Domes and archways covered the horizon, fountains and bridges and white pillars tucked beneath them. He could almost feel the invisible perspective lines that ran through the city. He looked up at the horizon where some architect had carefully plotted the vanishing points on paper before the city had been built. Tahki walked along the roads where the architect had connected line after line in an aesthetic, functional way. The homes and shops he passed were made of wood, stone, brick, and another material he couldn’t identify. Something hard and gray and seamless.
The city felt more like home than Dhaulen’aii ever had. He wished he could have grown up in a diverse, modern place like this. A city where the sewage system didn’t flood and the ground didn’t burn your feet. He wondered if his mother had felt the same spark of imagination when she’d visited.
He saw shops selling lightning rods and sextants, shops selling pistols and portable meat-smoking chambers. The chambers had only been invented two years ago. He’d read about the meat cooker in the paper and begged his father to import one, but his father hadn’t seen the point of it. He hadn’t seen the point of most technological advancements.
Tahki reached the entryway of the citadel, out of breath from the hike, shoulder rubbed raw where the leather strap cut into him. By this time of day, temperatures back home would have been unbearable. But here, the cool, salty breeze off the ocean brushed the hair from his eyes. He should have cut his hair before he left. It grew below his ears now and partway down his neck.
He stopped in front of a gold cat statue, the emblem of Vatolokít. It looked at least twenty feet tall, and he had to crane his neck to see the top. A powerful country like Vatolokít should have had something like a saber shark or a redclaw bear to represent it, not a silly house cat.
He caught his breath, and then his eyes settled on a sign below the statue. It had been painted with large red letters that read: Help Our Guards Keep The City Safe. Report Suspicious Figures.
Tahki stared.
Was he a suspicious figure? Was the sign meant to ward off illegal foreigners? People who walked by glanced at him. Had they been looking at him the entire time? He’d been too caught up in the city to notice. Surely he didn’t stand out. People from all over the world attended the fair. He spoke perfect Vatolok, the world language. One good thing that came from his father’s work as an ambassador: they spoke Vatolok more than they spoke his native tongue at home. He’d spoken it fluently since age seven.
“Tourists, walk on the left,” a woman called over the crowd. “Vendors, you’re on the first floor. Exhibitors, if you haven’t registered, do so here. Already registered? Second floor!” She stood behind a bleached wood table and spoke in an authoritative voice to groups of burly women with greasy blonde hair. “No, sir,” she said to a red-bearded man. “You want the medical advancement competitions. Second floor.”
Tahki stood in line to register. A group of young people stood in front of him, three boys and two girls around his age. He thought he’d be the youngest person to enter. One of the girls in front of him hardly looked fifteen, which disappointed him for some reason. He considered asking them what area they’d be entering in, but something about the group appeared unfriendly. They stood close to one another, all of them ghostly pale. From the look of their tight leather clothing, he guessed they lived in the city.
One of the girls, a redhead with glossy pink lips and thin eyebrows, caught sight of him, but instead of giving him a friendly smile or saying hello, she stuck her neck forward and whispered something to her group. Two of the boys glanced back at him.
And then they all snickered.
Tahki frowned. The line moved up. The group eyed him again with amusement. He had no idea what they found so funny. He’d purchased new clothing in Swikovand: a boring gray coat, black pants, and boots. He hadn’t bathed since he left home, but the smell from the animal exhibit would mask any off-putting scent.
The line moved up again. The group glanced back. Whisper, snicker.
Tahki pulled his designs from his bag and pretended to sort through them. Thankfully, the group registered quickly. As they walked away, however, the redhead brushed past him and said, “Nice earrings.” And then she vanished into the crowd.
Tahki moved his hands to his ears. The higher class in Dhaulen’aii always wore small gold hoop earrings. It was tradition. A sign of wealth and authority. But here, there seemed to be something amusing about them. Some inside joke he didn’t get.
“Next,” the woman behind the table said.
Tahki snapped off his earrings and stepped forward.
“Conceptual or working?” the woman said.
“What?”
She spoke slower, louder. “What area are you entering?”
Tahki didn’t know, so he held out his designs.
“Conceptual Architecture,” she said without hesitation. She hadn’t commented on the quality or skill of his designs. He thought they would have impressed her. Instead, she handed him a tag that read: Entry Level 5. Conceptual Architecture. Assn: 28. Then she told him where to go.
As he walked toward the atrium, he tossed his earrings into a waste bin.
Though the days of constant travel left him exhausted, he felt jittery. He’d made it across the border and secured a spot in the competitions. All he had to do now was win.
A row of royal guards stood outside the open doorway to the atrium. He tried not to look their way, but as he passed, one of the guards broke the line and walked a little ways behind him.
He ignored the guard.
He walked inside the atrium, a spacious courtyard enclosed entirely by glass. The
