I scowled. “I’m not from the Empire. My mama was born there, that’s all.”
Asbera brightened. “Well, then, we really have nothing to fear. Come, let’s take you to the boarding boats.”
And against my better judgment, I relented. I was tired and sore from the last three days of work, and I knew I needed to think in the long term if I was to ever leave.
“The boarding boats,” I said. “All right.”
Finnur laughed and slapped me on the back. We left the merchant. The rest of the crew had dispersed, and the docks were more bustling than I’d seen them before, what with all those one-man sailing boats coming in from the sea. Asbera and Finnur led me past the crowd to a collection of ramshackle, sailless boats roped and moored together. A wooden sign flapped from a pole jutting sideways out of the ground, but like all the signs here, I couldn’t read it.
“Here we are,” Finnur said. “Let me take you to see Rudolf. We can get you set up while Asbera cooks.”
Everything was happening so quickly. I nodded, and Asbera trotted off to a narrow dinghy that bumped up against the pier.
“So you just live here?” I asked. “On the water?”
“Yes. Most of the crew does.” Finnur shrugged. “It’s cheap. And we don’t have to maintain anything while we’re gone.” He led me down a rickety wooden walkway to a junk painted with more unfamiliar letters. Finnur banged on the side of the boat and shouted, “Rudolf! Got someone who needs a place to live!”
There was a pause. The boats knocked against each other, a pleasant, hollow sound. Then footsteps echoed from the deck of the junk and a man’s face appeared over the railing. He was even more weatherworn than Kolur. He scowled at me.
“Empire?” he barked.
Before I could explain, Finnur said, “No, she’s from Kjora.”
“Southerly.” The man – Rudolf – made a coughing noise. “Well, as long as you can pay, you can stay here.” He rapped his fingers against the railing. “Fifty stones a month.”
I felt like I’d been stabbed through the stomach.
“Don’t be an ass,” Finnur said. “Me and Asbera pay thirty.”
Rudolf scowled. “I don’t know this girl.”
“She works aboard the Annika. Baltasar’s word ought to be good enough for you.”
Rudolf paused. I reached into my coat pocket and rubbed my fingers against my wages. Thirty a month was a good sight cheaper than thirty for two days.
“Fine,” Rudolf said. “Thirty stones, once a month. That don’t cover food, girl. This ain’t an inn.”
“I know it’s not, sir.” I counted the stones out into my palm, dismayed to see almost all of my wages disappear. Rudolf dropped away from the boat’s railing, and I stood waiting for him with the stones piled high in my hand. A few moments later, he reappeared at the top of the gangplank. I handed him his payment and he counted it out and nodded once, satisfied.
“You’ve got the Cornflower.” He deposited the stones into a worn-velvet sack that he tucked away inside his coat. Then he pulled out an enormous metal ring, jangling with keys of all cuts and sizes.
“Can’t do much with the deck,” he said. “I keep an eye out, got a couple of charms up. May or may not keep someone off. But you can lock up the captain’s quarters and the storage room well enough. Recommend you keep your valuables in there. Ain’t responsible if they get stolen.”
“Of course. I understand.”
Rudolf pulled off a long, slender key from the ring and handed it to me. “Finnur can show you where it is. Ain’t that right, Finnur?”
“Sure thing. It’s right next door to us.” He grinned at Rudolf. Rudolf scowled in return.
“I don’t get payment on the first of the month,” he said, “I’ll send my dogs after you.”
And with that, Rudolf hauled himself back up his ladder and disappeared over the railing.
“Don’t worry about the dogs,” Finnur said. “All you have to do is feed them sausages and they’ll be rolling around on their backs, waiting for you to play with them.” He laughed. “Come on, I’ll show you the Cornflower.”
We walked down to the edge of the pier. I still had this dazed, edgy feeling, like it was a huge mistake giving my money to that man. Of course, I hadn’t had that feeling in all the time we were sailing north from Kjora, so maybe my intuition wasn’t what it should be.
Finnur reached down in the water and picked up a thick salt-encrusted rope that was tied to the pole jutting off the pier. He tugged on it, and the dinghy drifted toward us, bobbing on the water.
