What’s the one thing a child and a slave have in common?

There were 800 of us shivering on that hillock. The winter cold was killing us. We had no shelter, no food, no fire, and no wood to make one. Only our shields and the shafts of our lances.

The king's nephew surrounded the base of the hill with 10,000 spearmen. The king's priests predicted an icefall for the following day. Reinforcements were five days away but they could as well have been a hundred years away. We would be dead long before they arrived.

Then Caedmyr The Crownless stepped in front of his army and offered terms. "Uncle!" he called. "Surrender yourself. There is nowhere to go. I just have to wait down here in my warm tent and the icebricks will kill you all tomorrow. I don't want you dead. Choose life. Choose survival. Choose mercy. I will pardon your men and you can either join the priesthood or go into exile, whatever you prefer. There's no point in anyone dying today. Or tomorrow. I am a merciful king. Come down and be pardoned."

King Baenar ordered us into formation and stepped in front of us. "I will come down, Little Caedmyr," he said. "But my men need no pardons. They have committed no crimes and neither have I; unlike you.''

Then King Baenar unsheathed Sunsliver, grasped it in his left, and loped off his right hand at the elbow without so much as scrunching up his face. How Prince Caedmyr's men trembled at the sight.

The king built a small altar with his splintered shield, burnt his arm as a sacrifice, and prayed, "Father Aemlilon, you know me. You see me. You sired me. Don't dare abandon me. Not today." He turned to us and handed the sword Sunsliver to Sir Waltyr The Dragonslayer. "Charge!" King Baenar commanded.

Outnumbered as we were, we charged, trying to maintain tight ranks and stay in the saddle as our horses trotted down the steep hillside. The sun came out behind us just as we crashed into the enemy line. Prince Caedmyr's line buckled, then shattered. His men, blinded by the sun in their eyes, scattered like little girls in our wake.

- This first-hand account of the Battle of Weeping Hill was sourced from Making Peace After Beheading For The Beheader, an autobiography by Sir Bogdyr Gidyrnus Melwright, a common-born man-at-arms who was knighted by and fought for 16 years in the household guard unit of the Subaephyr Baenar VIII.

A Sweet Kiss was anchored in the small harbor attached to Rainbow Rock. It made for an impressive sight: a towering 200-foot three-masted war galley with four banks of oars and a deck studded with catapults and ballistae. Its sails bore the alternating crimson and black stripes of the Baenarites.

Scores of Baenarites stood on deck, their cloaks flapping in the wind. It was light outside but the sun had yet to peek from behind its curtain of clouds. 'Aemlilon sleeps later and later as the year drags on,' Allara thought as the wind sliced through her woolen cloak and planted a chill deep inside her bones. 'Divine Master, show us your face. Bathe us in your warmth, Eternal Aemlilon. Disperse the clouds and smile upon us,' she prayed quietly.

Allara's party was small, only ten: Amran and two porters, a scribe, two painters, Sylvia, Nicanor with his bandaged lip, and herself. She eyed Nicanor warily. He returned the wary look, hugging himself to keep his thick cloak from flapping.

They trudged up the gangplank onto the deck and then waited as porters made multiple trips to bring up an endless procession of bags and chests belonging to Amran, Nicanor, the scribe, and the painters. Allara herself didn't have much. All her worldly possessions fit neatly into two saddlebags with room to spare. Sylvia's fit in one.

Once all the luggage had been stowed away, the porters disembarked. Oars rose and fell in a synchronized dance. Rainbow Rock faded from sight. Following the example of the Baenarites, Allara paced up and down the deck in an attempt to keep warm.

Only Amran remained still. Allara couldn't be certain but the boy appeared to have grown an inch since she first saw him at The Roost. Skinny as a reed and almost as tall as Bogdyr. She envied him his fine sable cloak that barely stirred in the wind. A lot of Thunderbolt's mannerisms had rubbed off on Amran. He stood motionless as the deck rolled and pitched beneath his feet, staring straight ahead, like a lord surveying his domains.

They sailed past Caedmyria's main harbor and soon cleared the city's walls entirely. Sometimes, when the water was less turbid, Allara could see the galley's massive bronze ram beneath the waterline. The Kisser, the Baenarites called it. Aemeia in all her naked glory adorned the bow, beautifully wrought in bronze.

"Majestic, isn't she?" A tough-looking Baenarite smiled suggestively at Allara and Sylvia as he ran his hand up and down the leg of the statue in an imitation of a caress. "The last thing a pirate sees before sinking to the depths. A comforting sight indeed." Then the soldier climbed onto the prow and placed both his hands around a perfectly formed pair of breasts. He let out a loud sigh.

"Marvyrn," another Baenarite called up from below. "Do you know that groping a goddess is blasphemy? What will Aemlilon do when he sees you doing that to his wife?"

Marvyrn immediately released the statue, jerking his hands backward as if Ameia's breasts had suddenly sprouted thorns. He went into a free fall, tumbling unceremoniously onto the deck and crying out in pain as his back struck the wood. The first ray of sunshine pierced the gloomy clouds in the eastern horizon just then, illuminating Aemeia's statue. The polished bronze shone brilliantly. The second ray landed on Marvyrn.

The Baenarite whimpered in terror and prostrated himself, whispering what Allara could only assume was a fervent prayer of repentance.

Allara and Sylvia sat down to bask in the sun, babbling inanely about everything and nothing as only two old friends could. Allara kept one eye on the shifting scenery as the ship never sailed out of sight of land. A few miles south of Caedmyria, she saw a detachment of Baenarite recruits in their distinctive black cloaks marching on the beach. The red stripe down the middle was too small to be visible from that far but Allara knew it was there. An officer on horseback marched behind the recruits with a whip in hand.

"I think I see Bogdyr," Sylvia said.

"No you don't," Allara said. "You can't make out faces from this far."

"I see him," she insisted. "I know his walking style."

