The Floating Islands Read online

  Trei nodded again, warily. He could see how his cousin hated this disarrangement, but what could he do about it? He resolved to be very happy with the attic, as soon as possible.

  Araenè led him up the stairs. One wall of the stairwell was pierced every few feet by a narrow window, each letting in a measure of light and air; Trei was surprised to see that it was now nearly dusk.

  In the last light of the sun, high over the rooftops of Canpra, men with crimson wings drifted in a high, endless spiral. Trei pressed his palms on the windowsill and leaned out, staring up at them.

  “What?” Araenè came back and glanced out the window. “Oh—you don’t have kajuraihi in Tolounn, do you?” She sounded pleased about this.

  Trei ignored her tone. He leaned out farther, watching the fliers—the kajuraihi—until their slow, spiraling flight took them at last out of sight. He said, barely aware he spoke aloud, a sigh of yearning, “Oh, I have to learn that. I have to learn how to fly.”

  Araenè stared at him in surprise. “Well, you can’t. A Tolounnese boy, join the kajuraihi? That’s Island magic.”

  Trei pulled himself back inside, returned his cousin’s stare, and said nothing.

  “Well, you might,” Uncle Serfei said judiciously the next morning when Trei asked him over breakfast. The breakfast was warm wheat bread with figs and honey, not the beef and eggs and sweetened buckwheat porridge of northern Tolounn. Aunt Edona had taken Araenè and gone somewhere, so it was just Trei and Uncle Serfei at the table.

  Trei dipped a fig in honey and ate it slowly. He could see his uncle was glad that Trei had asked about the Island’s fliers, that he was anxious Trei should find a good place in Canpra and be happy here. Trei could not imagine being happy—but he longed to fly.

  “You’re fourteen, isn’t that so? So you’re the right age for it.” Uncle Serfei spread honey on a slice of bread, regarding Trei thoughtfully. “It’s true we don’t want the Tolounnese getting a feel for dragon magic—especially now they’ve got Toipakom pacified; the Little Emperor is getting restless for another conquest, so it’s said, and there’s no obvious direction for him to turn but toward us. But then, you’re not Tolounnese anymore. In fact, you never were, really, were you? Your father couldn’t have registered you as a Tolounnese citizen until your majority, isn’t that the law in Tolounn?”

  Trei nodded, although, distracted by his uncle’s comment about conquest, he’d only half heard the question. Trei had been very young when Tolounn had conquered Toipakom, but his tutor had made him study that conquest. Trei’s tutor had approved of the subjugation of Toipakom because, he said, it wasn’t right for a little island like that to take on the airs of a real nation. Trei’s father had shaken his head and said who cared what airs some minor country put on? But he had added that the Great Emperor was wise to allow the Little Emperor to conquer all the world, as trade could only benefit from uniformity of law and an absence of tariffs. Trei remembered that, because his mother had rolled her eyes and said something biting about Tolounnese aggression.

  But Trei hadn’t quite put those comments together as suggesting a possible attempt to conquer the Floating Islands. He said, “You don’t really think …,” but then did not know how to complete that question.

  “Oh, well.” Uncle Serfei gave Trei a wry smile. “It’s something we think about here. Don’t worry; I’m sure nothing will happen. Tolounn hasn’t ever tried seriously to conquer us. Anyway, how could they?” He waved his bread in the air above the table, miming the height of the Floating Islands above the sea. “It’s just, we can’t help but be aware.… Not even the Emperors of Tolounn would provoke Yngul, but the Little Emperor is an aggressive man. If not Yngul, I’m sure he’s considering what less formidable nation he might conquer. Cen Periven, for example. Small enough to control, rich enough to pay for the effort ten times over—conquering Cen Periven would secure his place in history far better than merely taking little Toipakom! But if he wants Cen Periven, he’d need to take us first, unless he wanted to risk having us behind him while he attacked it, which I doubt.”

