leaked their fragrant dust. Silk from far Beroa, where they said it was hot enough to send men mad, furs from the myriad of tiny valley kingdoms in the far south, where it was under snow for half the year, shark meat from the Vergon Islands, where great trees like giants ruled, beef, elk, whale meat and all that went with it, blubber and oil and bones, funny little crabs the size of his hand that held barely a shred of meat, but which when you tasted it was good enough to make your eyes cross.
Vocho trailed Kacha, as he always did, dogged her, annoyed her because a reaction was better than being ignored, which is what she aimed for when she was with her friends.
They dawdled by the spice trader, inhaling the scents of a different world. The sailors would tell them stories of vast deserts that would dry a man up, of searing heat and burning cold, of the strange spirits that wandered there that would lure a man to his death. Sailors from other boats joined in, told them about the hairy man-like beasts that roamed the frozen snows of the south and preyed on anyone stupid enough to leave their village at night, or the trickster spirit-gods from sweltering jungles who stole naughty children. Dock rats like Vocho and the rest were good luck to superstitious sailors, who wouldn’t set foot in Reyes proper because they thought the clockwork was cursed, the Reyens and their dead god with it. So they were tolerated, given odd little treats like the crabs. Further on was a small sturdy ship from the south with rugged-looking men unloading grey and brown and the brightest white furs. The men sang a sad song as they worked. Vocho didn’t understand the words, but he didn’t have to; it was in the melody, in the way they sang – of home, of a far port, of the people and lands left behind.
The group of dock rats wandered and scampered and ran shrieking through it all, until the spring sun lowered and it was almost time to go home. Then at the head of a jetty they spotted a crowd, more people than Vocho thought he’d ever seen before, excepting the time in the square, but he tried never to think of that. They hurried towards the press of people, not wanting to miss a spectacle. Maybe it’d be the fire-eaters again – Vocho had loved those and almost given Ma a stroke and earned himself a scalping from Da when he tried it at home.
No fire-eaters today, which had Vocho sulking until he saw what it actually was. In the midst of the crowd stood a tall and stocky man, his skin a dark dusty colour like some of the northerners, his springy black hair just turning to grey around the temples, worn long and tied back. Dressed in a flamboyant shirt with ruffled cuffs that almost hid his hands, high boots that shone like stars and, best of all for Vocho, a tabard in green and gold, with an emblem of two crossed swords. A duellist.
The guild was a myth, and also very, very real. There’d always been a guild in Reyes, so they said, since before the Great Fall, since before the Castans even, since for ever, the only thing apart from the Shrive and the change o’ the clocks to survive intact through all the centuries. Once they’d protected kings and the old empire, until it fell. When the Castans had gone – died or just left, Vocho wasn’t sure – the guild became its own master. Now they protected whoever paid them enough, although there was some promise that they would protect the city for free, if ever it needed it. In the centre of the city, but not part of it, its buildings were set on an island in the great river, overlooking the harbour and separated from Reyes by a narrow strip of land and a short bridge. Every third morning, with the change o’ the clock and the change of the city’s landscape, people would get their bearings by where the guild stood.
The guild was the last gasp of the old days, with its own rules and codes. Each master duellist was sworn to protect the others, sworn to a code that none would break – none except Jokin, of course, and they told tales of him, of his fall from grace and exile in hushed