Nicanor offered them a spyglass. "Why don't you use this?" Sylvia snapped it up but Allara just favored him with a murderous glare.

Sylvia pointed in the general direction of the recruits. "There!" All Allara could see was an indistinguishable collection of men in black. She grabbed the spyglass and sure enough, there was Bogdyr, third in the line of march. Her heart gave a little flutter of joy.

Bogdyr had on a mail hauberk with some padding underneath. He carried a shield in his left hand and a spear in his right. A heavy-looking leather bag was strapped to his back alongside a spade, a bow, a quiver, and a second disassembled spear. A sword hung from a belt around his waist and his legs were protected by greaves.

His face was strained in concentration but he was handling the march well compared to the recruits at the tail end of the line who huffed, puffed, and sweated profusely despite the slight morning chill. Compared to them, Bogdyr was taking a leisurely stroll. Allara's heart swelled with pride.

"Aren't they a little far from their barracks?" Sylvia asked.

"They have to march 10 miles from the barracks in full gear and march back by noon," a Baenarite answered. "Then it's weapons training until sundown."

"They have to march twenty miles by noon!" Sylvia exclaimed. "Is that even possible?"

"It's very possible," an officer in a fiftyman's cloak said. "We've all done it." He waved around expansively at the other soldiers on deck. "Can't have softbois like this one as warriors." He slapped Nicanor on the back. "Barbarians would kill us all." The Baenarite took the spyglass from Allara and watched the recruits on shore.

"What's in the bags?" Allara asked. "They look so heavy."

"Stones," the soldier answered without turning. "Poor bastards can't march in lockstep yet."

A Sweet Kiss soon outpaced the recruits on shore. The mid-morning sun got warm and fuzzy. Allara and Sylvia sunned themselves on deck, finally discarding their cloaks and expelling the chill from their bones with the warm embrace of Aemlilon. "What happened between you two?" Sylvia asked while pointing at Nicanor with her mouth.

Allara had already prepared a convoluted tale about catching Nicanor with another woman should anyone enquire about their new mutual hostility. Nicanor and Mukhlun Gregory had approved it the previous day. Allara told the tale with such flourish she almost believed it herself.

"You will get over him." Sylvia hugged her. "You always do." Allara felt a little guilty about the lie but it quickly passed.

"When will we get to Pharasandria?" Sylvia asked Waltyr who had just returned from below deck.

"The Aemlilonus is coming!" a lookout shouted from the crow's nest. "The Aemlilonus is coming!" The deck soon became a flurry of activity.

"The Aemlilonus? Son of Aemlilon? Which one? From where?" Sylvia asked.

"The king's ship," a soldier clarified.

Sailors ran around the deck pulling down rigging on the mainsail. Baenarites lined up in neat rows. Even the oarsmen came up. Only Marvyn remained motionless,too terrified to get up.

A warship appeared in the distance. Its sails bore the vertical crimson and black stripes of the Baenarites. Son The Sun, the name read. It was a perfect copy of A Sweet Kiss. As it sailed by, The Baenarites on A Sweet Kiss saluted, balling both arms into fists, slapping their chests with their left and extending their right hands straight in front of them. The men on Son of The Sun returned the salute. Son Of The Sun sailed past A Sweet Kiss and stopped several hundred yards beyond the stern.

A second identical warship, The Subaephyr's Shield, sailed by and the saluting was repeated. The king's ship, a massive war galley, finally appeared. The figurine of Ameia on its prow was made of solid gold and its glow was blinding. Its sails were made of purple silk, showing Siiruch, Amelilon's double-headed eagle, spitting red fire as he flew out of a golden sun. The silk was patterned with small red fires.

The ship itself was twice as long as its escorts, boasting nine masts and four banks of oars. As if it didn't have enough propulsion, five giant red-finned sharks towed it through the water. As it came into sight, A Sweet Kiss dipped its mainsail. Daegan Aemlilonus, the nameplate said in silver lettering. It stopped once it pulled even.

The king himself was on deck. He appeared more virile than he was the last time Allara saw him. An old man with a shock of gleaming silver hair and a lined, weatherbeaten face, he stood tall and proud, surrounded by six Purple Shields, scores of courtiers, and what could easily have been half a regiment of Baenarites.

He cut a kindly grandfatherly figure. The most regal thing about him was his eyes. Purple as The Thunderbolt's but a lot kinder and less intimidating. He had on flowing robes of purple slashed with scarlet. The small sunbursts that patterned his robes were made out of solid gold instead of mere thread.

Baenarites on A Sweet Kiss saluted. "It has dawned, Exalted One!"

Daegan XIII returned the salute. "It has dawned well, my sons."

"It has dawned well!" the king's entourage joined in a heartbeat later.

"Where to, my sons?" the king asked.

"Pharasandria, Exalted One. Then on to Alesport. To rotate out the garrison," the captain said.

King Daegan pointed at Marvyrn, still prone on deck and facing the wrong direction. "What's with him?"

"He offended Aemeia and Aemlilon, Exalted One," the captain explained. "He is prostrating himself until sunset in penance."

"May they have mercy on his soul," the King of Kings intoned. Then he squinted at the massed ranks. "Young Amran? Is that you?"

The squire stepped forward and bowed. "Yes, Exalted One."

"Growing very tall, I see."

"Yes, Exalted One."

"How many inches?"

"Seven inches, Exalted One."

"Seven!" the King of Kings exclaimed in mock surprise. "What has Caedmyr been feeding you?"

"Just army food, Exalted One. And the occasional fruitcake." This brought a smile to Daegan XIII's face.

"How is he?"

"He is very well, Exalted One. He is looking forward to seeing you today."

"Me too, Amran. Me too. May Aemeia deliver you safely home." The king addressed the other Baenarites, "And you too, my sons. Let Aephyr guard your souls." He saluted. "Khufumn Saekhfw'!"

