Seamaster

by C. E. Murphy

  For an instant it seemed like a strange prison. A gutter ran around the walls, making a hand's-width break between the floor and the door. Other than that, there was no barrier at all between Rasim and escape. On hands and knees, he rushed for the tiny door.

  Fire erupted in the gutter, chasing Rasim back. Flame sheeted up the walls, swallowed by another gutter up above. There was no scent of wood or coal, just pure flame, living through the will of a sun witch. Rasim crept forward again, wondering if he could somehow brave the flames long enough to fling himself through, but they intensified, driving him back again.

  The heat was appalling. It was worse than sitting under the desert sun. Then, at least, it only came from above, even when the air wobbled and waved with it. Here, in the Sun temple prison, fire roared on all four sides of him, baking every drop of water away. Even sweat dried before it could be of any use, not that Rasim's magic was strong enough for sweat to help him. He lay down, trying to conserve energy, but the heat baked it out of him.

  After what seemed like a terribly long time, the sun witch brought a cup of water. Rasim was too parched to do anything but drink it, even though he thought—he knew—he should hoard it somehow. If he could only save enough up, he might be able to make a path through the fire just briefly. Long enough to break free.

  Somewhere in this same building, Guildmaster Isidri was probably having the same thought, but Rasim couldn't imagine how even she could protect such a tiny cup of water from evaporation in the unrelenting heat.

  His head hurt. Rasim edged his way to the very middle of the room, as far from every wall of fire as he could get, and sat in a defeated lump. He had no sense of how long he'd been in the room: the fire cooked it out of him. He didn't know why he hadn't baked alive, for that matter. Certainly the water they offered wasn't enough to keep him from roasting. He stripped his clothes off and sat up straight, trying to at least keep the heat even on all sides, to make it a little more bearable. It didn't help, but at least he was trying. The sun witch brought more water, several times. Rasim thought it was probably at regular intervals, and probably not all that long apart, but it seemed like forever between each desperate gulp of water.

  His head wouldn't stop hurting, but after a while he began to find a kind of serenity in the pain: it let him know he wasn't quite cooked yet. Heat rolled against his skin the same way water did, almost soothing in its constancy. Rasim thought he would be as brown as any full-blooded Ilyaran if he ever got out of the fire room.

  It did feel like water, in a way. He could feel the magic that gave the fire life. It didn't have weight, not the way water did. Instead it lifted up, light as air, ephemeral. Fire left lasting scars, but the flame itself didn't last. Rasim thought, idly, that sky magic, controlling the wind, might well have weight in the same way water magic did. Wind and air were constant too, after all. And sand magic, stone magic, that would probably be heavy too. Only sun magic felt like this, like something so light it leaped toward the heavens and disappeared. It was barely there. It should be easy to make go away, he thought dizzily. Something that was hardly there shouldn't be hard to make go away.

  He was so tired. The heat drained him, made his muscles lax and loose until it was all he could do to keep from falling over. There were so many problems to solve on the other side of that wall of fire, if only he could get through it. If only he could care enough to try. But it was too hot to think, and the top of his head felt like it was floating. Distant, quiet, unattached, entirely separate from Rasim himself.

  Way up at the top of his head, where it didn't quite belong to him any more, Rasim felt a tremendous surge of magic.

  The wall of fire came down.

  Chapter 30

  The room instantly cooled, as if even the heat had been magical in nature and had no way of staying once the fire was out. Rasim gaped at the door, then gathered strength into melted muscles, hauled his pants on, and scrambled out as quickly as he could.

  Desimi and Isidri stood ten steps down the corridor, the sun witch a collapsed heap at their feet.

  All three of them gawked at each other. Isidri looked terrible, her face gaunt and drawn, like all the water had been sucked from her body. Desimi looked better, just tired, like Rasim felt. Water rolled between their feet, thin trickles with no evident source. Rasim staggered against a wall, exhausted and shocked. He snapped his own mouth shut only to feel it dropped open again. At once they all blurted, "How did you—you're free—what happened?!" and all at once fell silent again.