  “But …,” Trei began, but stopped. If Tolounn did attack the Islands—but his uncle was right: he wasn’t Tolounnese anymore. Except he didn’t at all feel like an Islander, could hardly imagine feeling at home here. If he wasn’t an Islander, yet wasn’t really Tolounnese …

  Uncle Serfei broke into Trei’s confusion, his casual wave and matter-of-fact tone dismissing it. “Anyway, none of that’s to say you couldn’t try for a place in the next kajurai auditions. Kajuraihi … ah. I meant to say, kajuraihi embody the spirit of the Islands, but that sounds pretentious, doesn’t it? Though it’s true, in a way. Even nowadays.” He made a little self-deprecating gesture, absently layered more honey on the bread until it dripped off the edges, and ate it in a couple of bites.

  Then he said, “Kajuraihi have been soldiers, Trei, a first line of defense for the Islands, but not for a long time. Now they’re more often couriers. Discreet couriers at the highest level, but still, fundamentally messengers. Does that sound like something you’d like to do?”

  Trei didn’t answer. If the question had been just that—do you want to be a courier?—then the answer would have been no. But if the question was, are you willing to become a courier if it means you can fly?—in that case, he thought, the answer would be yes. Because when he imagined walking in the streets of the city, watching winged men soar overhead and knowing he would never be among them … the thought was almost a physical ache within him.

  Uncle Serfei seemed to see something of this in Trei’s face. He added kindly, “Not all kajuraihi are couriers, of course. Some are attached to ambassadors’ staffs; some are ambassadors themselves. It’s sometimes expedient for the king to have a man with broad authority who can be in Cen Periven or Tolounn, or even Yngul, fast. Kajuraihi can fly faster than even the fastest ship can sail—it’s said kajuraihi can bend even the fiercest winds to their will.” He paused, and then said, “I don’t know whether that’s true.”

  Trei made a noncommittal sound. He tried to imagine being an ambassador. It was not a position he’d ever felt any desire for, before. He said after a moment, doubtfully, “But my father was Tolounnese. I don’t … Your king surely wouldn’t want me to speak with his voice?”

  Uncle Serfei waved a second piece of bread at Trei. “Your king, too! You’re not Tolounnese! You’re my nephew, Alana’s son, and as eligible to audition as anybody’s son. Anyway, that’s what I’ll argue when I petition for a place for you in the auditions.”

  Trei nodded uncertainly.

  “Mind, now, every boy dreams of the kajuraihi when he’s your age. Most don’t ever win their wings: it’s a hard path to follow, the one that mounts to the clouds. Best not to fix all your dreams on the sky, eh? I’m sure Alana’s son is clever enough for the ministry. Or you might even find yourself with a gift for magery, who knows?” Uncle Serfei looked wistful. “The odd mage used to emerge from the Naseida family from time to time, though we haven’t had one for the past few generations.”

  Trei could hardly say anything to this. He certainly couldn’t tell Uncle Serfei that he didn’t want to be a minister of anything, or that magecraft would be even worse. Until he’d seen the winged men, Trei had assumed that he would someday be a merchant captain. Now … he just knew he wanted to fly. Trei looked up at his uncle. “I don’t care how hard it is. Please. I want to fly. I need …” His voice trailed off, and he opened his hands in inarticulate longing.

  “Well, then, I’ll petition for a place for you,” promised Uncle Serfei, reaching to pat his shoulder reassuringly. “More figs? Bread? After breakfast, we’ll see about making a good, respectable Island boy out of you. Clothing, new shoes, what else? Let me see. We can register you at the library for the coming quarter.…”

  It emerged that the library was where Island boys went to school. A common school. Trei’s heart sank at the thought: dozens of boys together in a large room, sharing their books and their t
eachers with the rest instead of having a private tutor—even the wealthiest boys.

  “These are mostly boys from ministry families,” Uncle Serfei explained. “And the sons of magistrates, scholars, famous physicians, men like that … important men, you know.”

  “Mages?”

  “No, no.” Uncle Serfei gestured extravagantly. “The mages have their own school somewhere. No one knows where. Maybe in Canpra, maybe somewhere not exactly on Milendri at all. It’s said a boy with the gift will find it himself when he’s ready. No, the boys at the library aren’t likely to be mages. But plenty of those boys will have posts in the ministries someday, so it’s important they know one another. Now. The quarter changes in just a few days, I believe, so you can start at the library then. If you apprentice with the kajuraihi later, that’s fine, but a little while in library classes will do nothing but help you.”

