not approve of my giving our esteemed guests such a tour,” he continued. “This part of the city is not nearly of the same caliber as the palace itself, and there are places here that would shame us in your eyes. And yet…”
The carriage turned a corner, and suddenly we were up against the famed wall—passing, I noticed with some interest, a section of it that had not yet been rebuilt. A young man, dressed in common work clothes, had paused against the broken gap to pass his arm across his brow and eat a stick of fried dumplings. They smelled delicious. Perhaps Alcibiades would have enjoyed them.
Alcibiades must have caught sight of the same thing I had, now that I was holding the bamboo curtain up with one hand, and cleared his throat.
Lord Temur bowed his head, as though it were the only way to express momentary discomfort at the faux pas. “We must pass through that which is unseemly in order to come to the true artists’ district,” he explained. “There, you may see our culture as the artisans understand it. We have a wide variety of sculptors, calligraphers, and printers, and it would bring great honor to any man whose craftsmanship pleases you.”
The words, I recognized, were rehearsed, yet I was nevertheless delighted by them. So few had been chosen for this venture, and, not being a soldier or a combat magician, I would never have found the opportunity elsewhere to see these people for myself. It was better than being in a museum, for the exhibits were living and breathing, shouting from windows and bowing down as we passed by, children lunching on dumplings or chasing kittens, an old man stooped with age but laughing nevertheless.
My eyes caught Alcibiades’ in a moment of shared realization. We were so eager to watch these common people because they wore what we had so missed in our Ke-Han companions at the palace: expressions.
“Something smells good,” Alcibiades said suddenly, as though the connection unnerved him and he felt compelled to say something rude again to diminish the moment.
Lord Temur paused for a moment—his only indication, it appeared, of discomposure—then nodded in understanding. “Ah,” he said. “A street vendor. Stop the carriage.”
The two guards reined in the horses, then opened the door for us.
“After you,” Lord Temur said.
Alcibiades stepped out first, and of course completely ignored me as I held my hand out to him for assistance. Sighing—when would the man learn some decent manners?—I lifted the hem of my garment and alighted. The road beneath us was dusty, and my slippers were sure to be ruined, but it was for a worthy cause.
“Lord Alcibiades is hungry, I believe,” I explained to Lord Temur. “His palate is somewhat unrefined. He comes from the country, you see, and isn’t very adventurous when it comes to foreign spices.”
“I see,” Lord Temur said. “I, too, am from the country, but I have always enjoyed these dumplings. Perhaps Lord Alcibiades would honor this vendor by sampling them?”
“I told you,” Alcibiades began, but I silenced him effectively by offering him the delicacy in question—sticky dumplings served most cleverly on a wooden skewer.
“My lord Caius,” Lord Temur said, offering me a skewer of my own. They smelled simply heavenly, and I accepted, nibbling daintily at the one on top. They were filled with something sticky and sweet; Alcibiades was sure to approve, since after all, no fish were involved as far as I could tell.
“Good,” Alcibiades managed, after a long while of chewing, since he’d bitten three dumplings off at once.
“I believe you don’t eat the stick,” I said helpfully. The dumpling vendor, meanwhile, only looked deeply relieved, as though we had come to cart him away to the gallows and pardoned him, instead.
“If you will follow me,” Lord Temur said. He’d secured a dumpling stick of his own, and another for Alcibiades—which was quite thoughtful of him, really. “The artists’ district is very close by.”
“Well, if the art is anything like the dumplings,” Alcibiades said, apparently in a better mood now that his stomach was full. If I could have kicked him, I would have, but Lord Temur would have been sure to notice. I’d reprimand him privately later. Lord Temur was a sensitive man; the Ke-Han’s was a sensitive culture. They valued works of aesthetic beauty nearly as much as they valued a man’s strength and prowess in combat. To compare art to dumplings was the height of rudeness. While Alcibiades’ churlishness was endearing in