The Elementalist

19. City of Artists

City of ArtistsThe Silver Zephyr was a grand machine, Voi decided, as she stood shivering in awe of the diesel engine at Chandra Central Station. It rolled up to the platform, seemingly gliding over the snow beneath it. Expertly streamlined for optimal performance and splendor, its sleek, slender body managed to shine even beneath a cloudy sky.

The crowd began to swarm aboard, sweeping Voi helplessly along and startling her out of her reverie.

Upon climbing aboard the Zephyr, Voi was pleased to find she’d been afforded an elegant first-class voyage with upholstered seating and access to the dining and observation lounges—compliments of the League. Mahogany lined the walls and overhead compartments, and the air smelled of wood polish, bodies, and smoke. Voi secured her traveling bag in a compartment above then settled into her seat.

A man with two children, a boy and a girl, sat in front of Voi. The girl, the youngest of the two siblings, kept turning around with her eyes positioned just above the back of her seat to steal furtive glimpses at the passengers behind her.

Voi pretended not to notice.

After about the fifth glance, however, she smiled and wiggled her gloved fingers in a wave. Suddenly, the girl’s eyes widened in fear, her self-perceived cloak of invisibility falling instantly. She whirled around, earning a scolding from her father, who clearly disliked the unnecessary motion.

Voi frowned and pondered on this. She reached for her purse and procured a compact, quickly realizing that her pupils were heavily dilated. Embarrassed, she snapped the compact shut then closed her eyes, willing herself to calm down.

Someone brushed against Voi, and she opened her eyes. A woman in a fur coat and matching hat took a seat three rows ahead before removing a pair of round sunglasses from her face, casting a look over her shoulder.

Milia smirked.

In the six and a half hours it would take to reach the Borellian capital, the diplomat would spare no additional glances in Voi’s direction. They were to assume complete anonymity while on the train and in the city, Voi had been instructed beforehand. Besides, what business did a notable stateswoman have socializing with a defamed flimsy pilot?

Not that Milia was the socializing sort.

* * *

When Voi climbed off the Zephyr at her destination, she noticed a mustachioed man wearing a chauffeur’s cap in the distance holding her name on a sheet of paper.

“Dammissi Román?” the man called over the hubbub of the train station.

She froze. Oh, right, the chauffeur! She sped over, clutching her beret so it wouldn’t fall off her head. “Coming!” Even though Milia had previously mentioned that a driver would be waiting for Voi in Borellia, the chauffeur’s presence still managed to surprise her, never having been waited on by one before.

Aside from Troy, anyway.

The man maintained a formal demeanor, giving Voi a sharp nod. “Jue a’tevalou permissi il tuccanoit vu luguj, dammissi?”

“Please! Thank you,” she replied initially in Windi, handing over her traveling bag. A loud pelting sound from above captured her attention, and she looked up, adding in distracted Borellian, “I have a suitcase, as well.”

“Viti beni.”

Meanwhile, Voi wandered across the main terminal of S’Estacion Briár while staring up at the overarching ironwork set delicately with glass panes, now trembling beneath a heavy rainfall. A soft light washed over the lively terminal, casting it with a sepia glow. Eventually, she came to a multi-level arcade built of limestone, which housed several shops and restaurants. Spotting a busy street through the lower archways, she decided to leave the confines of the station.

Rather than snow during late autumn, the city of Du Mon had ice cold rain. Well, thought Voi, at least he came prepared. The chauffeur was approaching, setting her large suitcase down before thrusting open an umbrella, swift to shelter Voi from the elements in a gentlemanly fashion. He wrapped his arm around her waist, taking her by surprise.

“Oh! Um… gritzi.” Tentatively, Voi allowed the man to lead her towards a cream-colored cab. She settled in and observed the city. Unfortunately, the windows were too streaked with rain to make out more than blurry impressions.

Voi leaned back against the leather seats and sighed.

About twenty minutes later, approaching the twenty-first hour, they arrived at the Hotel Du Mon—one of the city’s premier hotels. Marble pillars four stories tall formed a colonnade along the exterior, punctuated by balconies and arched windows on the upper levels and rectangular windows on the first floor. Whimsical bronze work composed the surrounding fences and other metallic details, like the lanterns illuminating the perimeter with their amber glow.

Under any other circumstance, Voi would have never indulged in such extravagant accommodations. The lobby alone, with its chandeliered ceiling and marble facings and accents, was enough to make her double-check her concealed clutch for sufficient funds.

After checking in, Voi found that her third-level room was quite spacious. Even more importantly, it was warm. And dry. She strolled through a small sitting area furnished with velvet chairs, noting the floral wallpaper design which complemented the cream wainscoting on the walls. At the other end of the room sat a large sleigh bed draped with a plush down comforter in a floral pattern similar to the walls. Voi pulled back the comforter and discovered the smoothness of silk sheets as she ran her hand across their threads.

When she turned around, she was confronted by a sprawling window framed by a parabolic arch. The window was decorated with custom balloon shades, velvet drapery, and delicate silk sheers. Still shivering from her damp clothing, Voi nudged one of the draperies aside, revealing a wide view of the northwest branch of the Sal Rieú, or ‘Salt River’—a view protected from the blur of rain by the balcony above, thankfully.