  “Does Araenè go to the library for classes, too?” Trei asked. He did not want to attend classes with ministers’ sons—and he didn’t think he liked his cousin anyway—but at least she would be someone he knew.

  Uncle Serfei gave him a startled look, then smiled. “Girls do sometimes, in Tolounn, don’t they? No, Trei. Island girls have private tutors sometimes. A few write tolerable poetry, I suppose, but it’s not as though they are going to be scholars or ministers or magistrates, is it?”

  Trei thought of how his sister would have responded to this comment, but he said nothing.

  Island clothing was lighter, cooler, and far more brightly colored than anything worn in northern Tolounn. Trei put on a sleeveless green shirt, which he belted with a gold sash over sapphire-blue pants. He felt like he was dressing in a costume, not in real clothing. Trei knew he should go find his cousin and her parents. But he sat cross-legged on the bed, gazed out the window, and didn’t move toward the door.

  Outside his door, someone clapped. Araenè opened the door without waiting for his call—well, but it was her room, really, Trei supposed—and stepped in. She wore a dark green dress with a gold sash, and her hair was pinned up with a pearl comb. She looked far more elegant than she had the previous evening, but no more friendly. She looked Trei up and down. He felt his face warm, but said nothing.

  However, his cousin made no comment about his change of clothing. “Do you like steamed fish?” she asked. “I used skin-on taki fillets and made silver sauce, only I used wine instead of lemon, and less sugar.”

  “Oh?” Trei wondered what he was supposed to say to this.

  Araenè sighed and turned to go. She said over her shoulder, “Supper’s always half past sixth bell, so we’d best move along.”

  The fish was delicious. You peeled the black skin away and drizzled the translucent sauce over the flaky fish. There were thin green-flecked pancakes to go with the fish. You tore off pieces and picked up bits of fish with them, then drizzled on more sauce and added some crunchy green vegetable he didn’t recognize and ate the packets you’d made. Flavors then unfolded one after another in your mouth, complex and wonderful. Trei slowed down after the first bite to make his food last longer.

  “Araenè is truly gifted,” Aunt Edona said fondly, noting Trei’s expression. “Her husband will be a lucky man.”

  “If she were a boy, she’d earn a place in the king’s own kitchens,” Uncle Serfei added, smiling proudly at his daughter. “She’d wind up a master of all the eight arts and five arts and be famous.”

  Araenè didn’t look pleased by these compliments. Her mouth tightened, and she fixed her eyes on her plate. Trei said almost at random, to break the uncomfortable pause, “Eight arts and how many?”

  “Sauces and creams, relishes and chutneys, mousses and whipped dishes, savory dishes with fruit, meat dishes, fish and seafood, vegetable dishes, and breads,” Araenè recited to her plate. She looked up, frowning fiercely. “And the five confectionary arts: cream sweets, frozen sweets, grain sweets, sweets made with fruit, and pastries. People in Tolounn don’t know how to cook.”

  “Now, Araenè—” Aunt Edona began.

  Her daughter just looked stubborn. “Not really cook. Cen Periven has real chefs, but Tolounn? Just heating things until they’re edible isn’t really cooking.” Her lip curled in disdain. Trei thought of how the food at his home had differed from the food made by his friends’ servants, about the way only his mother, unlike the mothers of his friends, had sometimes taken over the cooking for his household. His mother’s occasional tart comments about Tolounnese cooking, heard and disregarded all his life, fell suddenly into place. He asked Araenè, “Do you really know how to make all those things? Sauces and mousses and savory things and all those others?”

  His cousin flushed and looked down again.

  “She really does,” Aunt Edona assured Trei.

  Araenè looked at Trei and added grudgingly, “Not that Tolounn hasn’t its own arts, I’m sure.” She sounded like she didn’t know of any and didn’t think they’d count for much anyway.

  “Araenè—” Aunt Edona said.

  “Cen Periven prides itself on the eternal arts, and we on the ephemeral. Tolounn’s only art is the art of war,” Uncle Serfei said grimly.

  His wife patted his hand. “Not at the table, love, I beg you.”

  Uncle Serfei looked embarrassed. He said to Trei, “Well, we do claim that our Island chefs are more skilled than any elsewhere. And Araenè truly is gifted.”

