48. All for the Noodles (Vaye)¶
In Vaye’s estimation, Rilão stuck out of the forest like a broken tooth. Oblong trapezoidal structures crowned the city’s three distant hills, the humid haze rendering them purple. The tallest of the ziggurats was topped with a glimmering white tree. Gadarien said it was the Sagradhão, the central temple of Cantereian faith. A solid row of stonewood trees, woven together over the course of centuries, wrapped sinuously around the city, their pale, cream-colored leaves backlit by the morning sun. Beyond the living wall, lines of bluish smoke rose from countless chimneys.
The trees were covered with the same thorny, red-flowered vines they’d seen near Valdeia, making the wall look like mottled skin flecked with blood. Gadarien explained that the thorns secreted a sticky digestive sap, almost impossible to remove from skin or clothing. An attacker attempting the climb would soon find himself stuck and, if not killed by the city’s defenders, slowly digested by the sap itself.
“Delightful,” Vaye said, wrinkling her nose.
“That’s Rilão,” Gadarien said with pride. “We might not beat you right away, but in a few weeks, you’ll be a skeleton.”
Vaye laughed. It was nice to hear Gadarien joke again. Time had finally muted the tension, which was masked by his excitement at coming home. The city was beautiful, but the heat was inescapable, clinging to Vaye like an anxious pet. She’d developed a vicious rash on her inner thighs, which burned with every step. But she kept her complaints to herself, her suffering miniscule compared to what Adranaya had gone through. In a way, she was almost glad for the pain, which felt like penance for dragging them all into this mess. She knew she should just own up to breaking into Yobaza’s office and beg for Adranaya’s forgiveness, but the crime felt like the tip of a wedge. To bring it up, even as an apology, would hammer it in and split them apart.
The trail out of Valdeia had wound through muddy jungle for half a day before slowly rising into grassy hills, the vegetation yellowing and drying out. The path terminated in a ridge overlooking the city, where it merged with a busy road below. Gadarien snapped off a twig and scowled. “The drought is getting worse. This area should still be green this time of year.”
“There’s a drought?” Adra said. “It’s so humid.” The Sarmalan fanned herself, her skin flushed. She had spent her whole life in Sarmala’s cooler climate, and was struggling with the heat.
“For Rilão, it’s actually pretty dry,” Gadarien said. “But the humidity never turns to rain anymore. The Helix perpetuates the drought. They use the Eyewall to make us dependent on their crops. To keep us weak.”
A pair of birds flitted by, teal and scarlet and twittering. On the road below, a train of donkey carts loaded down with fruits and vegetables squeaked past toward the city gate, where a line of thin, ragged people bowed their heads before a pair of surly Sarmalans. Iridescent tile curved around the archway in graceful jungle motifs, a riposte to the harsh angularity of Thelenza. A few bedraggled Dzharians were sprinkled in among the crowd, evidence of Rilão’s proximity to the border of Dzharian Cantereia. The natural setting couldn’t have been more different from Thelenza, but the subservient posture of the peasants was all too familiar.
Gadarien slipped the guards a handful of silver with a deftness that bespoke years of practice. The Sarmalans took the bribe and waved them through, resuming their attitude of bored hostility, and the three of them passed into a colorful street market. Overhead, small triangular flags in gold, green, and orange hung from lines stretched between buildings, casting cheerful shadows. Roving vendors carried feathered lizards in bamboo cages, their plumage a riot of hues, as well as baskets of fresh fruit and exotic flowers that filled the air with a sweet scent and a pungent undercurrent of rot.
The festive atmosphere was marred by the arrogance of the circulating Sarmalan soldiers. Vaye watched a Cantereian merchant hand a soldier a small, heavy-looking satchel. The guard looked inside the bag, then cuffed the terrified Cantereian on the back of his head. The merchant obsequiously counted out more money and handed it to the Sarmalan, who made a joke to his companions. The merchant laughed along with them, as though they were all good friends, which somehow made it much worse. After the Sarmalans ambled away, still chuckling, the merchant yelled at a nearby child, raising his fist.
“After the war, when the occupation first started, people fought back,” Gadarien murmured “They killed Sarmalan soldiers in their sleep. But there were reprisals.” He indicated a man who was missing his left arm from the elbow down.
