of a whole row of cordwainers and shoe shops. The gang gathered outside the bakery next door and chewed on a pastry before setting off for the port. A couple of soldiers were interrogating one of the shopkeepers about the wagon being unloaded in front of his store, and they watched as, after a brief beating, he deferentially paid them a fine.
The port was to the north-west and—like the rest of the city—it was busy. The language barrier might seem to have been an obstacle to getting wind of the Pegasus or Black Remora. But sailors are naturally multilingual, and between them the gang had more than enough languages and dialects to find colinguists. They agreed to meet back at Jethro’s and split up to trawl the bars.
It was dark by the time they got back to the shop. Gecko, of course, was still out. Sam was setting the table. When Jethro and Anya had washed up, they all sat down together for dinner.
The Cordwainer’s Tale
“Long ago, in the time of the Khan, when mastodons still roamed the northern tundra and the empire had almost reached its greatest extent, a humble marten made some shoes for the Khan’s third son. The son, who at that time went by the name of Trivestron, was of course an elephant, and so the shoes needed to be strong and sturdy as well as exquisitely crafted.
“Having been informed of his task, and received the Imperial measurements, the marten dutifully made two black leather boots using the fine red, silver, and gold thread that was delivered to his workshop by a messenger wearing the livery of the Imperial household. The boots were the best shoes the shoemaker had ever made. He sent word to the palace that the shoes were ready, thinking another messenger would come to take delivery, and was terrified when Trivestron himself turned up to try them on.
“Fortunately for the marten and his family, the shoes fit perfectly, and Trivestron was well pleased. The elephant did notice a strange sensation when he put them on, but put it down to the after effects of the evening banquet and said nothing. The marten wrapped up the boots, and Trivestron returned in darkness to the palace.
“Trivestron was, it must be said, a strange man. Considering who his father was, this was not unusual in itself, but it was perhaps no surprise to anyone that the Khan had chosen his third son for a particularly difficult task rather than, for example, his fifth son.
“The prince met privately with his father on the morning of his departure. He took his leave, and dressed completely in black, mounted his enormous white destrier. The palace bells rang, the gates opened, and a palace crier went before the prince. The city’s people quickly withdrew indoors, and secret police swept silently through the streets.
“Is that it?”
“‘Is that it?’” Penny asked. She sounded shocked.
“No,” Ibrahim said. “I mean, it was interesting. I’m just confused.”
“That’s the whole story, yes,” Jethro replied placidly.
“I think it’s a good story,” Dee said. “We’re supposed to decide, right? Should he have picked the lotus?”
Jethro smiled, but made no move to speak.
“I think it depends on the colour,” Penny said. “The imperial colour was blue. So was the lotus blue?”
“Why should that matter?” Ibrahim poured some more wine.
“It’s a flower. It’s symbolic. You know, like, should he be the next Khan instead of the eldest son?”
“I don’t think Trivestron wants to be the Khan though,” Tortoise said. “If the colour’s important, I think he would’ve only picked it if wasn’t blue.”
“Aren’t all lotuses blue?” It was the first time Faresi had spoken up.
“No, there are pink ones,” Penny said. “And white ones.”
“I think he could’ve been the Khan though,” Dee said. “I remember they elected them somehow. Or the Khan chose who they thought would be the best. That’s why there were so many civil wars. So maybe it was a test.”
“A test?”
“If he returned with the lotus, then it meant he was worthy.”
“I want to know why no one’s mentioned the marten,” Penguin said.
“Which one?”
“Well, I have a theory.”
“I have a question,” Miguel said languidly to the dog. “Do you respect the king?”
Jethro smiled suddenly. “Always,” he said, giving Miguel a knowing look. “Always respect.”
“What’s the theory?”
Next episode: A Sleeman