Free Liar's Island: A Novel by Tim Pratt Page A

cabin. She looked into his eyes, afterward, still holding his shoulders. “You made the voyage interesting, I’ll give you that much.”
    Interesting. Two women had called him that in the space of minutes. It wasn’t his favorite adjective—he preferred “dashing” or “irresistible” or “virile”—but it was better than “treacherous” or “cheating” or “bastard.” Except “bastard” wasn’t an adjective, was it? Did he mean “bastardly”? “Bastardish”?
    â€œYou made the journey into a voyage of delights, Saraswati. If you’d like, I’ll see if I can wrangle an invite to the palace for you, perhaps a seat at a feast—”
    â€œMay the gods preserve me!” she said. “No, leave me out of your entanglements, please. The gold is recompense enough for the difficulties you brought along with you.” She frowned. “Is your sword … safe? For you, I mean? There are no icebergs in this harbor, Rodrick.”
    â€œI’m perfectly safe!” Hrym said. “Unless I don’t want to be. I don’t know what put a hole in your boat, but it wasn’t me.”
    Saraswati’s eyes widened a bit at Hrym’s voice, which was rather loud and emphatic, but she kept her gaze on Rodrick.
    â€œWe’ll be fine, Captain. I hope the repairs go smoothly, and, ah, may the wind and the waves be kind.”
    â€œYes, yes. Get off my ship. I’m told there’s a man from the palace waiting for you on the deck, and he doesn’t look like a servant, so best not keep him waiting.”
    A representative of the thakur, then. Rodrick was glad he’d dressed in his best shirt and breeches—a shame the cuffs of the latter were damp from swirling seawater, but it couldn’t be helped. He started toward the gangplank, walking with as much swagger as he had in him, hoping to give an impression of arrogant nobility that was spoiled only slightly when Saraswati swatted him playfully on the rear.
    He’d expected Jalmeray to be terribly hot, but it was actually quite temperate, cool ocean breezes taking the bite out of what heat there was. The docks didn’t even smell bad. Most of the people bustling around the harbor wore flowing garments in light colors, with silk appearing as often as linen. Billowing trousers and vests embroidered in jewel tones were common on the men, some of whom wore turbans, while the women were a more varied sort, some wearing veils and robes that covered nearly all their skin, others wearing what seemed little more than arrangements of innumerable diaphanous scarves. Several women had rings in their noses, as some of the female crew had, and many people had numerous earrings, men and women both, along with bracelets and necklaces of gold and other precious metals. Rodrick wondered if they dressed according to caste, or the gods they worshiped, or merely personal whim. What skin he could see ranged from coppery to almost black, and he thought he must be the palest person in Niswan, at least here on the docks. One of the tallest, too. As he’d suspected, this would be a difficult place to remain anonymous, so if he did anything villainous, he’d better do it so subtly he wasn’t noticed.
    One man stood at the end of the gangplank, the flow of people working and walking parting around him, as if he were surrounded by an invisible armed guard. Who knew? Maybe he was. Many elementals could be invisible if they chose, couldn’t they?
    The man’s mustache and beard were black and carefully groomed, his eyes dark and piercing. His vest was embroidered in golden thread, and the arms crossed over his chest bulged with muscles accentuated by golden armbands. He looked quite a bit like the djinni who’d summoned Rodrick, though he had legs in those billowing white trousers instead of a vortex of wind.
    He inclined his head a fraction.