“Unfortunately, we’re not pierside,” he said. “But it’s not a big deal, taking the dinghy.”
He let me step on first. It sank a little beneath my weight, but it was dry and solidly built. Finnur rowed us around the tangle of moored boats. The rope attached to the rowboat was long enough that it uncoiled out behind us, disappearing beneath the water’s surface. When we came to another junk with Crocus painted across the side, he jabbed the oar straight down into the water, locking us into place.
“That’s where Asbera and I live,” he said, pointing at the Crocus. “The Cornflower’s right there, just down that gap. We should be able to climb over from the Crocus.”
I nodded dumbly and watched as he crawled up the ladder onto the deck of his boat – of his home, I reminded myself. And I thought then of my own home, my real home, landlocked and built of gray stones. I couldn’t see much of the Cornflower from here, only a strip of peeling gray wood rising out of the water and some sailless masts, part of the forest of masts that made up the boarding boats.
“You coming?” Finnur was aboard the Crocus now, standing beside the ladder, waiting.
“Yeah, sure.” I made my way up the ladder, looking over at the Cornflower. I saw more of it the higher I climbed, but there wasn’t much to see. Just a moored cog. It was hard to think of it as a home.
Like a gentleman, Finnur helped me over the railing. The deck of the Crocus didn’t look like any boat I’d been on. No sails, and the wheel had been removed at the helm. There were pots filled with lichen and little blue flowers and shrubby, tough-looking herbs. Tall glass jars sat at random intervals, half full with gray water. Ropes of dried vines hung from the masts, twisted together into figures that looked human and animal at the same time. Protective charms, most like.
“You can see the Cornflower from the starboard side.” Finnur pointed. “No one’s lived there for a while, but Rudolf usually keeps the empty boats clean.”
I nodded and walked over to the side of the boat. The Cornflower’s deck was empty except for a pot of its own, lichen dangling over the sides like a waterfall.
“It’s warmer down below,” Finnur said. “We can see about looking for a plank to get you across the way. But it’ll be nice to have a rest first, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” I looked away from my new home and followed Finnur down below deck. I expected it to look like the Penelope, may the gods take her: sparse and empty save for stores and fishing supplies. But it didn’t. It was hung with brightly colored tapestries and stuffed with carved wooden furniture. There was a hearth, just like in a house, filled with hot, glowing logs. Asbera was there, her hair tied back, stirring a great cauldron of something that smelled like fish and spices and made my stomach grumble.
“Hello, Hanna.” She glanced at me over her shoulder and smiled shyly. “Did Rudolf give you a fair price?”
“I guess,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Thirty stones,” Finnur said. “What we’re paying.”
“Oh, good.” She gestured at the table. “Please, have a seat. I’m afraid the lisila isn’t quite ready yet. We still have tulra ale, don’t we, Finnur?”
“We do.” Finnur ducked out into the corridor, his footsteps echoing around the room. I sank into one of the chairs, exhausted. I hadn’t realized just how much so until now, after three days on the Annika so soon after being washed ashore by magic. Really, I just wanted to sleep.<
br />
Finnur returned with a mug of some frothy amber liquid that I assumed was ordinary ale until I sipped it, and found that it was sweet and buttery and not at all fermented.
“Tuljan specialty,” she said. “We make it out of the tulra flower, from the far north.”
She smiled, but I stared down at the foam in my drink. The far north. It seemed that even when I left Kolur, the top of the world was still haunting me.
Asbera sat down across from me with her own mug, and Finnur sat beside her and rested his hand on her arm.
“Everyone wants to know what brought you to Tulja,” Finnur said.
Asbera sighed and slapped at him. “That’s rude.”
“Well, it’s true!”
“It’s fine.” I stared down at my mug again. I didn’t want to tell the truth, at least not the whole truth. “My ship wrecked here, like I said. Had a falling-out with my captain.” I shrugged. “We weren’t supposed to go this far north.”
Finnur gave a nod like he understood everything. Asbera stood up and checked the cauldron bubbling on the stove.