  “Pastries are hard to get right,” Araenè muttered to her plate.

  “You make wonderful pastries,” Aunt Edona said firmly. “What did you make tonight, love?”

  Araenè had made tiny crisp pastries filled with cream that was pink and delicately rose-scented. Each pastry was topped with a single candied rose petal.

  “They’re almost too pretty to eat,” Trei said fervently, holding his third pastry up to admire it and trying to decide whether he had room left to eat it. His mother had never attempted anything like these.

  His cousin smiled at last. “They’re meant to be eaten. That’s why it’s an ephemeral art.”

  Trei ate the pastry in two bites and was sorry it was the last one. “You really ought to be cooking for the king!” he told his cousin.

  Araenè lost her smile again, so that Trei understood that she did actually want to be a royal chef, and famous. Only she couldn’t because, he supposed, she was a girl. From the way they acted, he thought that neither of her parents really understood this about their daughter, even though it was obvious. No wonder she was fierce. No one had ever tried to tell his sister she couldn’t draw or paint, and someday Marrè probably would have been famous. He wanted suddenly to show Marrè’s sketches to his cousin, to tell Araenè about his sister. He thought the two girls would have understood each other, that they would have been friends. His throat closed with the effort to restrain tears.

  Uncle Serfei said to Trei, rescuing him from a public outcry of grief, “I checked this afternoon, and the next kajurai auditions will take place in forty-four days. That’s a nice piece of luck; they only have auditions every few years. Tomorrow I’ll petition for you to audition, and then while we wait for a response, you can attend proper Island classes. I hope you had a decent grounding off there in Rounn.”

  Trei recovered himself, stung. Rounn had hardly been some little cow-mire village. “Of course I did. But—” He started to say that he didn’t want to attend library classes, but stopped himself. Uncle Serfei had already agreed to try to get a place for him with the Island fliers. It would be shameful—childish—ungrateful, even—to argue about the library.

  But he wished Araenè could also attend the classes.

  2

  Araenè’s Tolounnese cousin caused her much less trouble than she had feared. He kept out of her things—Araenè cleared out three of her drawers and half a wardrobe for him and covertly checked every day to be sure everything was exactly as she had left it in the rest of the drawers. Especially in the back of her most private wardrobe. As far as she could tell, her cousin never p
oked about. He seemed to understand he was intruding. Probably he was as eager to move into his own personal attic as she was to have him out of her room.

  Araenè was surprised to find that the attic looked like it was becoming a fairly nice room, after everything was taken out and the walls dusted and the floor scrubbed. Mother bustled happily about the business of choosing the rugs and linens, delighting over a bed frame of twisted iron and matching iron lamps. Araenè thought the linens pale and insipid, the ornate bed frame and lamps overdone. But Trei, apparently reluctant to offend his uncle and aunt, agreed with Mother in all her choices. Araenè made no comment, so eager to have her own room back that she scrubbed and dusted with a will. Then, after Mother complimented her industry, she was a little ashamed—but still eager to have her cousin safely installed in his own room and out of hers.

  Trei was a quiet boy. Really quiet. He was polite to Mother and Araenè thought he sincerely liked Father, but he didn’t follow Araenè around, and he stayed out of the kitchen when she was concentrating. Nor did Trei often leave the house, except, as soon as his classes were arranged, to go to the library—though he was obviously, boy-like, completely sky-mad. Araenè thought that in his place, she would have been wild to explore Canpra. Her cousin could have roamed the whole city if he liked. A boy’s freedom was wasted on Trei, Araenè decided. Absolutely wasted.

  In general she was glad her cousin kept his distance from her, and was willing to let her keep her distance from him. The very last thing she wanted was a new shadow clinging to her heel. She was glad classes had been arranged for him; it was good to have some of her privacy back.

  Now, at last, the Moon’s Day after Trei’s arrival, Araenè finally found an opportunity to put that privacy to real use. She folded back the shutters of her room. The late-morning heat rolled into the room at once, but she only leaned out and studied the narrow alley behind the house. No one was about: it would be too hot until dusk for anyone to willingly venture into the streets. There was a high, pale haze across the sky, blurring the brilliant sun, but this didn’t mute the heavy, smothering heat.