  Desimi finally broke the silence, his head lifted high with pride. "They threw me in with the Guildmaster."

  Isidri's astonishment turned to a sharp, wicked smile that was all the more unnerving because her face was thin with dehydration. "The sun fools should have known better than to put anyone else in a cell with a master witch, but especially they shouldn't have put a burgeoning storm master like Desimi in with the Guildmaster. What I couldn't do on my own I could certainly do with a gift like Desimi's to help me."

  A sting of regret pierced Rasim's chest even as he felt a rise of pleasure for the bigger boy. Desimi was puffed up, as confident as Rasim had ever seen him. Lavish praise from any master would do that, but coming from the Guildmaster herself it was the highest compliment possible. "I told you," Rasim said with a cracked smile. "I told you it would be your magic that got us out of here, Desi."

  "Yeah." Desimi's smile turned to a slow frown, though he lost none of his pride. "How'd you get free?"

  Rasim looked back at the room he'd escaped from, then shook his head wearily. "I don't know. I felt a lot of magic push the fire down. Maybe it was what you two were doing. Or maybe when you knocked the sun witch out."

  "We didn't," Isidri said. "He was unconscious when we came out."

  Rasim stared at the fallen man, then shook his head, pushing the concern out of his mind. "How long were we in there? Where's Kisia?"

  "Desimi tells me it's been five days I was in there," Isidri said grimly. "I lost track. The heat was..." She shook her head, explanations unnecessary. "They brought water four times an hour. I could tell that, at least, from how much was left in me with every cup."

  Desimi and Rasim both blinked at her. It was Desimi who said, "You can do that?" in a low, impressed voice, but the Guildmaster waved the question off.

  "What matters is you boys haven't been in here more than six hours, and Kisia's not here." Isidri ducked into the third room, then cursed. She backed out again and said, "Nothing," sharply to Rasim and Desimi. "You don't want to see. It isn't Kisia, that's all you need to know."

  "Someone cooked to death, didn't they," Rasim whispered. "Another master."

  "I barely survived, and I'm the strongest Guildmaster the Seamasters have seen in three generations. I should know," Isidri said shortly. "I've lived through that many." Her eyes glowed with rage, like a moonlit storm was rising in them. Power crackled from her, the temple's heat fading in the face of her wrath. Every breath Rasim drew was cooler, more humid. It restored him as much as it invigorated Isidri. "They've had me caged away from water, but they should have put me to the sword outright. I'll take this palace apart block by block—" She was moving by then, long strides that ate distance. The water she and Desimi had called from the deep stones ran after her, darkening the floors and bouncing up the stairs as she took them two at a time.

  Rasim and Desimi hurried behind her, Rasim breathless with questions: "What do you know, Guildmaster? Is Roscord a witch? Is the king under his influence? What are the ships in the harbor doing, what do they expect us to do? I stopped Captain Asindo from fighting them, he was supposed to guide the fleet into failure, just in case they were waiting in the city for him to win, so they could do something—" He gasped in sudden comprehension. "Something awful," he finished in a whisper. "They would have executed you, wouldn't they? They were waiting for an excuse."

  Isidri gave him a sharp, approving look that turned into another of her vicious smiles. "Now I'll give them one."


  "No!" Rasim grabbed her elbow, trying to haul her around to look at him. She stopped, at least, and looked at the hand on her arm as if it was a parasite. Rasim swallowed and let go.

  "Do not," Isidri said with wonderful precision, "do not ever do that again, young man, or I'll hang you by your fingers and let you watch while every drop of water in your body drips out of your nose."

  It should have been a funny threat. It wasn't. Rasim swallowed again., "Sorry, Guildmaster."

  Isidri nodded once. "Now," she said with the same fierce precision, "why should I not have my vengeance?"

  "Because that's what Roscord wants. He went to all the trouble of getting here as fast as he could, he had a Northern spy that maybe even the king would listen to—maybe Derek, he's on Inga's council—and the Seamasters' Guild, the fleet, we're the only people who can prove that he's lying. But we have to stay alive to do it, and we can't just start killing people!"