The men saluted back. "Khufumn Saekhfw'!" they said with one voice.

"I saw the king. I saw the king. I saw the king," Sylvia sang and danced giddily as soon as the king's ship had sailed away. It was a feeling shared by many on the ship. Roars of "Khufumn Saekhfw'!" and "You hear that lads?" abounded.

"Best day of my life," a grizzled Baenarite said.

"I thought the day you lost your virginity was the best day of your life," a second one teased.

"Joke's on you," a third Baenarite said to the second one. "He hasn't lost it yet." This was greeted by gales of laughter and a short brawl broke out.

The rest of the voyage passed uneventfully. They passed the occasional fishing boat or merchantman without much fanfare.

One of the khamsiners, a boisterous young native of Pharasandria named Kypryrn regaled them with tales of the battles up north. He was the youngest officer on A Sweet Kiss, and from what Allara could gather, the only one of the Baenarites aboard the ship who had seen combat in the northern wars. His was a recent promotion, granted as a reward for battlefield prowess.

What got the most attention, however, was what Kypryn described as the best day of his life: the night The Thunderbolt shared his unit's tent, on the eve of a battle in Trevantum. The Thunderbolt brought a skin of wine and ate their soldier's rations, even helping in the baking of the bread. Kypryn had oversalted the stew in panic but The Thunderbolt ate without complaint.

The Baenarites listened rapturously and asked all sorts of questions, including some that even Allara considered girlish. Stuff like, "How does he smell like?" She was just as curious as everyone else but found it bizarre that such a question came from a deep-voiced giant of a man in his mid-thirties.

Pharasandria appeared in the distance with little warning: a thicket of buildings behind its moat and triple walls.

"How many people live here?" Sylvia asked in awe at the forest of concrete.

"A million, give or take," Kypryrn answered proudly. "The greatest city in the world."

Allara knew that Pharasandria had a million residents but she couldn't help being awed by the number. It had more people than all the cities she had ever lived in or visited put together. Of all the world's great cities, Pharasandria was the youngest, aged only 200.

Pharasandria also had the best strategic location of any city. This all came down to the shape of the A Hundred Realms. Mainland Bhai Andium was made up of two giant landmasses, the north, and south. On a map, they looked roughly like the number eight.

The "belt" of this eight, an isthmus called the Siibhun Lirambus (the Wasp's Waist) joined both the north and the south. It was on this isthmus that Pharasandria was located. This didn't just put Pharasandria in the center of the A Hundred Realms but the center of the known world as well. Bhai Andium was the smallest of the three great continents of the known world but it just happened to sit in the middle of the largest two. East of Bhai Andium was Maevi'i. West was the continent of Rendeia. In the middle of these two continents sat Bhai Andium and at the center of Bhai Andium was Pharasandria.

The site of Pharasandria had been an impassable and an unoccupied swamp for most of history. The swamp measured eight miles by four miles but it could have well been a thousand miles wide. Between the Shivering Fever, a disease that afflicted everyone who ventured too close, sinking mud, alligators, and allegedly even fouler beasts, few men who ventured into the Wasp's Waist ever made it out.

Entire armies had vanished in that speck of land. The most infamous disappearance involved Caelor The Careless, a Rhexbhurg prince who had just won a great victory in the south. After receiving news of his father's death, Caelor The Careless decided to march home immediately for his coronation. Confluencia was the Rhexbhurg capital in those days and going there would be a grueling 400-mile march that never came to be.

Upon arriving at the southern reaches of the Wasp's Waist, Prince Caelor chose to brave the eight-mile march through the swamp to the north bank instead of waiting for his ships to arrive and take him across by sea. Neither Caelor The Careless nor any of his 50,000 men were ever seen again.

The death of Caelor The Careless sparked wave after wave of succession crises, rebellions, invasions, civil wars, secessions, and general anarchy that lasted for the better part of a thousand years, the so-called Lost Millenium. Caelor The Careless' disaster and its even more disastrous consequences saw the Wasp's Waist shunned as a cursed place. Even sailors kept their distance from the swamp's shores

This abhorrence of the swamp lasted until the reign of Pharas IX, called The Builder, the 88th Rhexbhurg king. Seeing its potential, Pharas The Builder approached the land's owner, Faustyrn Siibhunbhurg, about a purchase. The agreed-upon price was the very princely sum of 100,000 silver stallions. For 50,000 acres of marshland, Pharas The Builder effectively paid two silver stallions per acre, the cost of ten loaves of bread.

"I would have given him the cursed swamp for free just to get rid of it but he offered me gold so I took it before he could change his mind," Lord Siibhunburg bragged to his friends after the sale.

But Pharas The Builder was no fool. First, he diverted the two rivers pouring into the Siibhun Lirambus which drained the swamp. Then he dug a canal across the narrowest section of the isthmus, connecting the western Khars Sea to the eastern Sechia Sea. This shortened voyages by as much as 2,000 miles since ships sailing around the southern tip of Bhai Andium could now take the shortcut through the canal, a convenience that Pharas the Builder charged them for.

The architect king earned back the gold he used to purchase the land just two days after he opened his canal to the public. The canal grew into the busiest shipping lane in the world and the city on its banks, Pharasandria, became the greatest of all cities.

For his role in the story, Faustyrn Siibhunbhurg would be immortalized in fables as Faustyrn The Fool, a moniker Allara thought was wholly undeserved given that Pharas The Builder had emptied his treasury and lost 100,000 workers to disease, drowning, alligator attacks, and several accidents over the course of the canal's construction. Among the dead were two of the king's three sons.

These were the thoughts on Allara's mind as her ship entered Pharasandria's northwest harbor. More ships than she could count awaited entry. Allara wondered how the place could be so crowded when the city had four harbors. But what did she know? It was considered a very busy day in the harbor at Salandport if three ships docked in a single day. Sometimes a whole week would pass without any non-fishing vessels docking.

