Under Earth

by Ellen Renner

  Storm stood stiffly, sandwiched between the boys. She stared into the water. Her thumb throbbed in time to her heartbeat as she watched the dark shape of a huge creature pass far below, swimming beneath the shadow of the Wayfarer.

  “I wanted a word,” said her uncle, carefully extinguishing the lighting stick in the bucket of water beside the door. In the flare of lamplight, he studied her face. They were in the chart room – the captain’s sleeping quarters and the only private place aboard ship. “Without your shadow listening in. Although, come to think of it, Cloud hasn’t been underfoot lately. You two fallen out?”

  “No.” Storm shrugged. “Not really.”

  “Hmph. Wouldn’t be a tragedy if you had. He’s too focused on you. There’s no future there.”

  Storm found she was offended. “It’s not that!”

  “Oh?” Lake’s eyebrows rose in a questioning curve.

  “It’s my magic Cloud likes, not me!”

  “So that’s the way of it? I noticed he fancies playing hero.”

  “He’s angry with me for not sinking the raft town.”

  “And I’m pleased you didn’t kill yourself trying! You’re of no worth to Yanlin drowned and eaten by the fishes!”

  A proprietorial glint in his eyes. Storm looked away.

  “But I didn’t bring you here to talk about Cloud. I need to warn you.”

  She glanced up, wondering.

  “The Pact,” said Lake, as if that explained everything.

  “What about it, Uncle?” Everyone knew about the Pact – the group of fifteen families who ran Bellum Island, where most trading was done.

  “They’ll be after you.”

  “After me? I don’t understand.”

  “Witches…” he paused, his jaws working as if he was chewing on something foul tasting, “…don’t have to work for their birth island. The Pact will try and win you. Bribe, if you like. So you’ll leave us and go work for them. Make them even richer!”

  “But I wouldn’t!”

  He just looked at her, then licked his lips. Sighed. “Teanu said you’d be loyal, but … she’s never met Talon. He runs the place, and he’s sly, even for a Bellumer. So I’m warning you: don’t trust him. Don’t trust a one of them. Remember who you are, Storm. Remember Minnow and Dain.”

  It felt like he had slapped her. After a while she said, “I’m not likely to forget them.”

  One five-day later, they arrived at the centre of the Inner Sea: Bellum Island. Every crew member not actively sailing the ship had gathered on deck. The winds were against them so, at her uncle’s request, Storm had magicked a northerly to blow the fleet swiftly over this last leg of their journey. To her relief, her Air-magic, always more reliable than Water, had worked predictably. Now she stood beside Lake and watched the most famous island of them all turn from a faint smudge on the horizon into solid land.

  Land, but unlike any island Storm had ever seen. Instead of cliffs, beaches and shoaling rocks, Storm saw a wall of solid lava rising sheer out of the sea. The cliff was the reddish-black colour of burnt grain, and it loomed higher the closer they got until it was taller than two ships stacked one atop the other.

  “Ease the northerly!” ordered Lake. “Then a gentle easterly, to help us circumnavigate to starboard.”

  Storm was full of questions, but she pushed them from her mind for the moment and concentrated on shifting the direction of her wind. What if her magic failed again?

  Worrying won’t help! snapped her mind-voice.

  One by one, the Wayfarer in the lead, Yanlin’s fleet veered right and began to sail around the enormous cliff encircling Bellum Island.

  Storm darted a glance at her uncle. Lake was frowning in concentration as he adjusted the tiller with small, precise movements, keeping the ship in a channel of deep water between the wall and a string of dangerous-looking rocks to their right. She bit her lip, her forehead beading with sweat as she struggled to keep her wind soft and steady. Gentle magic was always the hardest! Behind them, the rest of the fleet followed in their wake, tracing a slow and treacherous path around the island.

  Is this place nothing but a lump of lava? Storm wondered. Is the town perched on the top of the cliff like a gull in its nest? Where is the harbour? But she didn’t dare interrupt her uncle’s concentration to ask. Without warning, a trio of three sleek harrier ships appeared in front of them, apparently popping out of solid rock. A dark line appeared in the lava wall, gradually widening to form an opening. The ships had emerged from a tunnel in the lava cliff!

