Along the lower reaches of the canals, the smell of tar, wet hemp, and sealed barrels mingled with incense and steam. Further up the hill, a neighborhood of counting houses had air full of the dry whiff of ink and parchment. Myril and Iola approached the palace through the jewelers’ quarter with its hot metal, and past the dusty clothiers’ halls. Iola only seemed to notice the street-corner shrines, and gazed up at the sky in between as if she were indifferent to the life of the city.
“There aren’t as many dragonlets here,” Iola observed as they climbed toward the palace. “I saw more back by the harbor.”
Myril nodded absently. Up ahead, a crowd gathered around a minstrel. “Let’s go listen,” she proposed. It would be something to do while they waited for Thorat to meet them.
Iola blinked