The oars of A Sweet Kiss rose and fell in a synchronized dance that Allara found hypnotic as it pulled towards an empty berth. They passed by oarless merchantmen, cogs, great cogs, and even a giant stinky whaler, waiting patiently for the tugboats to tow them into their berths. They slid by one of the tugboats manned by a team of bare-chested rowers slick with sweat as they pulled a massive cog behind a boat no larger than one of the smaller barges on the Luche.

"Look at their muscles," Sylvia whispered hoarsely in Allara's ear.

Allara looked. The men weren't exceptionally handsome with their faces strained in concentration as they were but their muscles were something else. Toned veiny forearms, bulging biceps, and perfectly sculpted chests and abdomens coated in a film of shimmering sweat, tensing with every pull of their oars. Allara could see the appeal even if she found Sylvia's breathlessness silly.

"They're just slaves," she discouraged Sylvia.

"They're not," Kypryn said. "My father used to work on a tugboat pulling cogs through the canal. I worked on one for two years before joining up."

"But how do you know these ones aren't slaves?" Allara asked. Oarsmen were often slaves.

"Because slaves in Pharasandria are only allowed to do housework, clean sewers, and collect corpses," Kypryn explained.

"Why?"

"Free men need to eat too. Can't do that if slaves take all the work."

Allara and Sylvia exchanged a look. No one on the ship that wasn't of their party knew of their slave status. Sylvia would at least be a cook. Allara's position hadn't been discussed. She knew that it was unlikely but she still prayed that she wouldn't be turned into a sewer cleaner.

"What about manatees?" Allara asked.

"Lots of rich men in Pharasandria," Kypryn said. "They like harnessing sharks to their ships. It makes sea cows too jittery in these waters. They squeal and scream and run for the nearest patch of dry land. Pharas The Pious tried to ban sharks from the city. Had to repeal the measure when the poors rioted."

"Why would poor people riot to protect rich men's sharks?" Allara asked

"Tow sharks don't hunt. You have to feed them or they'll run away. That keeps a lot of fishermen and butchers employed. And if sharks disappeared, manatees will be doing all the towing around here too. We can't have that."

Allara's father had once told her of how much influence common men had in Pharasandria compared to other cities because of their sheer numbers but she had never realized just how true that was until now. She turned her attention to the pier.

The pier was crowded with countless numbers of men, animals, and carts. Burly stevedores rolled wheeled carts piled high with sacks, jars, heavy-looking barrels, wooden chests, bales of cloth, and all manner of goods up and down the wooden ramps placed against merchant ships. Merchants haggled with captains and loaded goods onto wagons drawn by draft horses and oxen.

Customs officers climbed on and off the decks of ships with clipboards, quills, and assistants carrying inkpots. Patrolmen in mail and striped cloaks of gold and red accompanied the customs officers while more patrolled the docks themselves. Money changers had small stalls lining a section of the pier, with servants outside the stalls clinking coins and shouting out currency exchange rates in half a dozen languages.

The pier was a sea of men, animals, and carts, with the odd woman sprinkled here and there. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere. It was all very chaotic and incredibly orderly at the same time. Allara was enthralled.

The warship got a lot of curious looks but everyone soon went back to their business. On oars, A Sweet Kiss slid smoothly into its berth. The other oarless ships needed teams of oxen to drag them the last few feet so they could secure themselves onto the wharf.

Allara, her party, and some of the Baenarites disembarked. She followed a carter pulling a handcart piled high with their bags and chests through the throng. The crowd moved ever slightly to let them through but closed around them almost immediately. At some point, Allara found herself side by side with Nicanor. He tried saying something but she just ignored him. It was hard to hear him with the din of the crowd anyway.

They finally arrived outside the confines of the harbor. It was just as crowded but a lot more organized. One section was dedicated entirely to massive warehouses with porters going in and out. Another was dedicated to eateries. These were orderly as well, as were a handful of other buildings whose purpose Allara couldn't discern. The transporters' section was the most chaotic. Men with draft horses and teams of oxen jostled for customers, shouting offers at passers-by.

"Fastest horses in the city!"

"Strongest oxen! Can pull anything!"

"50 coppers to Five Corners!"

"50 coppers to Kingsbridge."

One even seized Allara's hand and dragged her towards his wagon. "My lady, where are you going? I'll take you. 30 pence to the Gods' Quarter, 50 to the Royal Quarter, a hundred to the lower city." It took a stern rebuke from Nicanor for the man to release her.

"We can still be friends, Alla," Nicanor offered.

She wagged a finger at him. "No. We can't. And don't call me that. Ever!"

"I'm sorry for that nasty bit of business yesterday," he apologized. "I bear you no ill will. Anybody would have done the same in my position. You understand, don't you?" he asked. Allara stormed off but there wasn't enough room to get very far.

"Why do they look like that?" Sylvia asked of the horses and oxen, all of which had sheets of discolored canvas wrapped around their hindquarters in the same way someone would swaddle a baby.

"We don't allow horses to shit on the street in Pharasandria," Nicanor answered. "If we did, we would drown in the stuff."

Amran settled on three carters, splitting their party of eight into three. Allara was glad Nicanor got sent with the first carter, who carried most of the chests and bags. The scribe and the painters took the second cart. Allara and Sylvia rode with Amran in the third. The carter cracked a whip and his four draft horses set off, slowly weaving through the congested harbor area as the cart's wooden wheels creaked.

The cart appeared to be a favorite design of Pharasandria's carters. A large open wooden wagon that resembled an oversized chariot far more than it did a wagon. The construction was simple but skillful. The cart was painted in brilliant reds and yellows.

The other carts were constructed in a similar fashion and painted in similarly brilliant colors. Their driver would often wave at his compatriots as they slowly snaked out of the wide congested street near the harbor.