Below was an array of old ornate structures carved with the fanciful mythologies of Borellia’s history, she knew from previous visits to the city. Red tile rooftops slick with rain were punctuated by the copper domes of Du Mon’s government buildings. Some of the domes were aged with a patina and some weren’t, some were more onion-shaped than spherical, and yet others had spires or were double-stacked in a phenomenon Voi dubbed as ‘double dolloped’ onion domes—distinguishing what would have otherwise been a sea of stone.

This ancient ‘City of Man’ was also lovingly known as the ‘City of Artists,’ for good reason. Voi would have opened the windows to feel closer to it all if it weren’t for the storm.

Finished with absorbing her surroundings, she set out to rid herself of her wet clothes and promptly changed into something more comfortable. She exchanged her cardigan and calf-length skirt for a sweater and casual set of trousers—rather plain, considering the milieu, thought Voi, but it would have to do.

Minutes later, she went downstairs to ask the receptionist whether any messages had been left for her. Just one, said the man, handing her a letter. She read in cursive, ‘Rest up. Bring all luggage in the morning. Leaving at 0700. M.’

So much for seeing the city. Voi eyed a nearby bar and sighed. Not being much of a drinker, there was little she could do in the meantime to keep herself occupied inside the hotel while avoiding the rain. Luckily, she’d brought plenty of reading materials—including textbooks on the ancient Trysteese language and culture, a newspaper article about a recent study on the piracy of Borellian art, an Aero Today magazine and, of course, another Rogue Spy novel.

All essentials for an aerial spy with an interest in art history, in Voi’s humble opinion.

* * *

The following morning, Voi hastily wiggled into her piloting attire, afterwards snatching her traveling bag and suitcase—the latter a clunky beast of a thing riddled with a rainbow of labels.

“Milia’s going to give me hell…”

Painfully aware of her tardiness, Voi skipped the elevator and its sluggish attendant for the stairs, towing clumsily past puzzled guests—all the while begging each his or her pardon whenever a wayward elbow decided to get fresh. Out the doors and into a rainless, cloudy morning, Voi searched for her driver.

Honk-honk!

Spotting a waving arm, Voi scuttled over to a black automobile, splashing through puddles along the way. The driver got out to open the trunk.

“Beating the birds to the berries, I see,” Troy said dryly.

Voi winced. “Sorry, I overslept.”

“Indeed.”

The man was struggling to hoist her suitcase into the back of the cab, so Voi gave him a hand. “I didn’t see you on the train, Troy.”

“That’s because I left,” they gave the suitcase a full-effort shove into the trunk, “earlier than you and Ms. Furlan did.”

“I see.”

They got into the rental car. Milia was inside facing the back window, sunglasses on despite the overcast weather.

Voi said, “I hope I haven’t caused too much of a dela—”

“Save it.” Milia held up her hand. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Voi. Have you signed the paperwork?”

“Yes; it’s in an envelope with my traveling bag.”

Apparently, this was all Milia needed to know, for she said nothing further.

“Is there no train to our destination?” asked Voi.

Troy answered gruffly, “Not where we’re going.” The drive out towards Kippoli, due southwest of the capital, would take just over four hours by automobile.

Seeing as how no one else was inclined to socialize, Voi turned to the urban landscape—taking in the skyline with its spires and domes and ‘double dollops.’ The gardens and foliage kept well enough in Du Mon due to its milder winters, in comparison to Chandra City, with blossoms holding out in some gardens. They passed a row of sycamore and oak trees on their way out of the city, which gradually gave way to fewer arboreal grounds and more shrub and grasslands until finally becoming spans of rocky, sandy terrain.

They were about three and a half hours into the drive when a glinting metallic structure on the horizon caught Voi’s eye, too far to make out any details. Still, it got her excited, and she sat up straighter.

Troy kept checking the rearview mirror.

Eventually, they arrived at a military checkpoint before a restricted area. Voi peered down a line of barbed wire fencing, which seemed to go on forever. Fancy that took a while to install. She wondered how effective it was at deterring trespassers, though.

Troy rolled down his window, attempting to speak with a group of Borellian soldiers in dusty fatigues as they shielded their eyes from an oncoming windstorm. However, none of them spoke Windi.

Voi offered a translation: “He wants to know our purpose for coming here.”

“Tell him I am a representative of the League,” said Milia. “Our names should be on his roster.”

Voi relayed this information then provided their names. She watched as one of the soldiers tested Milia’s claim against his list. He then asked for their identification papers, which everyone was more than willing to provide. Moments later, they were handed back their papers and admitted through the gate.

Also noticing how Troy kept looking through the mirror, Milia turned in her seat.

“What’s wrong?” asked Voi, doing the same. An elongated truck carrying a large, cylindrical tank had stopped at the checkpoint. There was a small group of uniformed Kesh men aboard.

Milia drew her eyebrows together.

“Why do you suppose those men are here?” asked Voi.

“To refuel the airships, it would seem.” Milia faced forward.

Troy frowned in the mirror. “I don’t like the reading I’m getting from them.”

Milia, however, didn’t sound too worried. “We’ll keep an eye out, at the very least.”

Voi also faced forward, shifting in her seat as she put the matter aside. After all, what harm could a group of delivery men do on a well-guarded military base?