  "He keeps saying that," Desimi muttered. Water was up to their knees now, flooding toward the magnificent upper hall. Someone would notice soon. Rasim stared at the rising wetness, then jolted suddenly.

  "You know what you need to do, Guildmaster?"

  Her eyebrows rose, silent and sarcastic questions. Rasim ignored the sarcasm and pointed upward. Outward. "You need to go down to the harbor, thaw the water quietly, so the Northmen hardly notice, and then bring fish straight to the docks. People are starting to get hungry out there, Masira said so. They need to be fed, and the Seamasters need to look like heroes. What would be better than the Guildmaster feeding the city?"

  "And what," Isidri wondered, still rife with sarcasm, "what do you intend to do?"

  "Desimi and I are going to find Kisia and surprise Roscord into doing something stupid."

  "Like trying to kill Rasim," Desimi said with a note of dour pleasure.

  "Why would he do that?"

  "Because I'm the one who caught him murdering his own men to make someone else look bad," Rasim said grimly. "He has to kill me before I get near the king, but really, killing a journeyman who's still practically an apprentice is going to make him look silly. Especially since everybody seems to know I'm not much of a witch or a threat to begin with."

  Isidri gave them both hard looks, then exhaled. The water began to recede. "Letting you go in there alone is against my better judgment. I should go with you and deal with the harbor later."

  "No." Rasim shook his head to emphasize the word. "You need to have escaped and be nowhere near here when we make things messy. People have to see you somewhere else, so you can't possibly be considered part of this."

  Isidri frowned at him a moment, then exhaled again, even more noisily. "Find that baker's daughter. I don't want to tell her parents I got her killed."

  "Yes, Guildmaster!" Rasim ran past her, splashing in the remaining water, before she could change her mind. Desimi cursed, then followed him. Isidri came a little more slowly, weaving a shield of water as she went. She wouldn't be caught by sun witches again, Rasim thought. That was good. They would need her, and her heroics.

  All three of them burst into the temple's upper floor almost at once, water spraying over sunwashed stone. Startled priests and witches shouted and fire splashed up much like the water did.

  Isidri, a few steps behind Rasim and Desimi, extended her hands.

  Water roared up, forking so it didn't knock her from her feet. It went where she guided it, cascading showers defeating fire before it gained purchase anywhere. A master sun witch stalked forward, conjuring fire as easily as Isidri did water. They threw their elements at one another, and where they met, steam hissed and billowed.

  Desimi grabbed Rasim's upper arm and dragged him out of the temple while the master witches battled. Rasim kept looking back, desperate to watch the fight, until Desimi grabbed both his shoulders and rattled him. Rasim's teeth rattled and Desimi stuck his face in Rasim's. "This is your idea, you idiot. If you get us killed because you're just dying to watch a couple masters fight, I'll kill you myself!"

  Rasim twitched a smile. He was dead at least three times in that sentence, all by different methods. He started to comment, but steam exploded from the temple behind them, sending both of them running again.

  Guards, palace staff, and nobility poured out of nearby doorways, shouting with curiosity and confusion. Rasim ran for the largest set of doors, Desimi slow on his heels. Rasim looked back once to see steam shaping itself into sea serpents and sand monsters, and wished he could stop to applaud Desimi's craftsmanship. There were masters who couldn't shape water, much less steam.

  And there were no doubt Sunmasters who could see through Desimi's water works and burn them out of existence, but those masters were not among the screaming, running throng. Running away from Desimi's creations, which meant the crowd that had been running toward Rasim and Desimi was now running the same way they were: back toward the safety of the palace. Rasim was swept along, almost losing sight of Desimi, but the bigger boy made use of his size and shouldered his way to Rasim's side. They shared a wild, excited grin—the first real smile they'd exchanged in years—and then in a fit of inspiration Rasim bellowed, "The king! To Taishm's side! We must protect him!"