The oxcarts were the crudest. Many were made of unpainted wood and only hauled cargo instead of both cargo and passengers as the horse carts did. They were also the slowest. Allara heard quite a few unkind insults exchanged between the horsecart and oxcart drivers. Pedestrians also crossed the street leisurely from one side to the other, adding to the chagrin of the carters. Allara noticed another distinction: the horse carters wore red from head to toe while oxcarters wore green.

Allara was a little disappointed that the street was stone instead of marble. It was a wide street. Twenty feet wide and straight as an arrow. It was flanked by two five-foot-wide pavements on either side that were indeed made of marble but only foot traffic was allowed on them. Wagon traffic had to use the stone street. Seeing the tracks left on the stone by decades of wagon traffic, Allara could understand why the ordinary stone was used instead of marble. A low curb, only half a foot tall, ran down the middle street, separating the wagons headed in opposite directions. Their carter kept to the left.

At regular intervals, there were openings in the separating curb so wagons could change directions. These turning points were the rowdiest and most crowded. Carters exchanged insults at the slightest missteps.

At one crossing point, a ferocious fisticuff fight was in full progress. An oxcart loaded with terracotta tiles had overturned, blocking the passage, and a shoving match had degenerated into a mini-battle between the horsecarters and oxcarters.

"Butcher the cows!" their cart driver shouted encouragement at his brethren as they ambled by. "I want beef."

"Horse fucker!" one of the oxcarters shouted back.

"Cow fucker! You bend over and get rammed by castrated cows!" their carter returned the insult.

"Come say that to my face," the irate oxcarter shouted back and took a menacing step towards them.

"We are in a hurry," Amran scolded their cart driver as he made a move to disembark and join the brawl.

"Sorry m'lord," the carter apologized as he took the reins again while waving a fist at the oxcarter. Five patrolmen galloped towards the scene and the fight fizzled out immediately, with carters scattering in all directions and doing their best to look innocent.

The congestion was unrelenting and their pace barely got above a crawl. Allara felt that even the pedestrians on foot were outpacing them even though it was untrue. She didn't mind. She was enthralled by her new surroundings

The street was lined with shops on either side, selling more things than Allara could name or even recognize. All the buildings were tall, some as tall as six stories. Pedestrians in garments of a thousand different colors walked the sidewalks while carts and people on horseback dominated the stone street. Trees lined the pavement at intervals of ten feet, looking almost like giant green sentries.

She found the horses and oxen ridiculous in their swaddling but the street was cleaner than any in Salandport. Wooden bins lined the street at regular intervals. The carters would unswaddle their animals and empty the dung into the bins. The ox and horse swaddles were dyed in all manner of brilliant colors but stained brown and gray nonetheless. Their carter's horses were swaddled in bright orange canvas decorated with red flames but dung stains ruined the pattern.

The ornate carriage beside their cart was pulled by four stately white horses, swaddled in shimmering white silk, expensive and unstained. It was a level of wealth Allara had never seen anywhere else. Where else would someone take silk and wrap it around a horse's rump for the animal to shit in?

"What happens to the dung?" Allara asked no one in particular.

"Street sweepers collect it and cart it outside the walls. Farmers buy it by the wagon," the carter said.

"But how do they know who to pay? You all put your dung there."

"They don't pay us," the carter chuckled. "They pay the subrhex of the city and he uses that gold to pay the street sweepers–perfect deal for us. We don't have to step in shit every ten feet like people do in Maevi'i and in those barbarian western cities across the Khars Sea. I've been there, you know. Disgusting!" the carter spat.

"They empty their chamber pots onto the street. The urchins shit on the same streets as do their horses and stray dogs and drunks and what-have-you. You have to wear thigh-high boots just to take a walk and then take three baths in holy water afterward. Even my father's pigs live a lot cleaner than that. I say The Thunderbolt should go there and do to them what he did to those barbarians in the north. Filthy heathens!"

The carter then went on a long rant about how slaves and uncivilized savages from all over the world were ruining Pharasandria and stealing jobs from good Bhaandini. Allara and Sylvia listened politely.

Sylvia's mother had been from Khwhefia and even though Khwhefia was now part of the 100 Realms, Khwhefians were still not accepted as citizens. Consequences of raiding the shores of Bhai Andium for a thousand years. Allara could have made a compelling case of being a good Bhaandini herself but she was a slave, a class of people her carter seemed to despise even more than foreigners.

His solution to the perceived problem was simple: keep the sewer slaves and corpse collectors. Send the rest to die in the mines. He similarly wanted all foreigners expelled from Pharasandria. Amran got into an argument with him about the impracticality of such a move but the man was implacable. Allara left them arguing and focused on the sights and sounds around her.

The air was filled with the sounds of a million horseshoes and creaking wagon wheels. The vendors shouting out special offers for their wares, the street preachers screeching about the coming of The Final Age, the acquaintances greeting each other rowdily, and the men barking orders at their servants, the horses neighing, and oxen lowing, and the cracks of whips, all added to the noise.

But it wasn't an unpleasant mixture of sounds. Allara found it deeply comforting. It was the sound of a living thriving city. She felt oddly alive. The sound wasn't that loud. After a while, it just faded into the background and became as much a part of the landscape as the buildings and trees that lined the street. At times, she'd catch snippets of conversations among the pedestrians and even the other carters.

The smell was another thing that surprised Allara. As congested as it was, with people, horses, and carts stretching out into the distance, the street was surprisingly airy. She had known some sections of Salandport that could induce retching just from the stench.

The lack of animal dung, nightsoil, and litter on the street contributed to Pharasandria's rather pleasant air. The gentle breezes blowing in from the two seas on either side of the city didn't hurt.

After what felt like an hour, they went around a large public garden and emerged into The God's Quarter, home of Pharasandria's four great temples. Entire streets here were paved in marble. Black marble for the main streets and white marble for the sidewalks. The cart traffic thinned here and they finally picked up some speed.