“I’m grateful for the work.” I paused, still not sure how much I should tell them. “But I’d like to try and sail home to Kjora if I can. I miss my parents.”
“Ah, yes, I miss mine, too,” Asbera said from the stove. “They’re yak tenders, you know, out near the base of the mountains.” She grinned at Finnur. “This one came by looking to trade pelts for Baltasar. He’d only just been taken on as an apprentice. He wound up living in an old yurt for the better part of the winter.” She laughed, and Finnur gazed up at her the way Papa would gaze at Mama sometimes.
“That’s a nice story,” I said, and then, because I felt a need to fill the silence in a way that wouldn’t involve explaining why my captain had been sailing us north in the first place, I told them about Mama and Papa, and how Mama’d served aboard the Nadir and decided she loved the north more than she loved the south. That drew smiles out of Finnur and Asbera both.
“That’s why the Empire’s always trying to claim our islands,” Asbera said. “Because they all know deep down it’s better here.”
I laughed at that, even if I didn’t know myself one way or the other. I’d only ever belonged to the north, even if Mama’s ancestors, warm and smelling like honey and spices, spoke to me sometimes through the winds.
Asbera checked the cauldron again, and this time she clapped her hands together and said, “Oh, praise joy, it’s ready. I’m starving. Aren’t you, Hanna?”
I nodded. “Three days with nothing but salted fish–”
“Oh, don’t even say the words.” Finnur slapped his hands on the table. “Here, Asbera, let me help. Hanna, you stay. You’re our guest.” He got to his feet and pulled carved wooden bowls out of the cupboards next to the hearth. Asbera spooned the bowls full of lisila and then delivered the bowls to the table. The lisila was a sort of stew, with a creamy white broth that shimmered like moonlight. It smelled of herbs, fragrant and grassy like summer.
“Once you’ve had a taste of this, you’ll wish everything else you ever eat is lisila,” Asbera said.
I assumed she was joking, or boasting, as cooks do. But when I sipped from the rim of my bowl, I could hardly believe that what I tasted was real. The flavor was savory and so complex I couldn’t quite define it, but as soon as I tasted the lisila, I wanted more. It didn’t help that I was so hungry. I’d slurped down half my bowl when I glanced up and found Asbera and Finnur laughing at me.
“Told you,” Asbera said. She sipped at her own bowl and closed her eyes. “As good as I remembered.”
“It’s the lisilfish,” Finnur said. “They cook down and create – this.” He gestured at the bowls.
“Shame they’re so expensive.”
“Oh,” I said, cheeks warming. “I didn’t know. I’ll be happy to help pay–”
“Nonsense.” Asbera shook her head. “You need to save your money, like you said.” She smiled and took another sip from her bowl. “I’m sure you’ll find some way to repay us in the future.”
I nodded. I certainly hoped so.
But more than that, I hoped that Asbera and Finnur were as normal as they seemed, and that the rest of my time in Tulja would be as simple and satisfying as my evening aboard the Crocus.
CHAPTER 9
After dinner, Finnur helped me get settled aboard the Cornflower. It was a much smaller boat than the Crocus, but belowdecks was well cared for: the holes in the ceiling patched, the floor dry. The hearth had been cleaned of old ashes, and there was an actual bed in the captain’s cabin, with a small, hay-stuffed mattress. After weeks of sleeping on cots and hammocks, I found it an unimaginable luxury.
I slept easily that first night, deep and steady, although I dreamed, something I hadn’t done aboard the Annika. My dreams were strange but not unsettling: I was at the base of a tall, rocky mountain, surrounded by yaks that snuffled and pawed at the frozen ground. Wind roared over the mountains, coming from the north. It smelled of tulra ale and seemed to have a voice of its own, whispering my name, telling me I was safe. I believed it. I was certain it came from Finnur and Asbera.
When I woke, sunlight was spilling in through the doorway. I’d left it open in the night. I got up and stretched, feeling refreshed for the first time in weeks. A cask of lisila sat on my bedside table, left over from left night – Asbera had given it to me when I left the Crocus. I ate it quickly, and it was just as delicious for breakfast as it had been for dinner. Finnur had told me there was a shared well in the center of the town, so I dug around in the storage room until I found some empty skins. Then I went up on deck.
