“Hard even for me to believe, most days. I can’t tell you anything more, and of course I trust that you will keep this confidence?” Peddler took a long swallow of his rum.
Thalen nodded his agreement. He held up a second finger. “Why are you on this ship?”
“I am going to Slagos to confer with a confederate of mine about business of the Spirits.”
Thalen asked, “What business?”
Peddler shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. I’ve already told you more than any unanointed person should know. Choose another question.”
Holding up a third finger, Thalen was going to ask about how to lift the Occupation of the Free States, but this was his only chance to talk to an Agent, someone who knew secrets he would never know. Despite himself, Thalen broke out, “When she fell into the moat, where did she go? I couldn’t find her body!”
Peddler did not insult him by pretending he didn’t understand who “she” was. “I don’t know,” he answered, in a mournful tone. “Really, I don’t know.”
“What is your relationship with Skylark?” Thalen pressed, though he knew this was one question too many.
“That is the fourth, but since my last answer was so unsatisfactory I will tell you this much: I’ve never met her, but I tried to help her.”
“Why could she talk to animals? Was she an Agent or Saulė’s priestess?”
Peddler just shook his head. Thalen drew in his breath and tried to compose himself. Together they drank their rum in silence. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump went the waves against the hull.
“Saulė is starting to set in the clouds in the stern. Come listen to me say my evening prayers,” offered Peddler. “Saulė will help you bear your grief. Sunshine helps us push up the beam.”
They started to walk down the ship, the peddler with his hand on Thalen’s shoulder.
“By the by, young man, the book you got that final strategy from—who wrote it?”
“Catreena of Weirandale, mother of Queen Cressa. Her sobriquet was ‘Catreena the Strategist.’”
“Sometimes,” Peddler said, with a smile like winter sunshine, “I think the Spirits have a sense of humor.”
Thalen, who again was visited by a vision of Skylark falling into the moat, didn’t respond.
14
Pilagos
Mikil discovered that a Lorther vessel, Moon Racer, was expected to dock in Pilagos in ten days, which was just enough time for the island tailors to finish his family’s wardrobes.
While they waited for the clothes and the ship, Arlettie took Mikil to meet cousins and former friends from her life before Queen Cressa hired her. Although he was only mildly interested in meeting these chatty commoners who exclaimed over him and looked at him under lowered lids as if he were an oddity, he had vowed to please Arlettie, so Mikil compelled himself to behave graciously. Seeing her this happy amongst her own people, in her native land, he began to worry about dragging her off to Lortherrod, where again she would be a castaway.
Gilboy, a restless youth on the verge of adulthood, caused Mikil more acute anxiety. Every night after dark he set off exploring this big, new city on his own, and every time he left his parents feared that, being so unworldly, he would be set upon by robbers, cozened by tricksters, captured by a press-gang, served bad liquor, or seduced by whores. Invariably, Mikil would retire for the night uneasily, with one ear cocked for Gilboy’s return—and he would not find sleep until he heard the guesthouse door quietly open and then click closed.
Tonight Mikil attended another dinner hosted by Magistrar Destra. Arlettie had begged off, shy to meet grand people, but the prince saw no one particularly impressive in the room. Destra presented a man named Shetdrake—apparently a banker from the slightly smaller isle, Slagos, and a young woman he claimed was his daughter. Mikil doubted very much that the lithe, black-haired woman actually shared his bloodlines, but if Shetdrake was stepping out on his wife, that was not Mikil’s business. The woman was quite comely, but she kept twitching her pert, upturned nose. Mikil wondered if she was smelling everyone she met and found the surmise unappealing.
Other guests standing in the reception hall included the mayor of a nearby island, some seamasters, a rotund spice merchant named “Olet,” and two men who hailed from the Free States, one of whom sat in a wheeled chair. Mikil realized that Destra had assembled for him people who had their fingers on the pulse of the latest tidings.