The first grand temple Allara saw was Aemeia's, a gigantic building of white marble on a hillock overlooking the Khars Sea. It was the largest building Allara had ever seen. She knew Aeduia's temple was supposed to be a lot larger but she hadn't seen it yet.

Aemeia's temple had taken twenty years to build and it sowed. The temple had giant marble columns, supporting a sloping roof of gleaming marble. The columns enclosed a central courtyard capable of holding a hundred thousand people.

Between the columns were fountains. The fountains are what gave the grand temple its name: The Temple of A Thousand Fountains. As was only fitting for a temple dedicated to The Mistress Of The Waters, they spouted water tens of feet into the air, forming glorious rainbows as they caught the sun. Barefoot pilgrims purified themselves under a giant fountain at the entrance.

Next to Aemeia's temple was The Golden Temple of Aemlilon, named for its solid gold dome. Aemlilon's temple was only two-thirds the size of Aemeia's but it made up for its comparatively smaller size with sheer grandeur. The dome shone as brilliantly as the sun itself. Looking at it was blinding.

The Golden Temple was built of purple stone, from Porphyry Isle, an island just east of Salandria. A rock so rare it was found in only one place, a small mountain called Mount Porphyry which gave the island its name.

Sales of the stone to Pharas The Builder gave the old Antinen kings of Salandria enough gold to build a grand palace of their own in Salandport. But Pharas the Builder's temple and palace had consumed so much stone Mount Porphyry had been exhausted and flattened.

Next to The Golden Temple was a small hill and on the next hill over stood Aembaur's gleaming glass edifice. The Hall of Sky. Built by Aevard The Vengeful on the spot his father Pharas The Pious had sacrificed himself to end a plague. The magnificent temple built entirely of glass glimmered brilliantly on a hill in the distance. Allara knew she wouldn't be able to appreciate its grandeur until she came close.

"Where's Aeduia's temple?" Allara asked. She knew it was supposed to be in The Gods' Quarter but she couldn't see it.

"Next to her husband's, Aembaur," Amran answered. "Don't you know how temples are supposed to be arranged?"

Allara looked in the distance. She could see a hill behind Aembaur's temple but the building on it looked a little too small to be Aeduia's great temple.

"There?" Allara pointed at the distance.

"No," Amaran said. "There. Between The Golden and Glass Temples." He pointed at the small hill.

"That's a hill," Allara responded.

"No, it's not," Amran and the carter said in unison. Sure enough, when they pulled close, they found it was no hill.

Aeduia's great temple was constructed with massive blocks of brown sandstone in the form of a stepped circular tower. The base was so huge it seemed endless.

The brown sandstone and hanging gardens made the temple look like a hill from a distance. Up close, it was magnificent and grand on a scale Allara hadn't thought possible. The tower rose gradually. At every level, she saw pilgrims, priestesses, and acolytes going about their business. Viewed from the base, the temple seemed to vanish into the clouds.

Like all temples, it had a fountain outside for people to purify themselves before entering. Allara decided she would pray there as many times as she could.

They rode past Aembaur's Hall of Sky. It was the smallest of the grand temples in The Gods' Quarter and yet the most impressive. It had been built from massive glass bricks melted together to form a single continuous structure. The glass was unbreakable and had been created specifically for the temple. It was the finest creation of the Glassmakers' Guild. Building it was the most pious thing the notoriously foul-tempered Aevard The Vengeful ever did.

Small as it was compared to the other temples, The Hall of Sky was still larger than any temple Allara had seen anywhere else. And it wasn't even that small given that it was only slightly smaller than Amelilon's Golden Temple.

They left The Gods' Quarter behind them and the cart made its way east up straight streets lined with neat stone houses fronted by well-kept gardens and glittering statues. It reminded Allara of the mercantile enclave she'd grown up in Salandport but this was far grander. 100 times grander.

All of the houses had their own compounds. Many were bona fide mansions, manors, villas, lightly fortified castles, and some could rightfully claim to be palaces in their own right. There were no unattended children running across the streets here.

The Royal Quarter. There were no crowds here either. There was no banging of hammers or the shouting of offers. There weren't even any shops or vendors. Just houses and gardens. Young couples walked stiffly side by side along the gleaming marble sidewalks under the watchful eyes of sour-faced chaperones.

A few were unchaperoned. These were the happiest, holding hands, walking around with big smiles on their faces, and trading kisses every three paces. 'Newlyweds,' Allara thought with a twinge of envy. 'The most disgustingly happy people on the face of the earth.'

Everyone was well-dressed. The men looked noble and the women looked beautiful, glittering in gems and silks. The children were well-appointed and didn't look like the kind that ate mud for fun. Even the servants and slaves oozed elegance.

Instead of the din of crowds, the air was dominated by the songs of birds and the smells of flowers. The only human sounds were the occasional shouts of maids at misbehaving children. The streets were mostly empty and their carter got the horses up to a brisk gallop. Even the breeze was fresher here.

They encountered a handful of men riding fine steeds, swaddled in linen and silk. The three carriages they encountered were more ornate works of art than wheeled wooden wagons. Their cart, which had seemed like such a beautiful creation around the harbor district, was the crudest contraption in this whole neighborhood.

Allara felt out of place. She found the air in The Royal Quarter far too rarefied for her. She felt that everyone they encountered was giving them dirty looks. Only Amran, with his fine clothes, sable cloak, and regal bearing, looked like he belonged. Even their cart driver quieted down and cleaned up his language whenever he spoke.

After a while, the houses faded, replaced with a massive public garden. Rows of extravagant carriages were parked near the entrance. Inside, young men raced horses around a rectangular track, lovers strolled around and held picnics on the grass, and children ran all over, followed closely behind by mothers and maids. It looked like the happiest place on earth. Allara felt a twinge of jealousy.

