Water Witch

by Connie Willis

  —Thank you, dear,—her father said suddenly inside her mind.—I wish I could say the same for you.—

  —I thought you were out in the pens with the other livestock,—Deza said.

  —I am, and not one of them that can hold a decent conversation, I might add. Not one of them with an ounce of sense,—he added pointedly.

  —Including me, I suppose? I think I’m doing rather well,—she snapped.—I got us in, didn’t I?—

  —Oh, yes, and you didn’t need the peketa at all, did you, daughter?—

  —All right, I used the peketa. But I wouldn’t have had to. It just seemed the fastest way out of a boring situation.—

  —And now that you have gotten in and are safely established in your old room, you will have no trouble working cons alone, I suppose.—

  —I don’t see why I should. I always did all the work, anyway.—

  —Then you won’t need my advice,—her father said stiffly, and went away.

  —That’s right. I won’t.—She slammed the slipspace closed. She couldn’t use it again until she found out who had the room below. A sudden thought struck her. It had been the priest’s before it had been her father’s. What if they stuck Radi in there now?

  “It won’t do any good,” she said aloud. “He’s too stupid to find it.” And she was stupid to say anything aloud, even if she was almost sure there were no listeners placed. She added silently, fiercely, I can handle Radi. And cons. And all of them. I know a thing or two about a swindle, Father.

  Deza dumped water in the bath from the copper vats overhead and shrugged out of her filthy clothes. That was the only good thing about these ridiculous Kalmarrans. They smothered in their airtight houses, dressed in suffocating furs and layers of itching wool, but they had marvellous ideas of what a bath should be like. They were wasting Mahali’s water suicidally, but Deza didn’t care. She sank up to her neck in the fragrant water, leaned her head back against the wooden edge of the bath, and breathed in the heavenly wet pine smell.

  The foreigners all took hot baths for some unknown reason, drenching the room in steam. This was the coolest Deza could get the bath by mixing from the vats, and the lowest. The Kalmarrans swam around in five feet of the water like boiled fish, turning red with the heat. Deza could not stand that much water around her, even though confined in the tub like this it did not have much power. Still, it made her cheekbones ache.

  Deza unsnapped the gembone filigrees and dipped her face in the water, scrubbing with her hands to get the parched-look makeup off and then the peketa bite, which was fixed securely with glue. She let it soak a minute in the water, then gave it a good yank. She looked at it a moment and then laid it on the edge of the bath. It really was one of her father’s best inventions. Even Radi had been fooled. The idiot! He hadn’t even known what to do with the ceremonial water when she’d practically poured it on him. He’d been too busy taking in the charms she’d been working on Edvar, like some moonstruck boy. Well, that certainly didn’t hurt, as long as he was safely below-stairs and didn’t interfere with the con. He might even be useful to make Edvar jealous.

  Deza stood up, dripping water and grateful for the cooling evaporation in the stifling room. She snapped the filigrees in place again, tried to drag a comb through her curls, now a hopeless frizzle from the water, and resignedly began to climb into the layers of clothes the Kalmarrans called, by some quirk of reasoning, their summer clothing. She was into the ruffled muslin camisole and the first two layers of linen pettipants when the door opened.

  Deza went promptly onto the good ankle, holding the other one delicately arched, then was glad she had. It was Edvar ‘s mother, in a bundle of clothes that made her look twice as round and short as she really was. She had fur around her neck and wrists, and a little woolen cap edged with more fur. She managed to look delighted and annoyed at the same time. “My dear Deza,” she said sternly, “you should not be on that foot at all until it is rebandaged.”

  Deza hobbled obediently to a chair and sat down. The wife of the Tycoon, as she was called formally, or simply the wife, knelt before her with a large box of milkcloth bandages and ointments, and a huge flagon of water. “Now you must drink all of this, or you’ll take fever from that insect bite, and that wouldn’t do at all. Then you must tell me about your adventures. We were so dreadfully worried and had no idea where you were. Some awful place, I daresay. And your poor father. Edvar told me all about him. What a terrible thing for you, but at least here you are safe and sound after who knows what kind of adventures. I want to know all about them. Which ankle is it?”

