Her glass swept downward to the foreign quarter, where tonight's real players had positioned themselves like pieces on a game board. Each delegation had claimed their territory on the terrace below, their banners and arrangements revealing as much about their intentions as any formal declaration. She needed to understand what she'd be facing once the ceremony began—who would smile while calculating her worth, who might prove genuinely useful, and who would need to be handled with particular care.
The Halgareshi Compound
An emerald field rippled from the south gallery like captured ocean waves—Halgaresh's stallion rearing mid-stride in golden thread so fine that each hair in its mane was individually stitched. The banner was massive, fully thirty feet across, its weight requiring special reinforcement to the building's facade. Was that a crown embroidered above the horse's head? The golden threads caught lowering sunlight like captured fire, but from this distance she couldn't be certain if it was decorative flourish or royal insignia.
If it was indeed a crown, that would mean the crown prince himself was in residence. She'd heard merchants speak of him in council sessions, their voices carefully neutral while greed lit their eyes. "Fortune follows his campaigns like tide follows moon," some foreign trader had said—she couldn't recall his name or kingdom, only his fingers tallying figures that represented wealth built on others' ruin. The man had spoken of burned villages with practiced regret while noting the premium prices that salvage commanded.
What did she actually know about the prince beyond court whispers? That he'd supposedly turned neighbors into tributaries—but then, every ambitious ruler claimed such victories. The drought story felt more credible: desperation driving raids for grain while his own people starved. She could understand that kind of ruthless pragmatism, even admire it. A leader who let subjects die for diplomatic niceties wasn't much of a leader at all.
Below the banner, his retinue moved with an odd, rolling gait that looked unnatural to her sea-trained eyes. Their knees stayed slightly bent, weight shifted forward—the stance of people who spent their lives on horseback rather than ship decks. They fussed over travel capes with meticulous care, brushing away dust and checking every fold. Near the braziers, metal leg guards warmed by the flames—armor that would need heating before wearing, she realized, or cold steel would be agony against bare skin during long rides.
The horses themselves were quartered east of the Kovorrin grounds, where the massive stallions could graze without crowding the city's narrow streets. More importantly, they were kept away from tunnel entrances. The burrowing creatures that served as Masan's silent partners in commerce had particular reactions to metal horseshoes. Something about the focused pressure of iron shoes against stone triggered ancient predatory instincts that bare hooves or soft human feet never provoked. The Masani simply called it wildlife behavior, but she doubted the Halgareshi understood how abundant the Kovorrin were beneath their feet—or how easily those trap-door hunters could drag a screaming stallion underground.
She found herself scanning the courtyard with growing unease. Every figure in sight wore beard or mustache, their faces weathered by sun and wind into leather. Servants, nobles, guards—all male, all moving with the particular swagger of those who'd grown up in the saddle. Even the youngest page strutted with inherited arrogance. She swept her gaze across windows, balconies, doorways—searching for any feminine silhouette, any flash of skirts, any sign that women existed in this delegation at all.
Nothing. The absence pressed against her awareness like a missing tooth her tongue couldn't stop finding. What kind of kingdom sent only men to negotiate with a matriarchy? Either profound ignorance of Masani customs, or deliberate insult. Neither boded well for tonight's interactions. Where were their women?
The Northern Consortium
Across the cobbled lane, a dark pennant trimmed in gold marked the Northern Consortium's lodgings with understated authority. The banner bore no heraldic beasts or royal crowns—just three interlocking triangles in copper, silver, and gold thread, each one threaded through the others in an endless loop. The design was deliberately simple, sophisticated in its restraint. Different metals bound together, each dependent on the others, rising toward perfection through unity. Gold needed no decoration to announce its power.
Young Lord Davren. She knew him well—too well. They'd crossed swords in trade negotiations three times over the past two years, each encounter leaving her with grudging respect for his cunning and irritation at his methods. He'd outmaneuvered her on the Westport grain contracts, underbidding Masan by margins so thin they should have been impossible. She could still see his satisfied smirk as he'd signed those documents, the way he'd nodded to her with mock courtesy while victory danced in his eyes.
The memory still stung. But she'd returned the favor six months later, securing the Thorne Islands spice route through information her own sources had provided about his overextended credit lines. His face had gone pale as parchment when the announcement was made, that smug confidence cracking like ice in spring thaw. The sight had been deeply satisfying.