A couple of hundred yards away were two massive palaces. The farthest of the two was the royal palace, The House of Purple, built entirely out of porphyry. The House of Purple was a grand sight, a maze of towers, keeps, and domes all built out of purple rock.

The House of Purple was built on a sword-shaped headland jutting out into a sheltered bay on the Sechia Sea. Its outbuildings seemed to grow from the water and reach ever higher. A bridge connected the outside of The House of Purple to another castle on a distant island of the bay.

The island castle was too far to be seen clearly but Allara had studied maps of Pharasandria and knew what it was: Seashield, the residence of the heir apparent since the days of Pharas The Philosopher. The island Seashield sat on was even named Simakulu (first-born son).

But they didn't take the bridge. The cart came to a stop in front of a huge gate of oak banded with iron and set in what appeared to be porcelain walls. Glazed marble. Allara had seen a few houses in the Royal Quarter that had the same glazed outer walls, aimed at combating stealthy thieves. This building would have been the grandest residence Allara had seen since leaving Caedmyria if the House of Purple hadn't been within sight.

"Landshield," the carter announced reverently. The gate opened and a guard greeted Amran effusively and then helped unload the bags from the cart.

Allara was transfixed by the glazed wall. It glimmered like glass and looked just as fragile but it couldn't be. Pharasandria's elites had molten glass poured onto the outer walls of their houses to make them so smooth that no one could stealthily scale them. It gave the walls the look of fragile porcelain but compromised none of their strength. But to Allara's untrained eyes, it still looked so fragile...

They disembarked. Amran handed the carter a shiny golden coin. The man looked at him in puzzlement, not daring to touch the money.

"M'lord, I can't break an eagle. It's not even noon yet. I don't have that kind of money. It's only 250 coppers. Two and a half stallions," the carter said.

"I don't have any stallions left," Amran said.

"I'll pay," Allara volunteered.

"You're sure?" Amran asked.

"Yes," Allara said with a nod and dug into her coin purse. She handed the man three silver coins. He took them, dug into his own purse, and handed her a small silver coin instead of the 50 copper coins she was expecting. The coin was smaller, half the weight of a stallion from its heft.

It bore the portrait of a young man. "Pharas Daeganus, Prince of Rhexia," it read. The reverse showed portraits of both King Daegan and Prince Pharas in crowns. "Subaephyr-In-Waiting," the coin announced. Allara had never seen such a coin before.

"What's this?" she asked the carter.

"It's the half-stallion," the man replied. "The boys are calling it the pony."

"I have never seen it before. This isn't real money," Allara said.

"It is," Amran intervened. "The king introduced it last year. It's very real money."

"Why?" Allara asked.

"To ease commerce and to prepare the realm for the eventual ascension of Prince Pharas," Amran explained. "What other reason could there be?" he asked. Allara had no answer. She just shrugged. How was she to know? She hadn't touched a silver coin in four years until last week.

They went through the gate. There was a second taller wall fifty yards from the outer wall. They must have gone halfway around before getting to a second gate. All through the trek, Allara irrationally feared that arrows and hot oil might come raining down on them from the crenellations above.

Going through the second gate brought them into a large central courtyard. It was lush with flowers, trees, fountains, and statues, and flanked by gleaming white buildings with glass windows. The place reminded Allara of Rainbow Rock, down to the statue at the entrance.

At the main entrance stood the same golden statue of Aemlilon astride Siiruch. The wings of the giant eagle formed a sundial. Half past 11, the shadow on the sundial on the ground indicated.

Beneath Siiruch's heads stood a one-armed man, clearly not The Restorer. She had never seen any of the man's statues before but Allara didn't need to read the inscription to know who he was.

Baenar The Beheader. Dragonbane, Lordsbane, Kingsbane. The conqueror of Salandria. The king who had led the country's peasants in a populist uprising against his own nobles. The man who would sooner slice off his sword hand than surrender. A villain to some, a hero to others, and a wonder to all.

"He built it after his conquest of Salandria. Lived here even when he was king; when he wasn't fighting rebellions that is," a voice interrupted Allara's musings. It was Nicanor. She cringed away. Before she could respond, a heavyset woman charged out of the door and engulfed Amran in a crushing hug.

"My boy!" the woman cried. Amran stood stiffly for a long moment before returning the hug. Mother and son embraced. Allara thought of her mother. Wondered where she was and whether she was still alive.

"You've grown so big!" the woman exclaimed while fussing with Amran's hair and clothes. "You're now taller than me."

"Yes, mother. I've grown seven inches," the squire said proudly.

"And these are your new girlfriends?" she teased while pinching his cheeks and pointing her chin at Allara and Sylvia.

Amran blushed with embarrassment. "No. They're new servants. I need to take them to Sir Parnyrl."

The woman groaned. "Nicanor will take them, won't you?" she asked Nicanor.

"Yes," Nicanor answered with a small nod.

"You look like a proper little lord now," the woman commented proudly as she dragged Amran through the 12-foot doors of carved bronze. The bashful squire followed along meekly. Two guards in dark gray cloaks bordered in silver followed behind with his bags.

Allara stared daggers at Nicanor. He looked dapper as always. Flowing robes of dark blue embroidered with twinkling stars in silver thread and a golden border around the neck. His hair looked almost wet. He averted his eyes when she glared straight into them. The playful mischief was gone. There was something else. Shame? Guilt? Allara didn't care. "This way, ladies," Nicanor said with a gesture.

They followed him across the courtyard, through a cloistered hallway, and into a second smaller courtyard. He knocked on a large oaken door and pushed it open. The room beyond was large and square. A lightning lamp hung from the chandelier on the ceiling, making the room seem as bright as if it had no roof.

The walls were lined with stacked wooden chests on one side and shelves on the other. A youngish man was rifling through papers in one of the chests while a second one was stacking even more chests.