  “This one,” Deza pointed, hoping the wife would not ask next to see her peketa bite, which was in the bathroom lying on the edge of the tub. “Ouch,” she said obligingly when the wife touched her ankle, and bit her lip. At least a twisted ankle didn’t have to look like anything. “The natives were chasing me and I tripped on a rock. They had spears!”

  “Spears! Oh, my dear, what an awful thing! You must tell me all about it. Drink,” she said with an imperative look at the flagon. Obediently Deza swallowed some water. The wife deftly bandaged the ankle in an endless length of imported milkcloth, which, thought Deza, is not such a bad thing because at least be able to keep track of which one it is. Only why is she here, kneeling at my feet, calling me her dear Deza, when she’s never liked me at all? She had occupied her few meetings with Deza with references to Edvar’s brilliant future on Kalmar, where Deza was sure she had someone appropriate all picked out for him. Deza, princess or not, had never fit into the mother’s plans.

  “I hope you weren’t hurt some other way,” the wife said suddenly. “I mean, those awful natives and all that time wandering by yourself in the desert…”

  What was she getting at? Rape? What a peculiar thing to say.

  “I mean,” she went on, seeming almost embarrassed. She must mean rape. “You can still… do… what your father said!”

  “I feel fine,” Deza said carefully. “I just twisted my ankle.” Of course I can still water-witch. But why on earth do you care? That’s supposed to be your husband’s concern.

  “I wasn’t able to hire anyone to go get the rocks before because… you understand my husband keeps me on a very strict allowance. But Edvar went out for me while you were gone. Poor boy, he was so lost without you and he had to have something to do. He’d heard of an area where there was supposed to be a deposit, and… well, I’m afraid there are rather a lot, but of course it won’t take you long to tell them apart. Your father said…”

  Deza knew exactly what her father had said. Had he been trying to placate the angry mother with hints of wealth to dazzle the folks back home, or simply bragging about his talented daughter to get the husband’s interest? “Oh, my yes, and she can also spin wishes into water.”

  “Where are they?” Deza said weakly.

  “Oh, outside in one of the barns. There simply wasn’t room for them in the house.”

  Deza was afraid to ask how many there were. If Edvar really had found a new deposit, there would be a ton of the shapeless dirty brown rocks, from the size of Deza’s fist to that of boulders, impossible to crack, uniformly gray-brown and unidentifiable.

  “Of course I realize only a few will be orbs, but out of so many rocks, there will have to be at least… how many do you think? Oh, my friends back home will be so envious. Some of them have paid fortunes for an orb and then had nothing inside. But thanks to your lucky talent, I shall have as many as I want.” She twisted her little plump hands together anxiously.

  She’s trying to think of a nice way to ask me when I’m going to start finding her orbs for her, Deza thought, and I’m not about to help her. Orbs, the famous Mahali geodes, were rare not only because it took exact proportions of minerals, ground water, and time to create the jeweled core to be found inside one when its heavy rock outer cover had been cracked. They were also wildly expensive because of the impossibility of locating one in the heap of gray, unmarked rocks they were to be f
ound in. Deza supposed her father had decided to embroider on her water-witching skills by saying she could feel the minute quantity of water trapped inside the orb. A marvellous but totally untrue boast, and if he had been drunk at the time, Deza would never forgive him.

  “I think…” Deza said, going a practiced white, “oh… oh!” She sank back against the furs, breathing hard. “There was this funny stabbing pain in my ankle just now… it… oh! There it went again.”

