People are walking past, looking purposeful. We're not even trying. It's very obvious that we're the tourists here, for who else would be sitting on a bench by the canal on a thoroughly ordinary weekday and watching the ubiquitous boats pass by? Definitely not the regular inhabitants of Yoss; they get to see enough boats, both inside and outside, every day in their lives. They don't need to park themselves anywhere to look at boats when it's not absolutely necessary, thank you.

I can't help wondering if they see the beauty of those things, though. Or are the boats too much of an everyday item for them, something to be ignored completely? I wonder if I'd ever grow tired of those sleek lines if I lived here, and how long it would take. A year? Three years? Or much, much less, after all?

Their steady passage on the gleaming water looks so calm, so smooth, even when the boatmen are working hard to get from one place to another as quickly as possible. They lack the bustling energy that accompanies all carriages, even those pulled by the huge, heavy Triell horses. For me, horses invariably add an element of unpredictability to the whole thing, whereas boats make me sit back and relax. They don't put me on edge.

People are passing by, right and left, walking along the street that lines the canal, some talking to each other, some on their own. Most of them flick a quick, curious glance at us, especially at Fordan. He's sprawled comfortably on the bench, legs stretched, arms spread. I can feel one of them behind my shoulders, but it's resting on the back of the bench and not around my neck. He tried to pull me closer but I squirmed out of his hold and he respects my wish, even if it put that little frown between his eyebrows.

It's not that I wouldn't want him to hold me. I just don't want the people to stare at us any more than they already do. It makes me feel uncomfortable, and I don't want to start feeling bad. Not now when I'm once again in Yoss with Fordan, in the beautiful and exotic Yoss, listening in wonder to the bursts of conversation that float past us in the wake of the passers-by. The speech flows, it's not strong and rolling as Revnashi, nor melodious like Dorelioni. This is a different kind of a river, with lots of rounded sounds that probably fall easy on the tongue. I don't really know; apart from the compulsory greetings and phrases, I know nothing of the language.

Fordan is enjoying it, too, I can see it from his tiny smile. Technically we're in Revnash, but if we were to ask any one of the locals walking past, they'd quickly set us right: well yes, this is indeed part of the Kingdom of Revnash, but right now we're in the Duchy of Baldón, in the ancient capital of what once was the Baldón Empire. The people we see all around us aren't Revnashi, nor is the language they speak. They are Baldániy, and very proud of it. No, of course they have nothing against Revnash and being part of it – which might be said with the tiniest, most sophisticated of snorts – but, you know, there is a difference. And one mustn't forget the lofty old traditions, etcetera.

Fordan loves this place, and so do I. I can remember how he was gushing about it to me, years ago, that first time when I sailed north with him. How we ran around the city because we weren't staying for a long time and yet he wanted to show me so many places he'd spotted earlier when they'd stopped here. It was a rush, that whole first visit, a wonderful rush, and I swear I can still remember every place of historical importance where we'd stop and gape, awed, hand in hand, and how he'd somehow manage to steal a kiss or two in each one.

Another few boats float past, one of them loaded with vegetables and the other with firewood. They are both heavy and their boatmen are straining and sweating as they steer them clear of each other in the currents that flow through the canal. The water is not stagnant here, it comes from the mighty River Czorhass and eventually returns to it again. Yoss has many canals like this, they split the city into sections – islands, actually – that are connected by handsome stone bridges and yet each have their own special character. It's fascinating to stroll around, cross a bridge and feel how the atmosphere around changes ever so slightly as we reach the other end and step on the next island.

Bellar is like this, too, but for me it's simply too huge. Bellar of the thousand islands, and probably at least two thousand bridges, confuses the hell out of me. When I'm there, I always have the feeling that I'm not in the right place, that I should be somewhere else. I'm not sure where the real Bellar is, or whether it actually even exists at all. Somehow I associate only the vast harbor area with Bellar, and the rest – I just don't know. But Yoss is comfortably sized, its canals are canals and not straits between islands in the delta of a huge river, and everything is dominated by the sprawling Imperial Palace. If nothing else of it is visible, at least its high spire will definitely loom above all the other buildings if you just turn to look in the right direction. It ties the whole city together.