Below his banner, clerks moved across the wide balcony with mechanical efficiency, gray robes rustling as they arranged tables with ledgers and wax seals rather than wine cups. Even during Ossavel, when the rest of the city indulged in celebration, the Consortium couldn't set aside their eternal calculations. One clerk worked an abacus the size of a ship's wheel, beads clicking through calculations that probably involved half the kingdoms between here and the Northern Wastes. Another transcribed from ledger to fresh parchment with the steady rhythm of someone who could write for hours without cramping.
These were people who understood that wealth was a weapon more devastating than any sword. Economic warfare could topple ancient kingdoms, could turn allies into enemies with carefully placed investments. Their presence here wasn't coincidental—they'd positioned themselves for the chaos that would follow tomorrow's announcement. When half of Masan's naval strength sailed westward, markets would shift, opportunities would arise, and the Consortium intended to profit from every fluctuation.
The Eastern Delegation
Violet cloth rippled from a pristine colonnade, the fabric so fine it seemed to hold light within its weave like trapped starfire. The banner bore patterns that made her eyes water when she tried to follow them—serpentine shapes twisted through angular motifs in ways that shouldn't have been possible with thread and needle. She had no idea which eastern kingdom they represented, if kingdom was even the right word. The lands beyond the glass wastes were mysteries wrapped in rumors.
The figures moving beneath the banner were unnaturally thin, their movements precise but alien. They wore rough cotton garments that clearly hadn't been made for them—the fabric hung wrong, bunched in places where it should have flowed. Whatever they'd worn for the voyage had been replaced, though she couldn't guess why. Everything about them suggested secrets she wasn't privy to.
They arranged braziers with obsessive care, measuring distances with knotted ropes and adjusting each flame's position by finger-widths. One woman's shaved head displayed tattoos that seemed to shift in the firelight—geometric patterns that her eyes couldn't quite hold onto. The precision was absolute, almost ritualistic, as if the exact placement of each flame carried consequences she couldn't fathom.
This had to be some form of eastern mysticism, the kind of arcane practice her great-grandmother had banned when she'd excommunicated the Church. Magic and faith—both corruptions that made people weak, dependent on forces beyond honest understanding. Yet these strangers arranged their flames as if lives depended on getting the pattern exactly right.
Metal bracelets caught the light as they worked—silver, bronze, copper—all etched with symbols that meant nothing to her. Some hierarchy existed among them, suggested by subtle variations in the jewelry's design, but she couldn't read the code. Were they scholars? Priests? Refugees? Their gaunt faces revealed nothing.
The histories spoke of eastern lands once green and wealthy, their cities powered by arts that could reshape stone and steel. Then dragons had come—whether the current Dragon Empress or her mate, she'd never learned which—and turned prosperity into glass-fused wasteland. These survivors had traveled impossibly far from their devastated home, bringing whatever strange wisdom they'd salvaged from the ruins.
Whether their careful arrangements would accomplish anything beyond comfort, she couldn't say. The flames would burn in their precise patterns, casting shadows that only they could interpret, while their homeland remained a testament to the futility of trusting in powers greater than human will. Still, something about their quiet certainty unsettled her more than all of Davren's calculating or the Halgareshi prince's absent women.
The Thildronese Quarters
Near a small garden that appeared pale and ghostly in the fading light—its plants chosen more for sentiment than sense in this well-watered kingdom—the sun-and-crescent of Thildron drifted on a field that might once have been blue. The banner hung limp and travel-stained, its edges frayed from salt spray and constant handling. Careful patches dotted the fabric where tears had been mended, each repair visible despite obvious efforts to hide the wear. Even the pole seemed worn, its brass fittings tarnished to dull brown.
The quarters had been leased to Thildron during her mother's reign, when their situation hadn't been quite so desperate. A long-term arrangement that now seemed both generous and prescient—the rental terms locked in when they could still afford decent accommodations. Now those same quarters probably cost more than they could easily manage, but the contract held.
A young steward—barely more than a boy, perhaps fifteen summers—moved along the stone balustrade with economical precision. His clothes were clean but patched at elbows and knees, his shoes worn but carefully maintained. He set clay water jars where the air would run coolest once night fell, positioning each vessel to catch maximum benefit from the evening breeze.