After all the introductions had been made and pleasantries exchanged, Magistrar Destra ushered them into a dining hall. The low table glittered with goblets, porcelain, and candles and was strewn with vines twisted in elaborate patterns, and Mikil remembered that by Green Isles custom one reclined on pillows rather than sit in straight chairs. Mikil tried to tactfully look away as the man without the use of his legs was helped down to the floor by his friends.
After the fish soup had been cleared, Olet addressed the table. “Islanders don’t like to boast, but nothing happens harborside that we don’t all hear about. Won’t you tell us, Prince Mikil, the story about the shipwrecked woman you rescued?”
Reluctant to talk about Mistriss Phénix in public, Mikil told them only the bare bones of the tale, hoping he merely repeated what people had undoubtedly already learned from the crew of Island Dreamer.
Just as all the guests were speculating as to who Phénix could be and how she came to be riding on the back of a dolphin, the next course—giant clams stuffed with lobster meat—was served. The other guests exclaimed over the offering, but Mikil sourly thought that he had eaten enough shellfish to last a lifetime. He wished that the magistrar had served another dish. He washed the food down with more wine.
One of the Free States visitors helped him shift the conversation by bringing up a new topic. “What have you heard about the fire in Oromondo?” the man named Quinith inquired of the seamasters in the room.
“A Zellish ship that passed the coastline says she saw the whole city of Femturan ablaze. Her crew seems certain that the fire burned along the coast and not in the mountains, and that it couldn’t have been volcanic eruption,” answered a Green Isles captain.
“A fire.” Magistrar Destra shuddered. “Those of us with responsibilities for cities, you know, worry about fires as much as outbreaks of plagues.”
“A disastrous fire in Femturan,” commented the man with crippled legs, “might be very good news for the Free States. It might help us free ourselves from the Oro Occupation.”
“Indeed,” Magistrar Destra agreed thoughtfully. “I wonder if this could spell the end of Oro expansionism.” She turned to the servers, ordering, “Please serve the sweet now.”
The party lasted late, and Mikil had difficulty disentangling himself without being abrupt or rude. He strode back the short distance to the guesthouse with weary steps; he had discovered he had less of a head for spirits than in his previous life. When he got home he crawled into bed beside Arlettie, who slept on peacefully.
* * *
He had only been sleeping a short while when a commotion coming from the nearby sitting room woke Mikil. He sprang out of bed to investigate.
As he ran, he smelled smoke and his eyes started to smart. In the room, curtains and a couch blazed with flames. Small tables and decorations lay scattered about the floor, hurled there by Gilboy, who—dressed only in his own nightshirt—had preceded him in rushing to combat the fire.
Mikil grabbed a pair of cushions and began swatting at the couch.
“Should we rouse the house?” Gilboy asked, coughing. “Get the servants?”
“We’ve nearly got it,” Mikil answered, coming over to help him with a smoldering chair. They smothered the larger flames until finally only some scattered embers still burned. Gilboy raced to the kitchen and brought back a bucket of water, which he poured out everyplace Mikil spotted a winking light.
Gilboy inspected the room, looking for any cinder they could possibly have missed. “We got it.”
“Let’s open the wi
ndows now to get some air,” said Mikil, and he waved the fresher air inside with the hem of his nightshirt. Gilboy copied him on the other side of the room.
“What happened?” Mikil asked. “How did this start?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” said Gilboy. “I was asleep, but I smelled smoke and came down to find this just about to flame over. Why did you light a fire in here? Why didn’t you screen it?”
“Light a fire in here?” repeated Mikil, confused. “We didn’t—I’m certain. I dined late with the magistrar and didn’t use the sitting room tonight. I went straight to bed.”
“Could a servant have lit it to warm the house when you returned?” offered Gilboy, pushing the windows wider to air out the smoky room. “Though it is a particularly warm night.”
“Or perchance Arlettie used the room?” Mikil coughed some more. “Could be, but who would have been so careless as to leave a fire ungrated? Besides, I think I would have noticed it as I passed through.” He paused by the open window to get a lungful of fresh air. “What luck, Gilboy, that you woke up in time. We could all have burned up in our beds.” Mikil gave a shiver of distaste. “I don’t like fire.”