Have I perhaps lived before? Have I been a Baldániy in a previous life? Is that why this city and the palace speak to me in the way they do? Surely it can't be just the memory of Fordan's lips on mine in the shadows of the cloisters surrounding the Emperor's Green Garden...

"Half-crown for your thoughts."

His voice startles me, I open my eyes and wish that my heart wouldn't skip quite so many beats each time he looks at me that way. "Half-crown? They're not worth that much."

"Yes they are," Fordan says and leans his elbows on knees. His thigh brushes against mine and I almost shiver at the warmth. "The way you were smiling, I'm sure they're worth a lot more than just a half-crown, but I thought I'd try my luck."

He grins and another hot wave wells inside me.

"The cloisters," I say and regret it already before it's properly passed through my lips. I swallow. "Oh, never mind."

But he's getting up and reaches a hand to me. "There's an idea! Come, let's walk there. The Palace is going to be open for a few more hours, we could go there for a stroll and then see if that one restaurant is still where it used to be, remember? The one in the basement of those old barracks."

I can't help smiling. "Silly. Of course it's there. After all it's only been there for about two hundred years, it's going to be there at least for another two hundred."

Fordan laughs. "Only another two? Aren't you now underestimating our Baldániy friends? But hey, how about it?"

I let him pull me up and fall in step with him, as usual. He's ambling, so much taller than me, and with those long legs he could make me run if he walked briskly. But he never does that, never makes me try to keep up with him when we're walking. He walks close to me, though, arm touching mine every now and then. I don't shun away from that touch, even though we attract enough glances to make me nervous.

I wish I could fucking understand myself – why am I so fickle? Just a moment ago I didn't want him to put his arm around me while we were sitting on the bench. Now I'm actually using every opportunity to squeeze a bit closer to him whenever there are passers-by to whom I could pretend to be giving way. So much of the time I want to just crawl into some dark nook or cranny and stay there, and yet my body is screaming for his touch, his scent, his warmth. That's why I keep going with Fordan. I want to take every opportunity, use every second I have to be close to him.

Yes, he really has me by the balls, good and proper, and I can't do anything but go along as long as he wants me. What a slut I am.

So I walk on, side by side with him. Over one bridge and through a busy market square, along some quieter alleys and to the next bridge. It leads us straight to the large gates inside which ordinary people once had no business, but now we walk in unhindered and stop to squint in the middle of the first courtyard that is bathing in sunlight.

The Duke and his family don't live here any more, but the Imperial Palace is by no means empty. It houses lots of administration and thus we're not the only ones here today. There are official-looking persons walking with a determined step, and others who are clearly hesitant and look no end relieved when they spot the large cluster of signposts that stands loftily in the middle of the open space and shows which way to go in order to find each bureau or office. We head to the left, to the entrance that leads to the part of the Palace that is now a museum, and Fordan digs the entry fee from his pocket.

It's not the time of the year when Yoss attracts the biggest numbers of visitors, and apart from the attendants sweeping courtyards or watering potted plants, we scarcely see a living soul as we roam deeper into the maze that is the Imperial Palace of Baldón. Rooms, corridors, little courtyards with lush gardens, and then the enormous quarters of the Ladies.

I can't help wondering what it's been like for them to live here, forever inside these walls, year after year. To be brought here from the Ladies' House of their own family and enter another closed world. What have they felt? Have they glimpsed the world outside through the thick curtains of a carriage or a chaise on their way here? Have they longed to see more of it or been happy to be safely inside walls once again? Oh, and the Emperor's brothers, brought up here, prisoners just like the noblewomen... no wonder that the history of this place is so rife with intrigue, coups and blood.