  To his astonished delight, the crowd around him swerved, his cry picked up and carried by others. He and Desimi ran with them, letting the masses guide them through wide marble-floored halls and under silken banners that hung from high arched ceilings. Uniformed guards tried to stop them and instead leaped out of the way, their swords and spears no match for a mob shouting, "Save the king!"

  They burst into the throne room by their hundreds, and only then did the front-runners begin to realize what they were doing. They slowed, stumbled from the weight of people crowding behind them, then stopped. Stillness ran back from them like a wave, like the sea suddenly growing calm after a storm. Rasim and Desimi surged forward, edging through small spaces until they broke through to the front of the now-whispering crowd.

  They were nearly halfway into the throne room, which was far longer than it was wide. Taishm, the king, sat at the far end in a throne set three steps up onto a platform. The throne dwarfed him, even though he was bolt upright, hands fisted on the arms of the throne. Alarm pulsed from him like magic, not that Rasim could blame him: hundreds of commoners had just smashed into his throne room, and he'd spent the last week being told the Seamasters, at least, were in revolt against him.

  Roscord stood to Taishm's left, at the foot of the platform. Rasim's heart gave a little shock to see Lorens, the Northern prince, standing opposite Roscord, on Taishm's right.

  And Kisia, in chains but with her head lifted in defiance, knelt between them.

  Chapter 31

  "Kisia!" There were a hundred things Rasim should say. Calling Kisia's name wasn't one of them, but it seemed to be the only thing he could do. Her head snapped around, eyes round with first surprise and then dismay. He wondered what she'd told them, or what they thought of him, that she didn't want him there, but it was too late. He was already running down the hall, Desimi in step with him.

  Beyond Kisia, Rasim half saw furious shock flit across Roscord's face. He snarled, "You're dead—!" loudly enough to carry, realized his mistake, and shot a quick look toward Taishm.

  The king came to his feet, paying no mind to Roscord. His attention was for Rasim, who skidded on his knees as he reached Kisia's side. "Are you all right?"

  "Me? What about you? Where's your shirt? You look awful!"

  Rasim had forgotten he was only half-dressed, and blinked at himself, surprised. "It's in the prison cell. I look awful, you're the one in chains—!"

  Magic poured from the throne dais, a weight that felt nothing like the witchery Rasim knew. It seized his breath like a sky witch might, and squeezed his heart the way he'd learned a water witch could. Pressure flattened him against the floor with the heaviness of a sandstorm, and his blood boiled with heat as raw as the sun witch prison.

  Lying flat on his belly, gaspin
g for air, Rasim couldn't even lift his head as Taishm stood and stalked down the hall toward him. Roscord and Lorens fell in behind him like dolphins riding a ship's wake. Roscord's expression was vicious, mouth pulled back from his teeth. Rasim would run from that look, if he could move. Kisia lay flattened on the floor beside him, and though he couldn't see Desimi, Rasim suspected the other boy was subject to the same treatment.

  Taishm, unwillingly crowned after his cousin had died of grief, was known to be not much of a witch. Rasim could hardly imagine what kind of power a strong Ilyaran royal could command, if this slight man could flatten them with his magics. And he was slight, narrow-shouldered and thin-faced, but there was nothing small about his voice. He stopped ten feet from Rasim and demanded, thunderously, "Who are you?"

  Rasim weighed so much—like stones were pressing down on him—that he thought he wouldn't be able to inhale enough to speak. He dragged in as deep a breath as he could, then coughed until tears came to his eyes: breathing wasn't hard after all.

  "Water witches," Roscord snarled. "Part of that woman's conspiracies."

  Rasim's heart lurched in panic. He blurted, "No!" but Taishm had already looked away from him, his expression mild.

  "How do you know that, my friend?"

  Roscord pointed an accusing finger at the crowd. Rasim couldn't move to see them, but even under the weight of Taishm's magic, he could sense the answer with his own witchery. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of the crowd were soaked from the steam and water battle, and Ilyara was a desert city. There was never that much water to spare, not unless a water witch had a hand in it. "Who else could they be?" Roscord demanded. "They know this girl, their ringleader—!"