E-Book, Englisch, 512 Seiten
Jae-Jones Guardians of Dawn - Zhara
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-78909-989-8
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 512 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-78909-989-8
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
S. Jae-Jones (called JJ) is an artist, an adrenaline junkie, and the New York Times bestselling author of Wintersong and Shadowsong. Born and raised in Los Angeles, she now lives in North Carolina, where she can't believe she has to deal with winter every year. When not writing, JJ can be found working toward her next black belt degree in taekwondo, or indulging in her favorite hobby-collecting more hobbies. She tweets @sjaejones
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
The skies had only just begun to thin from gray to pink, but Lotus Bridge was already crowded with foot traffic as Zhara made her way down from the city to the Pits. There were an unusually large number of people teeming about, and Zhara wondered if there wasn’t some sort of festival going on. A significant population of peoples from beyond the Shining Sea lived in the marshy lowlands just outside Zanhei—Buri, Malang, Cham, Tuong—and all celebrated their own gods and holidays in the Morning Realms. She wouldn’t be surprised if this festival was for one of their minor deities.
Officially, the name of the settlement across the Great Canal from the city was Zanhei Port, but for as long as anyone could remember, it had been called the Pits. Far older than the walled city across the water, the Pits had first been settled centuries before by traders and migrants from every corner of the empire and beyond. They brought their cuisines, clothes, and customs to the Infinite River delta and established the heart of trade in the southern provinces. At the center of the myriad waterways stood the Temple of the Immortals, surrounded on all sides by the oldest covered market in the empire, where both Master Cao’s bookshop and Teacher Hu’s apothecary were located.
“Hoi, miss!” shouted the shopkeepers and stevedores as she passed. “Stop and have a bite of breakfast with us!”
The tantalizing smells of sizzling red chilies, tarragon, garlic, red pepper, cumin, coriander, tamarind, fresh basil, and lemongrass filled the air as vendors set up their portable grills and braziers in their boats along the canals crisscrossing the covered market. Each floating restaurant boasted its own particular specialty—broad, flat egg noodles sautéed in black-bean sauce, steamed fish wrapped in banana leaves, crab and river shrimp stew served over rice—dishes from every culture.
“Another time,” she called back regretfully. Today, as every other day, her pockets were as empty as her stomach.
Still, looking cost nothing. As she drew closer to the heart of the covered market, Zhara stopped before Master Cao’s bookshop to stare longingly at the tables in front, stacked high with brand-new paperbacks. The latest volume of The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death. A large crowd was already gathered before the still-shuttered doors, and Zhara found herself jostled about by the press of pedestrians.
“Yah!” she yelped as a tall student in black-and-white university robes carelessly stepped on her shoe. Zhara felt the last of the stitching holding her soles together give way. So much for holding out on buying a new pair. “Watch where you’re putting those enormous feet of yours, learned one.”
The student turned and gave her an awkward, belated bow, tripping a little over said enormous feet. “Pardon, pardon, a thousand pardons.” The reek of stale sweat and rice wine wafted from their robes, and Zhara wondered if they weren’t a little drunk. University students often came to the Pits to avail themselves of the many pleasures in Flower Town before stumbling back home by dawn. “I just didn’t expect so many people to be at the bookshop today.”
“Are you also here for The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death?” Zhara asked with some surprise. She didn’t think university students were keen on light romance novels.
“The what?” The student’s eyes kept darting to a pair of northerners several yards away, conspicuous in their knee-length woolen tunics and leather boots, which were too heavy for the humid southern spring.
“The Maiden Who . . .” Zhara trailed off when the student met her gaze, suddenly struck by how good-looking they were. Chiseled cheeks and pouting lips were framed by an angular jaw, while large, round, puppyish eyes were anchored by a strong nose ever so slightly too big for their face.
“The maiden who what?” The student stared quizzically at her.
Zhara coughed, feeling giggles rise up like bubbles in her throat. Oh no. The Good-Looking Giggles. She resisted the urge to clap her hands over her mouth. “The next volume of The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death,” she managed.
“What’s that?” the student asked.
“Only the most popular romance serial being written at the moment,” said an excited voice over Zhara’s shoulder. The student startled when Madame Hong, the mussel-monger, appeared at their elbow with her copy of the previous installment of The Maiden Who Was Loved by Death pressed to her ample bosom. “They say Master Cao and his scriveners were up all night making copies, but there are only three hundred to be had.”