  “Of course, my dear, I should have made you lie down in the first place, for you simply must take enough time to finish that water, and when you do, I’ll have more sent up. I put a few drops of honey in it, that wonderful red honey they get at Sindra. Your ankle must get better, too. I shouldn’t have talked business, but I just couldn’t help thinking how wonderful it will be when my friends see the orbs I’ve got.” She was helping Deza limp over to the large carved bed, heavy with its load of comforters and blankets. “But I was very inconsiderate, my dear. Just imagine, spears. You must tell me all about it.” She held out the flagon to Deza, watched while she drank. Then she tucked Deza in up to her chin and waddled out. Deza stayed under the covers, her eyes closed.

  —Father,—she said firmly.—This is all your fault. Come here.—

  Nothing.

  —I mean it.—

  Still nothing.

  —Father, please!—

  The door opened. Deza opened her eyes and sat up in bed. “Edvar!” she said, and tried to pull the covers up over her revealing camisole. “Aren’t you supposed to be talking to your father?” Edvar was not supposed to see her like this, in her underwear, in bed. He was supposed to be allowed one glimpse, one promise at a time.

  “I talked to him,” Edvar said carelessly, and came at her like a bull. Deza rolled out of the bed on the far side and went for the door, trying to remember to limp in case she needed to use the ankle as a last resort. “Edvar, you shouldn’t be here. I’m not even dressed. What will your mother say? Or your father? Think of your father.” Please, think of your father, and stop looking at me like you’d like to devour me.

  “What about him?” He came around the bed, still speaking in that ominously careless tone. “And what do you care if you’re dressed? You can go around naked from now on if you want.” He seemed to savor that idea. “We’re getting married.”

  Deza was backed flat against the wall. “When?” she squeaked, and put her hands over her chest.

  “I told Father we’d get married when I said, not when he’s finished with his crazy schemes to get water.”

  What crazy schemes? Deza almost asked, then decided it was safer to put a chair between them.

  “I told him he could not dictate to me any longer, that you and I did not need him and his fancy house, that we would live in a native hut and raise mbuzim, that we would eat like natives, work like natives, without him. He has no domination over me. I like Mahali, it has a lot to offer me.” He lunged for her.

  Deza kept the chair between them, trying frantically to think, decided, and burst into noisy tears. “How could you?” she sobbed, sitting down on the chair. “Oh, Edvar, how could you?” She had taken her hands away from her chest and put them up to her face. Her breasts were heaving prettily with her sobs, but that should be no problem.

  It wasn’t. Edvar was instantly contrite. “Did I frighten you, my love? I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. You’re so charming and affectionate and… what a cad you must think me!”

  “No, Edvar, it isn’t that,” she sniffled, coloring a little. “I mean, I know it isn’t ladylike, but sometimes I don’t want to wait either. But to cut yourself off from your father like that. You can’t blame him for wanting us to wait. They say that waiting makes it better. And then we could live here. I don’t think I could live like the natives when they eat… they eat worms!” she wailed, and released a new flood of tears.

  “It’s not all stuff like worms,” he said, the words rushing. “There’s game to be found in the morning mists by hunters who know the ways of Mahali, and there are fruits in the oases that are so good they’re better than imported Kalmarran delicacies. I can take care of you, Deza. I would build you an airy hut, and keep you safe.”

  And out from under your father’s thumb, Deza thought. “I… I want to live here! And have pretty things like…”She plucked at a ribbon on the camisole. “So you’d want me. You won’t love me if I’m dirty and ragged and…”

  “But Deza, it’s not safe here,” he blurted.

  You’re telling me, Deza thought. But what danger was he talking about? Had he realized that she wasn’t a witch, that she couldn’t possibly read the geodes? “What do you mean, ‘not safe’?”

  He frowned. “Never mind. I’ll think of something. I have until tomorrow. In the meantime, don’t do anything to aggravate my father. Just go along with his scheme until I can get you out of here.”

  What scheme is he talking about, Deza wondered. The geodes? Or something her father had cooked up with the Tycoon? But before she could ask, Edvar hurried out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Whatever scheme he’s talking about, I’m going to get dressed before there are any more interruptions, she thought, because I am getting sick and tired of standing around in my underwear trying to work cons I don’t know anything about. She grabbed for a waistcoat and woolen overpants, and the door opened again.