“That’s horrible,” Adranaya said.
“They couldn’t crush our spirit, though,” Gadarien said. He raised two fingers. “Listen.”
“What?” Vaye said. “All I hear is the market.”
“Remember how Thelenza sounded. Everything clashed together, a jumble of random noise competing with the Eyewall. But listen to Rilão. Really listen.”
Vaye closed her eyes, drawing herself into the aural meditation he had taught her. At first, Rilão just sounded like any other city. Slowly, though, she noticed that the tone was sweeter, more organized. Rather than increasing her anxiety, the sound was relaxing. “Harmony,” she said, smiling as she opened her eyes.
Gadarien grinned. “Yes. All the voices are pitched to harmonize with each other. Most people don’t even realize they’re doing it. It’s just something we pick up as children. As you move through town, the chords change, so you can tell where you are just by listening.” Even Adranaya was smiling, her eyes closed as she picked up on the pattern.
The market terminated in a winding side street packed with pushcarts. Two men passed by carrying an entire tree on their shoulders, roots and all. Children and animals careened past, often underfoot. “Don’t let those children touch you,” Gadarien said. “Some of them are cutpurses.”
A curly-haired toddler grinned at Vaye and clapped, gap-toothed. She squinted at him suspiciously, clutching her pack. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“There’s an old safehouse nearby,” Gadarien replied. “If that doesn’t work, I know a few other places we can try.” He stopped suddenly. “But first, though, something much more important.”
“What?” said Vaye. She looked around, reaching for her knife. “Are we in danger?”
Gadarien grinned. “In danger of deliciousness. It’s time for you to experience real Cantereian honey noodles.”
“This again,” Adranaya said, rolling her eyes, but she was grinning. Vaye hadn’t realized quite how much she had missed that sight.
Gadarien rubbed his hands together, waggling his eyebrows. “There’s a great place right around the corner. Let’s hope it’s still there.” He moved off at a trot. Vaye took Adranaya’s hand and followed. “The Deucanta have heard us!” said Gadarien, looking up at a wooden sign depicting a stylized tree with roots that morphed into a bowl of noodles. Even from ground level, the smell was delectable.
They ascended the flight of splintery stairs and drew aside a curtain of clattering wooden beads. The shop was tiny, with room for a few chest-height tables, in keeping with the Cantereian belief that eating standing up would aid digestion. The proprietor was an elderly, balding man who clearly enjoyed his own product with some frequency. He looked them up and down, not sure what to make of them. Gadarien placed an order and the man disappeared into the kitchen.
He rubbed his hands together again and hunched forward, grinning. “I ordered the real stuff. I hope you’re ready.”
“Should we be afraid?” Vaye asked.
“Not at all,” Gadarien said. “Most people recover in a few days.”
After a short wait that was made almost unbearable by the delicious smell, the proprietor brought out three gigantic bowls and long double-pronged forks. The steam was so thick that Vaye could barely see the food, but it smelled rich and savory, with a delicate layer of citrus and herbs. The noodles themselves were thick and golden, soaked in a fatty orange sauce. Gadarien demonstrated proper twisting technique for loading the noodles onto the forks and they tucked in.
“Thm mn hmcrmbl,” Vaye said.
“What?”
Vaye held up a finger while she finished chewing. “This is incredible.”
“My tongue is numb,” Adranaya said, poking it with a finger. “Is that supposed to happen?”
“That’s the fresh pepperbush leaves. They don’t grow in Sarmala, you can only get them here.” Gadarien sighed and craned his head toward the ceiling. “It’s been so long. I should never have left.”
“You should never have come back,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Gadarien spun, holding his fork like a weapon. A number of heavily-armed Cantereians stood in the doorway and the hall outside. The men wore thick beards and the women had scarves wrapped around their necks. “The Ouvintero wants to talk to you,” the Tementeira said.
Vaye dashed to the window, reaching for her tzashim. In the street outside, a larger group of Tementeira was waiting, javelins nocked to their throwing-arms. Across the street, a crowd of people stared in silence.
Gadarien slowly set down his fork, looking wistfully at his unfinished noodles, which were already starting to get cold.
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