A third rugged man who looked more like a bone breaker than an accountant sat behind a massive rectangular desk, scribbling what appeared to be calculations with a piece of coal on a sheet of paper and then writing the results in ink in a large leather-bound ledger.

"Nicanor Leonus," the rugged man said jovially with an upper-class accent when they entered. "I dreamed that you died in battle," he teased.

"You know me. I'm a survivor," Nicanor said.

All the three men burst into laughter. "Is that your way of saying you never got within 100 yards of a battlefield?" one of the younger men asked.

"Exactly," Nicanor said with a nod.

"And the girls?" the older man, Sir Parnyrl, pointed at Allara and Sylvia. "You didn't lure them here with made-up war stories did you?"

"No. They're the new servants. Selected by His Highness himself."

Allara rifled through her saddlebag and pulled out the wooden tube she had used to preserve The Thunderbolt's letter. She pulled it out and handed it to Sir Parnyrl. He examined the seal, broke it, unrolled the letter, and read quietly. His lips didn't move. Only his eyes.

"Which one of you is Allara Stefanus?" he asked after he finished. Allara responded with a timid yes. He pointed at Sylvia. "And that makes you Lyvia?"

Sylvia nodded. "Just one name? No surname? No patronymic?" Sir Parnyrl asked Sylvia.

"My mother died before she could tell me who my father was," Sylvia answered.

"What about a surname?"

"I do not have one," Sylvia said.

"How is that possible?" came Sir Parnyrl's response.

"We don't have family names in Khwhefia, sir."

"You have one now. It's Baker. Lyvia Baker," Sir Parnyl said.

Sylvia nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Sir Parnyrl put The Thunderbolt's letter away, took a fresh sheet of paper, and began writing. They all watched for lack of anything better to do. Once he was done, he poured some hot wax onto the paper and pressed a seal onto it then rolled it up and sealed it again.

"Alyrn," he barked at one of his assistants. The young man stocking the wooden chests looked up. "Run this one up to Mylyrn Sylarus at the palace," he instructed.

"But I have other duties. I have to–" the young man said.

"Do you want me to hop up there myself?" Sir Parnyrl interrupted by standing up on crutches. He had only one leg. His left leg was severed at the knee.

"Right away, Sir," Alyrn said, picking up the rolled letter and running out the door. Sir Parnyrl gave a big sigh as he sat back down.

"Nicanor," Sir Parnyrl addressed Nicanor. "You're to test this one." He pointed at Allara.

"What kind of test?" Nicanor asked.

"His Highness says she has some learning. You're to determine how much learning there actually is and submit a report to him when he returns," Sir Parnyrl explained.

"Why?" Nicanor asked.

"She is to be Princess Xaena's tutor. Start her off on the basics before you take over when Her Highness is older. His Highness feels your skills would be wasted on a child her age."

"A tutor, Sir?" Allara stuttered, her palms moistening. "I'm not sure…"

"Not sure of what?" Sir Parnyl asked. "The princess is four years old. You're not teaching her alchemy or astronomy. All you have to do is teach her to read and write. Shape her letters like a proper little lady, write her own name, count without using her fingers, add, subtract, recite her lineage, memorize The Sitabh. That kind of thing. Is that something you're incapable of?"

"No sir… I mean yes sir," Allara stuttered. "I mean I can do it." Tutor. The word sounded bizarre in her mind. She had thought she would be scrubbing floors or something like that.

"Then there's the issue of clothing," Sir Parnyrl's index finger waved up and down, pointing at Sylvia's worn frock. "His Highness will not suffer his servants looking like urchins." Allara and Sylvia made no comment. She had lent Sylvia one of her newer linen tunics but Sylvia didn't want to wear it on the ship due to some silly Khwhefian superstition about never sailing in new clothes.

"You're to get new clothes. Both of you," Sir Parnyrl told them. "Fine linen. At least four full-length tunics or dresses, properly dyed in nice bright colors, and a fine woolen cloak. None of that undyed roughspun nonsense. And acceptable leather shoes too."

"I… I… don't have any money," Sylvia stammered.

"Oh," Sir Parnyrl sighed. He reached into a drawer, emerged with a fistful of silver coins, and started counting them, stacking them one atop the other. He soon had four stacks of coins before him. He split them in the middle and slid two stacks across the desk to Allara and two stacks to Sylvia. "That's 200 silver stallions for each of you. More than enough to garb yourself as befits a servant of this household."

"Thank you. Thank you so much, sir," Allara and Sylvia said in unison.

Sir Parnyrl smiled. "It's not charity. I will be taking that out of your wages." He scribbled something in his ledger. "Let's spread the deductions out over four months."

Allara and Sylvia exchanged a look. "Wages?" Sylvia whispered. Allara nodded. That was not a word any of them expected to hear.

"Wages? Sir?" Sylvia asked.

"Yes. I will be deducting the silver from your wages over the next four months. Is that a problem?"

"Um… We are slaves, Sir," Allara explained. "We don't get paid."

Sir Parnyrl gave her a weird look. "You get paid 350 silver stallions a month," he told Allara. Then he pointed at Sylvia, "And you get 270." They just gave him blank looks. "He didn't tell you?" Sir Parnyrl asked.

"Tell us what?" Allara asked.

"What's the one thing a slave and a child have in common?" Sir Parnyrl asked instead.

"I don't know," Allara responded, uncertain of where this conversation was going.

"Neither of them can make a valid oath," Sir Parnyrl said. "His Highness expects every man and woman serving under his roof to swear an oath of loyalty. You're to be freed."

"Freed?" Allara could scarcely believe her ears.

"Yes. Freed. Alyrn went to fetch the writs. I thought you knew?"

Allara just shook her head. She must have shaken it too hard. All the blood rushed out of her head. It felt light. Too light. She saw stars twinkle, her legs gave, and she was falling. Falling…