The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Blueport

From up here, Blueport looked like a painter had knifed some squares out of the haze where the land fell into the ocean. At least it was all downhill under the scorching sun. The wind was a mixed blessing as it lifted dust from the empty fields along the road.

Still, farmers were out preparing for the wet season. Were their lives much affected by a lack of paper and glass? Did they miss vanilla and camellia? Able should ask them. If he'd learned anything, it was that trade disruption reached deeper into the strata of society than those in power cared to notice—no, Method had said he couldn't write about the embargoes now.

Able shook his head and pulled out the book, a compilation by five astronomers from the University of Godmount in Dagbruir discussing their observations of a new light they'd discovered in their telescopes and theorizing that it was, in fact, a planet. This. This is what he'd gone to school for. This was what he'd thought he'd become a part of. What he'd belong to. The Byways, Claimers, and Lord Oranges of the world vanished from this side of the text, so Able hid inside it as he walked the afternoon away.

Blueport was in its last burst of energy as its citizens hurried through the final tasks between them and whatever meal they might be concocting of the steady inbound stream of foodstuffs from all four reaches of the seas. Able stopped and stood like a stone in the surge of the streets as he stared up the artisan's way.

It would take him past Wells Press and Printing, just two blocks before he'd turn into the residences where his uncle Noble Well's two-story townhome was packed in just a span of feet from houses just like it. They'd be eating supper. They'd be so glad he'd joined them, or at least Ma and Auntie Charity would say several times. His brother Practical would chastise him about the pamphlet, but Uncle Noble would find the bright side in getting Lord Orange's attention.

Able's shoulders felt heavier with each breath. His tongue became lead in his mouth. He turned to continue down the broadway and into the breeze flowing off the harbor. Either that or his decision to keep walking alleviated his symptoms.

He slipped between a yoke of oxen contently chewing their cud and the wagon stopped at an awkward angle in front of them, as their driver colorfully pointed out to all in earshot, and up onto a boulevard lined with restaurants, many of them famous in both empires for enticing the wealthy to come on food tours. The sort of establishments that would readily buy any shark someone had netted. Their kitchen windows were wide open, assailing the dust and stink of the streets with citron and cinnamon. As if they could convince Able he was hungry after all.

He was, just not enough to eat. Or rather, he was hungry for something that wasn't food. Recognition, as Method had suggested? Justice? Maybe just some damned rest?

At last, he'd reached sight of the Midnorth Wharf, just as crowded with towering masts as the street was with people. Mostly the Larbant red and white fluttered from the tall ships, but just as many flew either the indigo of Myratan and the saffron of Heldun. No Dagbrui green, of course, though certainly some of these ships were owned by Dagbrui members of the Merchant Court or manned by sailors from the other continent. All the world in one harbor.

These sailors and, as the day ended, local dockworkers flocked to Gull's Alehouse, bringing their stories with them, making this place a library of its own kind. An even more sweltering one. Able slid his tunic off again and folded it before slipping it into his bag. The hooks on the wall by the door were already stuffed full of similar personal effects, but he found a spot just outside the entryway.

The main room reverberated with salt-weathered voices vying to be heard above one another, above the laughter, above the scrapes of chairs and clinks of mugs. Able patiently maneuvered himself between tar-scented, sweaty bodies to the bar, where Gull Linefield proudly stocked at least a barrel of everything imaginable, intent on being more diverse than his clientele. Which is why he gave Able a doleful look as he passed him a mug of his usual: the least expensive domestic ale.