“Scary,” Gilboy agreed, batting the lingering smoky air toward the open windows with a charred pillow.
“Your Lorther Anticipation, Gilboy—that sense of where danger lurks, those seconds of forewarning that led you to hide in the dinghy—is still strong.”
Gilboy grinned at the compliment. In his freckled face Mikil saw the vestiges of a little cook’s lad from years ago.
But the grown young man snorted, “Then you shouldn’t get in a dither when I go roaming around the city!” Gilboy took one more scan of the ruined room. “Are you all right? I’m off to bed again, now. We’ll sort this out tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Son.”
In the morning, Mikil questioned Arlettie and the servants. The last time anyone had lit a fire in the sitting room—with due care—was days ago. No one could figure out how the late-night blaze had started, and all exclaimed how lucky they were that Gilboy had noticed it.
* * *
While Magistrar Destra tried to pull him into Great Power politics, Arlettie roped him into circles of her family and friends, and Gilboy stirred the disquiet of a father, much of Mikil’s mind pursued a wholly different track. Whenever he could get free he walked by the seashore to speak with Lautan. He didn’t tell the Spirit about his petty human entanglements in Pilagos; mostly they discussed what his duties would be in Lortherrod.
Sailor, instructed his Master. As soon as thou reachest the land of the Lorthers, my favored realm, thou must visit each of my Dwellings. The tallow has been used up; the wine has been pilfered. My waves crash still into the open naves, but few of the faithful celebrate their force and magnificence. I saved thee; by coming back when all believe thou hast perished thou wilt be a symbol of my Might and my Munificence.
So it shall be, Mikil said, bowing. I was not particularly reverent in my life beforetimes. I have much to make up for—so many years of negligence.
* * *
Mikil’s encounter with Moon Racer exemplified the impression that the Spirit of the Sea expected its new Agent to make on its people.
Garbed in gray silk, with a short purple cape blowing behind him in the wind and his hair restored to Lorther style—that is, cropped everywhere except for the short, neat tail at the nape of his neck—Prince Mikil stood astride the dock when the Lorther ship pulled in. The officers and most of the sailors of Moon Racer had served under Mikil in the fight against the Pellish pirates, but had been spared on that fateful day because their vessels had been too slow to keep up.
This unexpected vision of their long-lost admiral suddenly materializing in Pilagos overwhelmed the crew. They gaped and pointed; they thought they were seeing a ghost. One seaman even fainted.
“Well, lads,” Mikil shouted at the trembling sailors and officers gathered at the starboard bulwark. “Sorry I’ve been gone so many years.
“Did you get into any trouble without me, you lazy lubbers? We’re going to have to work on your seamanship—you were slow as a waddling duck the day of the Magi attack! Were you at the back of the pack or second to last?”
“Prince Mikil!” shouted the seamaster, finding his voice. “Seas Below! What an unlooked-for miracle!”
“As you gather, I’m not dead after all,” said Mikil. “Lautan the Munificent decided I have more chores to do on land before I am worthy of entry to the Kingdom under the Seas.”
“We are indebted to Lautan!” exclaimed the captain.
“Well, lubbers,” drawled Mikil, “are you planning to lower the gangplank this morning or just stand there gawking and wait for Midsummer’s Fest?”
The men rushed to lower the plank. Mikil strode aboard. When he told the story of Lautan’s rescue, the sailors’ mouths gaped in astonishment. He led them to the bow and poured a libation to the Spirit, giving thanks for his deliverance and mourning his lost crewmates. He was pleased to see how many sailors knelt and reverently chanted the proper responses.
“Seamaster, I am assuming command. Provision the ship well but with dispatch.
“We sail on the morning tide for Liddlecup and Tidewater Keep. I have been absent from my homeland too long.”