“So few?” Zhara asked in dismay. “There were four hundred and fifty available last time.”
“Yes, but I heard several of his scriveners disappeared last night.”
“Disappeared?” the student asked. “Where would they go?” Their gaze flickered back to the northerners over and over, their hand going to a small pendant on a ribbon at their throat. The northerners wore their hair in the steppe fashion, with the sides shaved and the rest worn in a long horsetail braided with beads and feathers. Twin long-bladed knives were strapped crossways on each of their backs, causing the hairs to rise at the back of Zhara’s neck. Only nobles and the Warlord’s peacekeepers were allowed to carry blades throughout the Morning Realms.
“Who knows?” Madame Hong shrugged. “None of his scriveners ever lasted long anyway. More likely they quit because of hand cramps or something.” She rolled her eyes. “If you ask me, that little bookseller is doing this on purpose, just so he can drive up the price.”
“I doubt that, auntie.” Zhara laughed. “Bookselling isn’t seasonal; its supply doesn’t come and go like the tides.”
“Well, that makes more sense than the other rumor I’ve heard.” The mussel-monger grinned.
“Which is what?” the student asked, fiddling with the pendant about their neck. It was small and round with a hole in the center, like a coin.
The fishwife dropped her voice so the student had to lean in close. “That the bookseller is running some sort of illegal smuggling operation in the basement of his bookshop.”
Zhara shook her head. “There aren’t any basements in the marsh, auntie.”
“That’s just what I’ve heard,” Madame Hong protested. “Scriveners go missing all the time, in and out of that shop, and the man is chronically understaffed. What other conclusions am I supposed to draw?”
“Understaffed, eh?” Zhara asked. “Do you think Master Cao is looking to hire someone new? I could use the extra wages.”
“Don’t lie.” The mussel-monger slapped her good-naturedly on the arm. “You just want to read what happens to Little Flame and her supernatural lover before the rest of us. I’m on to you, child.”
“It would be the only way I could afford to read the next installment now.” Zhara sighed, thinking of the stained copy stuffed in her satchel. “Unless you’ll let me borrow yours, auntie.” She twinkled at the fishwife. “Please?”
“Get on with you,” the mussel-monger said, playfully shoving her away. “I know how you treat your books. Scorch marks and soot everywhere from falling asleep reading before the hearth.”
Zhara stumbled over her broken shoe and straight into a broad, barreled chest. One of the northerners, short and stout. “Pardon, pardon, a thousand pard—” The words froze in her throat.
A white swath of silk, onto which a pattern of black wings had been embroidered, banded around the northerner’s left arm. The Warlord’s Golden Horde was comprised of the north’s most elite warriors organized into five wings—the Red, the White, the Blue, the Green, and the Yellow—each focused on a different branch of military strategy and weaponry. But there was also an unofficial sixth wing, the Black, that served as the Warlord’s eyes and ears throughout the empire.
The rest of the realm called them Kestrels.
“Did you see where the student you were speaking to went?” the stout northerner asked in their flat northern accent.
“The s-s-student?” Zhara whirled around, both relieved and surprised that she was not the target of the Warlord’s peacekeepers. She found the student crouched down low among a few hopeful readers in line at Master Cao’s bookshop, trying their best to disguise their most distinguishing feature—their height. Their eyes met hers, and Zhara carefully looked away. “N-n-no, I have not,” she said. “My apo-pologies to Their Excellency.”
The Kestrel grunted, giving her and Madame Hong a long, hard stare before moving away.
“Where black wings flock together, black hearts will be found,” the fishwife murmured. “A bad omen.” She glanced in the direction of the Temple of Immortals, its towering, multitiered red gate visible for yards around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?” The mussel-monger traced something over her heart with the tip of her finger, a shape Zhara did not recognize.
“What’s happening again, auntie?”
But Madame Hong did not reply.
* * *
It was several moments before Zhara was able to clear the crowd around Master Cao’s bookshop and make her way to the apothecary shop. She was going to be unforgivably late, not that Teacher Hu ever noticed. Sometimes she wondered why the old herbalist had even hired her, since there wasn’t much work to do for the apothecary at all. Most...
