Adjusting the clip of his diamond-shaped skullcap and then straightening the waistline of his grey robe—he had learnt early in his career the importance of appearance—he climbed the steps from the hold and joined the skipper at the helm of the barge.
Clermont was looming large now, far closer than the mainland. Sukui estimated, from experience, that they would be tying up at the docks within twenty-five minutes, give or take three.
The port of Orlyons was a cosmopolitan cluster of buildings, squeezed into a gorge between granitic outcrops. The place was unruly like the sea, but beneath the anarchic exuberance Sukui recognised a framework of order. Of all the places he had visited there was nowhere quite like Orlyons; he often felt that he was close to defining the town's wildness, categorising it, but somehow another quirk would arise and he would start all over again. His diaries were crammed with observations and interpretations of the rabble that was Orlyons.
A yell came from out to sea and Sukui turned to look. Fifty metres beyond the barge there was a tall-sailed catamaran skimming across the waves. The boat was an impressive design, its twin hulls polished and tapering to knife-edge prows. It was a vessel constructed expressly for speed. The boatbuilder was a skilled individual.
The barge's skipper and five crewmen were lining the seaward railing, along with Sukui's two juniors, viewing the spectacle. As the catamaran slipped away the skipper returned to the barge's untended helm. 'The twin-hull is an efficient design,' said Sukui. 'Tell me, who is its creator?'
'Ah, Sukui-san,' said the skipper. Sukui liked the -san to be appended to his name; it added an unthinking respect, a subliminal acknowledgement of his status. 'The cat is Matt Hanrahan's. That's his fun-boat, he says he wants to go faster than the cutter-birds one day. Ha! That one's the Matt III, the first two fell apart. Ha ha!' The skipper had been drinking, but Sukui knew from experience that he handled the boat better when in such a condition.
Sukui walked back to his sheltered seat. So this was Mathias Hanrahan. Sukui knew the stories: that Hanrahan had killed his father and then been driven from the throne or, as others said, that he had fled from his father's killer. That had happened more than three years earlier. Sukui had heard much of Hanrahan's achievements since he had fled to Orlyons; much of it was no more than rumour, but he had clearly made a success of his life in exile if he could wreck two catamarans and still afford a third.
Sukui made a note in his diary and then settled back to pass the fifteen minutes—give or take a minute—until they would tie up at the Orlyons docks.
~
The streets of Orlyons were narrow and dense with people and animals. Sukui edged through the crowds, walking in the gutter where the flow was less urgent. He had left the barge as soon as it had docked. His juniors were capable of supervising the disembarkation of the delegation's provisions and trading stock.
Orlyons was a good place to trade. The supply of artefacts was steady and varied and the vendors were unaffected by northern fundamentalism. On this trip, Sukui's delegation had brought the usual exotic foodstuffs from the cooler south and a plentiful supply of money, but this time they had brought weaponry, too. Sukui felt uneasy about trading in arms—they so easily gave power to extremists—but the Orlyons collective council were in favour of the trade and this was one area in which Sukui had no influence over his Prime. On several occasions Salvo Andric had even tried to persuade Sukui to carry a gun, but each time he had refused; he felt far safer unarmed.
The street opened out into a square and here Sukui had more room to move. The hotel was only minutes distant. His juniors would stay with the trading stock in a harbourside rooming house, but Sukui always stayed in comfort. It was a part of his role.
He booked in and placed his small
Clermont was looming large now, far closer than the mainland. Sukui estimated, from experience, that they would be tying up at the docks within twenty-five minutes, give or take three.
The port of Orlyons was a cosmopolitan cluster of buildings, squeezed into a gorge between granitic outcrops. The place was unruly like the sea, but beneath the anarchic exuberance Sukui recognised a framework of order. Of all the places he had visited there was nowhere quite like Orlyons; he often felt that he was close to defining the town's wildness, categorising it, but somehow another quirk would arise and he would start all over again. His diaries were crammed with observations and interpretations of the rabble that was Orlyons.
A yell came from out to sea and Sukui turned to look. Fifty metres beyond the barge there was a tall-sailed catamaran skimming across the waves. The boat was an impressive design, its twin hulls polished and tapering to knife-edge prows. It was a vessel constructed expressly for speed. The boatbuilder was a skilled individual.
The barge's skipper and five crewmen were lining the seaward railing, along with Sukui's two juniors, viewing the spectacle. As the catamaran slipped away the skipper returned to the barge's untended helm. 'The twin-hull is an efficient design,' said Sukui. 'Tell me, who is its creator?'
'Ah, Sukui-san,' said the skipper. Sukui liked the -san to be appended to his name; it added an unthinking respect, a subliminal acknowledgement of his status. 'The cat is Matt Hanrahan's. That's his fun-boat, he says he wants to go faster than the cutter-birds one day. Ha! That one's the Matt III, the first two fell apart. Ha ha!' The skipper had been drinking, but Sukui knew from experience that he handled the boat better when in such a condition.
Sukui walked back to his sheltered seat. So this was Mathias Hanrahan. Sukui knew the stories: that Hanrahan had killed his father and then been driven from the throne or, as others said, that he had fled from his father's killer. That had happened more than three years earlier. Sukui had heard much of Hanrahan's achievements since he had fled to Orlyons; much of it was no more than rumour, but he had clearly made a success of his life in exile if he could wreck two catamarans and still afford a third.
Sukui made a note in his diary and then settled back to pass the fifteen minutes—give or take a minute—until they would tie up at the Orlyons docks.
~
The streets of Orlyons were narrow and dense with people and animals. Sukui edged through the crowds, walking in the gutter where the flow was less urgent. He had left the barge as soon as it had docked. His juniors were capable of supervising the disembarkation of the delegation's provisions and trading stock.
Orlyons was a good place to trade. The supply of artefacts was steady and varied and the vendors were unaffected by northern fundamentalism. On this trip, Sukui's delegation had brought the usual exotic foodstuffs from the cooler south and a plentiful supply of money, but this time they had brought weaponry, too. Sukui felt uneasy about trading in arms—they so easily gave power to extremists—but the Orlyons collective council were in favour of the trade and this was one area in which Sukui had no influence over his Prime. On several occasions Salvo Andric had even tried to persuade Sukui to carry a gun, but each time he had refused; he felt far safer unarmed.
The street opened out into a square and here Sukui had more room to move. The hotel was only minutes distant. His juniors would stay with the trading stock in a harbourside rooming house, but Sukui always stayed in comfort. It was a part of his role.
He booked in and placed his small
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