nd you, ada’xa?
He didn’t think he’d ever so looked forward to getting lost in a strange city. In his city, maybe, once; he’d relished in getting lost there many times. That was a different kind of lost. He had never hoped to be found in his city.
The Wall of Sheltering Winds loomed over everything here.
He’d glimpsed it first changing between cable car routes; this was the longest he’d ever been on the cars, but there was a comfort to disappearing in the ebb and flow. Iki'fú pez Upos at the turn of the century’d called the cableways the fourth great river of the City. Still he’d stood on the platform between the Dzid’úpit and Dzefúwerez stops and looked up at it, ‘til a laughing arata had asked him if he was lost.
Yes, he had wanted to say, yes, I am.
The Wall was Thul Ka’s largest, and still he’d not been prepared; he still wasn’t prepared, every time he looked up over the wind-ruffled bright tents and the milling crowd. Brunnhold’s red brick walls couldn’t’ve held a candle to it.
It was one of those things that was so big, he thought, it looked almost like a painted backdrop from a play, when you were looking at it afar – from Cinnamon Hill or Aratra or even Nutmeg Hill. He’d missed the passing underneath it on the steamship both times, and he’d been too tired in the coach to notice. In Windward Market, there was no not-noticing; he knew now why it was so called.
Now, the sunset light just barely peeked over it, making a hulking silhouette of it. This time of evening, it cast a deep shadow over the market, but the tangled, busy streets were well-lit by lamps and lanterns. The breeze was cool with the past few days’ rain, and puddles lay thick and glinting in the street. He’d heard there’d been some flooding down by the river, closer to Three Flowers; there were streets in the Gripe that were like rivers.
Here, the air was thick with the smell of kofi; half the stands were brewing it. He’d already had what must’ve been – he’d lost count. Silver trays and silver cups; delicate porcelain cups, traced with florals or tangled vines or black patterns; calypt services immaculately-cleaned of kofi stains from high-class arata kofi har’aq.
... thank you, sir.
The rains have been heavy this week, haven’t they?
He had not asked him to join him, and nor had he seen him take kofi. He had watched him speak with the proprietors of such places, very straight, smiling, his right wrist tucked into his pocket and the soft bulge of a hand in it. He had watched him bow carefully, and take a cup – once – from a supplier’s stall; that was where they’d met, first.
It was good seeing you here, ada’xa.
Of course, sir.
The shadows were deep indeed by the time he stopped getting lost and started getting found. The booksellers’ tent was easy enough to find, vivid crimson in the lamplight; he went in, first, and browsed the books, and even made a purchase, which he tucked into his bag. He asked ada’xa Agi’pate for directions, and the imbala told him the truth; he left the tent and promptly ignored them.
He was wearing a russet amel’iwe today, patterned with curling green vines. His long tunic and trousers were white interspersed with bands of brown shot through with the same green. It was, he thought, less conspicuous, though with his hat tucked under his arm, his bright red hair and pale skin still got some glances.
There was still a blush of pink and orange across the sky when he found the fountain, and it burbled and glinted in the low light. The small square around it, Efi’lilawe, was busy enough; most of those that passed were tall, and he couldn’t pick any familiar faces out of the crowd. He sat himself on the edge of the fountain, looking into the water where he caught the sight of a concord glinting through the gloom. He thought he’d know it when he felt it, that strange feeling he got whenever Aremu was near; he thought he’d know it before he saw him.