  “Well, well,” said the Tycoon.

  Deza stayed where she was, like a cornered animal, with the clothes up against her, breathing steadily. She was more frightened than she had ever been in her life. She had not looked closely at this man when she came in the house, leaning on Edvar’s arm. She should have. She would have bolted and run right then. He had gone completely native since her departure. Where he had worn token robes over his own Kalmarran clothes, now he wore only the robe, brightly striped, and the cloth turban. His bare legs were short and heavily muscled. He was tanned, too, and his wide face was smiling pleasantly at Deza. Danger, every nerve in Deza’s body told her, danger.

  “I dismissed my priest because I had you,” he said casually, “but then I had neither. Now I have both again. I cannot seem to strike the proper balance.”

  Deza watched him silently.

  “It’s difficult to know which way to jump, you know, whether to trust that you will not take off again or to resume negotiations with the new religious man. On the whole, I think you are the better bet. Don’t you agree, Deza?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “The priest might leave. He’s taken water-hospitality. Who knows what else he might take? But you, Deza, you’re not going anywhere.” He put his hand against the door. He could flatten me with that hand, Deza thought. “I’ll see you at dinner, Deza dear. I trust you’ll be recovered by then.”

  Deza did not move until he had been gone a full five minutes. I am in trouble, she thought, I am in trouble here. Now I know why father left in such a hurry. This is not a con that either of us was working. That’s why we ran like a couple of scared rabbits. Well, I’m ready to run again.

  —Father…—she yelled, then aloud, not caring about listeners, “Father!”

  No answer.

  “You stupid mbuzi,” she shouted to the room. “You got me into this mess. Now you can get me out!” She stepped angrily out of the top layer of pettipants and flung them against the wall. “I want out, father, right now.” She unsnapped the filigrees and threw them, too. “You come talk to me, right now!”

  “You want to talk, Deza?” a voice said from behind her. Deza whirled. Radi was standing in front of the closet, the slipspace yawning open behind him. He was holding the fake peketa in his outstretched hand, and like everybody else in this forsaken place, he was smiling. “What a nice coincidence! I want to talk to you, too.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She stared at him, mouth agape and eyes wide, as if she couldn’t believe what she saw. She seemed transfixed by the peketa in his hand, yet managed to be an appealing picture of distr
ess, if he could believe it, with her skin scrubbed pink and her wet hair mingling with the ribbons on her bodice. Ever the actress, she’d received the Tycoon in her underwear looking as vulnerable as a hatchling gull and as foolish as one, too. Now she looked totally stunned by Radi’s sudden appearance and bewildered by the thing in his hand. But Radi saw something else, an aspect in her eyes that if not new was suddenly plain to him: fear. Only a hint in the pretty green eyes before she composed herself, but he knew he was not mistaken. Did she think he was going to expose her trick? He tossed the peketa to his other hand and closed his fingers over it.

  “A bit of warning and I wouldn’t have been so clumsy out there,” he said, “but I thank you just the same. Well done.”

  “I told you I could get us in. I’m not quite so sure I can get me out, which is something I’d like to do right away.” Her voice was a bit thin, and her eyes darted to the open slipspace behind him.

  “That won’t do,” he said, gesturing to the slipspace. “It only leads to my room, directly below-stairs.”

  “Is your door unlocked?” she said.

  “Not at the moment. I didn’t want anyone walking in on my, um, devotions. I bolted it before I came up here.”

  “But you can unlock it from inside? You’re sure?”

  He hadn’t tried the door before throwing the inner lock. He noticed now that Deza’s door did not have a similar device. He crossed the room to try the handle. It turned, but the heavy wooden door did not open. When he looked in the slender space between the door and jamb, he could see the shadow of the thick bolt holding it shut.