The boy's movements spoke of someone forced to shoulder adult responsibilities too young. His hands were already callused from work, his shoulders beginning to bow from carrying loads meant for someone fully grown. But his eyes remained sharp, intelligent, constantly assessing and calculating. This was someone who understood that efficiency mattered.
The quarters themselves were spartanly furnished—no silk hangings here, no imported furniture or decorative sculptures. Everything visible was scrupulously clean but purely functional. A table made from local wood, probably purchased from the market rather than brought from home. Chairs that didn't match, each acquired separately as need and coin allowed. Clay dishes rather than silver or pewter, but arranged with dignity that made their simplicity seem like choice rather than necessity.
These were people who knew the difference between poverty and prudence, who had learned to find dignity in necessity rather than shame in simplicity. The lease arrangement had become important—without those locked-in rates, they'd have struggled to maintain such prestigious quarters. Their careful maintenance of what they had spoke of both pride and practicality.
Thildron's position on the continental trade routes could prove valuable, their knowledge of overland paths that avoided both desert and mountain. Tomorrow, when the fleet sails, there might be opportunities for mutual benefit. Even modest allies often proved useful, especially when they understood the value of reliable partnerships.
The Church Delegation
A flare of white caught her eye like a shout in a whisper, demanding attention through sheer contrast with everything around it. The Church's rented quarters occupied the foreign quarter's most prominent position—corner property with sight lines in three directions, balconies that could be seen from both the harbor and the palace. They had secured this prime real estate through coin rather than invitation, paying rates that would have bankrupted smaller delegations.
The sight rekindled her anger from earlier, watching their representatives corner Sorina like predators sensing weakness. The same arrogance, the same presumption that their god's authority superseded earthly law. These priests claimed poverty as virtue, preached simplicity as divine mandate, yet here they stood in carved splendor that mocked their own teachings. Humble lodgings transformed into a shrine visible from half the terrace, complete with carved saints whose painted eyes seemed to follow observers with accusatory gazes.
Templars in full armor stood at each entrance like an honor guard for some crowned sovereign rather than servants of a supposedly humble god. Their shoulders formed an unbroken line of steel, shields angled to create a seamless wall of metal that reflected the dying sun like mirrors. Each man—and they were all men, another wrongness that set her teeth on edge—stood perfectly still, hands resting on sword hilts with theatrical readiness.
What threats did they imagine lurked in Masan's peaceful foreign quarter? The assumption that violence might be necessary here, in her city, among festival guests struck her as both absurd and insulting. That wasn't protection—it was occupation made manifest in metal and flesh. Her jaw clenched involuntarily. Her great-grandmother would have had them thrown from the cliffs for such presumption.
Those saints draped in gold leaf and precious gems had supposedly lived in poverty. That armor had been purchased with coin taken from converts who could barely feed themselves. The hypocrisy made her stomach turn with the same revulsion she'd felt watching spoiled meat crawl with maggots.
The Church would present their newest Saint of Humility tonight. Always women, these supposed vessels of divine will. But something nagged at her about this particular saint's emergence. The rumors had started first—whispers about miracles performed by some village girl in the eastern reaches. Only after months of speculation had the Church acknowledged her existence, claiming divine revelation had finally confirmed what the faithful already suspected.
Convenient timing. The previous saint had simply... vanished. No grand pronouncement, no ceremonial passing. One season the Church spoke of her pursuing holy work in distant lands, the next they were celebrating a replacement. The transition felt like watching loaded dice fall—too smooth, too perfectly timed to be coincidental.
Down at the docks, she'd caught fragments of different versions. Workers spoke in hushed tones between loading crates, their voices dropping when supervisors passed. "Treachery." "Dark prophecy." "Swallowed by the earth itself." But underneath the wild speculation, one detail remained constant: the previous saint and her followers—thousands of them, if the numbers held truth—had disappeared without explanation.
The Church called them "devoted servants" and "pilgrims," but armed followers in those numbers made an invasion force by any honest measure. Where had they gone? And why did everyone seem so eager to discuss miracles rather than missing armies?
Her fingers pressed deeper into the stone rail, knuckles whitening as tension gathered in her shoulders. The Church's careful pageantry, their theatrical piety, their perfectly timed replacement saint—it all felt like an elaborate stage production designed to distract from questions they couldn't answer. Tomorrow they'd probably expect significant consideration during negotiations, trading on divine authority they couldn't prove while ignoring the practical mysteries they refused to address.