A shudder passes through me as I realize where that thought must have come from: we've reached the small terraced garden of the Lilies. I can never even think of this place without remembering how, on my first visit here, we went on a guided tour and heard about the assassination of one hapless prince. How he'd been audacious enough to seduce one of the wives of his elder brother, the Emperor, and how he'd been slashed down on these white marble steps, under the very eyes of his mistress. His blood pooled right here, and even though that was a few centuries ago, my gaze seeks the deeper pores in the stone that still seem to contain something darker.

I turn away, feeling sick and trying to convince myself that I'm just sick of being the wimp I am. Such a beautiful place, and I get queasy because of an old story. That's really too pathetic to be even pitiful.

Fordan's hand presses between my shoulder blades, he peers at me through my bangs. "Are you okay, Nash? You're pale."

"It's just those lilies." It definitely isn't my sometimes overactive imagination. Blood always makes me feel dizzy, but there's no blood here. "There's such a lot of them, and in full bloom too."

"It's damn strong," he agrees. "And there's no wind here, either. Let's go elsewhere."

Fordan tentatively puts his arm on my shoulders. This time I won't pull away and the hold tightens a bit, gets more relaxed and confident. I sneak an arm behind his back under the unbuttoned jacket, let it wrap around his waist and hook my thumb to the belt loop. Fordan smiles to me, I can hear it, and we walk along the quiet corridor towards what used to be the semi-public part of the Emperor's apartment.

In a room we pass by there's a little cluster of other tourists. They hear our steps and turn to look, and a slight cloud of bafflement passes over them as they notice us, two men, walking side by side so close to each other. Fordan gives them a friendly, neutral nod in passing and squeezes me just a little, but I'm not going anywhere. I need his warmth right now.

And then we reach the place. A perfectly square courtyard, full of the cool, unobtrusive scent of evergreens. Neatly tiled walkways meandering among islands of pebbles, some white, some dark graphite, some nearly red, others greenish. Ornately carved stone benches amidst the trees and bushes.

Stone crunches under our feet as we stop in front of the statue, slightly larger than life, that stands in the middle of it. The heavy-lidded eyes of the last Emperor, Osset XXVI, look reflectively down at us from the narrow, sophisticated marble face as we both bow a little. And again I just know it – that if we now turn our back to him, we'll just miss seeing him nod and stroke that pointed goatee with the hand that is fingering his wide collar. That's why we don't do it, just in case, and instead back towards the stone balustrade until we can lean back against it and watch his serene majesty.

We both love this courtyard best of all the places in the Palace, not least because of this statue. I've seen enough statues of the high and mighty to grow weary of them, but there's something special in this one. The Emperor looks a bit melancholy and yet dignified, with a regal poise, and emanates power that doesn't come from physical strength – judging both from this likeness and the many official portraits, he was tall but very slim, almost to the point of looking delicate. He's fascinating.

I squirm up to sit on the balustrade and lean closer to Fordan who sighs and pulls me tighter into his one-armed hug.

"Feeling better?" he asks softly, lips grazing the shell of my ear and making my breath hitch.

"Yes," I say and twine my finger more tightly to his belt loop. Never let go of me. "A lot better."

He nods. "Good. Are you hungry?"

"Not yet."

"Just tell me when you want to go."

"Okay," I whisper, and it's as if Fordan could read my mind because right then he turns his back to His Majesty and puts his arms around me, steps to stand between my legs and starts nibbling my lips. The clump in my throat melts away when he rubs our noses together and murmurs something silly until first a chuckle escapes me, then a laugh. Good gods how warm those eyes are. I can't look into them and so I watch instead how the halo on the Emperor's head slowly turns from golden to coppery while Fordan just holds me close.

When an elderly warden clears his throat behind my back and informs us with his heavy accent that the Palace grounds will be closed for public in half an hour, I notice that Emperor Osset's halo has all but disappeared together with the setting sun, and that our breath is in fact beginning to mist just a little.