The air was cold and bright and still. The deck of the Cornflower was bare in comparison to the deck of the Crocus, but I had no intention of draping it with plants and charms. That would suggest I planned on staying here for a long time, and I didn’t. My bracelet could protect me for the time being.
The dinghy was still where we had left it the night before, lodged in the space between the Cornflower and the Crocus. I lowered myself down and rowed to the pier. The docks were mostly empty, just a pair of fish-boys running errands back and forth between the boats and the shops in the village.
Everything felt as much like a dream as the base of the mountain had.
I followed Finnur’s directions to the well. To my relief, no one was there, and I filled up the skins and dropped them in my bag. I realized I didn’t want to go back to the Cornflower yet. There wouldn’t be much to do besides sit on my cot and count down the days until we made sail again.
So I walked through the streets of Rilil, weaving through the mounds of earth and piles of stone. Most of the doorways were graced with twists of vine, simpler, more decorative versions of the charms Asbera and Finnur kept on their upper deck. I hadn’t taken those vines for charms when I’d been walking through the town with Kolur and Frida; in fact, I’d hardly noticed them at all.
Thinking on Kolur and Frida made me feel all twisted up. It had been easy to forget about them those three days at sea, but now that I was back in Tulja, I knew there was a chance I’d run into them. And I didn’t want that.
I passed the last semi-permanent building, and the road opened up into a huge field dotted not with yaks like I expected but with the same round, leathery tents that the old woman had lived in. They were clustered like people drawing together for warmth, and smoke drifted out of the tops of most of them. Far off in the distance rose a mountain, purple-gray in the misty air. It looked like the mountain from my dream – but then, all mountains tend to look the same.
I turned and walked in the opposite direction. The waterskins were starting to get heavy, but I still wasn’t in a mind to go back to my boat. Too dull and lonely, sitting down below by myself.
Eventually, I came to the other end of the village, to the road leading down to the ocean. I dusted some old snow off a nearby stone and sat down and took a drink of water. Birds circled overhead, crying out to one another. I smelled salt an
d fish. It was peaceful, in its way. Peaceful and lonely.
And then I heard singing.
It was distant, coming from the direction of the beach. I couldn’t make out the words, but as I listened, music joined up with the singers’ voices, a jangly, rhythmic instrument that I didn’t recognize. Part of me thought that maybe I should leave, that I was hearing something I wasn’t meant to as a daughter of the Empire and the southerly islands both, but I stayed put. The music grew louder. I realized they were singing in the language of the ancients.
Figures appeared on the bend in the road, moving in a procession through the cold, gray air. And they weren’t human. They were monsters.
All sorts of monsters, some with great shaggy coats and others with sharp, needly beaks and still others like men built of straw. My fear paralyzed me in place. I thought of the warship slicing toward the Penelope, thought of Gillian’s dead body. I thought of the Mists.
The monsters moved closer. One of them, a creature with a bulbous, oversized boar’s head, shook a ring of metal that flashed in the thin sunlight. Another carried a torch that guttered and sparked an unnatural orange-gold.
They come on the veins of magic–
Isolfr’s words appeared unbidden in my head, and without thinking, I reached out to the magic on the wind, testing, trying to find that sense of wrongness–
There was none. The magic was calm, peaceful. Nothing wrong, nothing dangerous.
The figures drew closer. I scrambled off my rock and crouched half behind it, clutching my bag tight, too afraid to take my eyes off these monsters. The singing poured over me.
Not a single one of the creatures’ mouths moved.
I frowned. That didn’t make sense.
As they passed, the straw-man turned his head, pale gold shedding off him. His eyes peered out of the mound of straw. They were dark and benevolent – human.
They were human.
The monsters sang, but their mouths didn’t move.
Masks, I thought, and I straightened up, still trembling. None of the other costumed men looked at me; they just continued their procession into the village. The torch sent sparks and smoke up into the sky, and I felt the shudder of its enchantment, a warmth and protection I hadn’t expected.
The Wizard’s Promise Page 13