15
Slagos
Having never traveled anywhere except the one trip on the High Road of Alpetar after the raid on his village, Sweetmeadow, Gunnit found sailing on Island Song a fabulous adventure. He loved the experience of the wide ocean and was fascinated by the ship, its oars, and its riggings. After many moons living almost exclusively with women, he especially enjoyed the company of so many men. The sailors treated him as a pet and showed him all the workings of the sails and lashings. The youngest Free Stater, Tristo, especially, let Gunnit follow him around like a little brother and taught him songs and card tricks.
As the ship neared Slagos, Gunnit glumly realized that he would be parting from Tristo. Indeed, as soon as the ship tied up at the dock, Commander Thalen, Eli-anna, and Tristo bid the Alpies farewell, explaining again that they intended to sail immediately to another island to join Commander Thalen’s brother. The two sets of passengers embraced warmly as they made their farewells.
Gunnit didn’t have a chance to absorb or grieve over this parting, because in a trice Peddler hustled him to shore. “We have an urgent meeting to attend,” said Peddler. “Afterward, I’ll buy you a fine dinner at a tavern. We owe ourselves good grub after the wretched shipboard fare.”
Peddler took no notice of the stares that the island people directed at his yellowish hair and his bells. He stopped a few strollers to ask directions, then headed for a wide street that led uphill from the harbor.
Trailing after the old man, the boy was surprised by how hard he had to struggle to walk on solid land. He barely had time to gape at his new surroundings: all the people (some with green in their hair), the many stone buildings, the cobblestones covering the street, or the unfamiliar-looking trees. After many weeks captive on the ship, Peddler strode in such a terrible hurry that Gunnit fairly had to run to keep up with him.
Presently, they arrived at a courtyard on the top of a hill. In the center stood something Gunnit had never seen before: an extraordinary large statue of marble, half woman, half man, and covered all over with plants.
An elderly man in a green robe and a battered straw hat had walked toward them. He bowed low to Peddler. Peddler quickly assisted him to rise and clasped forearms with him.
“The honor is mine, Gardener,” he said. “I am overjoyed to meet you in the flesh. And I’d like you to meet my, my—”
“Apprentice?” supplied the old man.
“Exactly so. My apprentice, Gunnit of Cloverfield. Someday, he will fill my role. Gunnit, lad, Gardener doesn’t see the way other people see. Will you come close and let him touch your face?”
Gunnit complied. The old man’s milky gray eyes appeared to be sightless. “But
I’m not sure I want to be a peddler,” he said, belatedly reacting to the term “apprentice” as the soft hand skimmed the surface of his face, learning his features.
The two old men just laughed at him.
Squawk, said a multicolored bird. “I want to be a peddler,” it repeated, in Gunnit’s exact voice. The boy jumped in surprise.
“Gunnit, would you mind letting me touch Saulė’s Bracelet?” Gardener asked.
“How did you know I am wearing it?” Gunnit wondered.
“I told you, lad,” said Peddler, “that Gardener sees things his own way. Go on, roll up your sleeve.”
Gunnit did as he was bid. Gardener touched the gold Bracelet with reverence. Then he turned back to Peddler. “How fortunate you are, to have a Chosen Apprentice! I do not know who will care for Vertia’s Garden when I’m gone.”
“Yes,” said Peddler, tousling Gunnit’s hair. “I recognize my blessing. I don’t have to tell you that being an Agent can be a lonely life.”
“Gunnit, would you like to tour my garden?” Gardener led Gunnit through a stone portico and down a set of stone steps. “I’m certain that my garden would like to see you.”
The garden looked like nothing Gunnit had ever seen or imagined. In Alpetar everyone enjoyed meadows of wildflowers, but no one deliberately grew one flower next to another in such patterns. Gunnit was in awe of the garden’s luxurious textures, colors, and scents—the tropical flowers, shrubs, and trees arranged in bright masses, with each bed uniquely designed.
After his tour, Gardener brought Peddler and Gunnit to sit on the stone steps. He served them a tisane that tasted like peppermint, along with slices of an exotic fruit, green and filled with tiny red seeds, which Gunnit found delicious. He worried he was making a pig of himself, but neither Peddler nor Gardener chastised him when he reached for more pieces.
A Broken Queen Page 10