  Storm felt a shiver of awe run up her spine. She was looking at the doorway to Bellum Island! Now the legendary wealth and power were explained. Not only was Bellum the belly button of the world, placed as it was at the exact centre of the Inner Sea, but the island itself was a freak of nature, encircled completely by a wall made of hardened lava. These were defences no pirate or Drowned One could ever penetrate.

  “Belay the wind!” growled Lake.

  Storm let her wind fade and stood, shivering with excitement. One of the harriers launched a small boat crewed by three men. Two rowers sent the boat bouncing across the wave-tops towards them while the passenger in the bow stood once they were within hailing distance.

  “Identify yourself!” he shouted. “Island and captain.”

  “Yanlin. Lake of Yanlin!” her uncle roared back.

  The man checked a tally sheet, nodded. “Clear to enter, Lake of Yanlin!” The boat reversed and rowed back towards the harrier.

  “Lower the rowing boat!” Lake shouted.

  The rowing boat would laboriously pull the Wayfarer through the tunnel piercing the cliff, Storm realised. And then the remaining ships, one by one. “Uncle!” she interrupted, wondering at her bravery. “I can take the fleet through.”

  “Wha—” Her uncle stared blankly at her, then a slow grin spread over his face. “Genius!” he said with a laugh. “Of course you can. Belay that rowing boat!” he roared at the crew, and the men winding the windlass shrugged and cranked the boat back on deck. Eyes wide with delight, Lake said to her, “This’ll put a stir into ’em! Yanlin will make a grand entrance. Not to mention the time and sweat you’ll save us.” He lowered his voice, leaned towards her. “You sure you can do it? It’s a narrow tunnel. Narrow and long, and not a breath of wind.”

  “There will be wind today!” Storm grinned back at him, excited and nervous, but certain of her power. Precise magic, and gentle, but she knew she could do it. She looked up and saw the unmistakable arc of wings far overhead. For the first time since becoming an Air-witch Storm felt pleasure at the sight of the Albatross – and a sense of belonging.

  Storm knew it would be easier to direct the wind if she followed the fleet. One by one, and with much groaning of timber and clinking of tackle, the other ships eased past.

  Air-music was already singing in her veins and pulsing in her head, smooth and cool, light and flowing. A breeze came with her first thought, blowing light and steady. Part of her mind noticed that the sails of the Bellum harrier ships, which lay only a few ship-lengths away, did not so much as flutter. Precise magic indeed! She felt a stir of pride as the stern of the first of Yanlin’s ships disappeared from sight into the tunnel, but pride was immediately replaced by panic. What if the tunnel changed direction? If the narrow channel twisted right or left, her wind must shift in turn, or the ships would be left stranded, becalmed.

  “Is the tunnel straight?” Storm grabbed at her uncle’s arm.

  Lake understood at once. “No, by the Ancestors! Halfway along it twists like an eel and doubles back on itself. Shall I sound a warning bell and stop the ship?”

  “No. Wait!” Storm glanced at the sky and saw the Albatross near overhead, wings set wide, like twin sails. As she watched the Elemental, Storm saw, as though with a second pair of eyes, a curving canyon below her. She saw a winding path of blue water twisting between red-black walls.

  A shiver of joy and fear combined ran up and down her spine. I a
m seeing through the eyes of the Albatross itself! This was magic indeed! It was intoxicating.

  “I can see,” Storm said. “It’s all right.” She marvelled that her voice was so calm. With her human eyes, Storm watched the tunnel eat the second ship. At the same time the Elemental spirit showed her the first ship, as it reached a turn in the channel. She adjusted the leading edge of her wind.

  Storm guided each ship, following the twists of the tunnel, adjusting her magical wind for each vessel. Her second sight watched the first ship break free of the tunnel and enter the wide blue lake that was the harbour of Bellum Island. One by one, the Yanlin ships passed through the tunnel, making rapid progress. The Wayfarer joined the end of the queue. At last her uncle’s ship burst out of the confining walls of lava and her two sights became one.

  “Cracking!” breathed Lake. “No one will have ever seen anything like that before. And look – the grandees have come themselves to see us arrive. It’s the head of the Pact himself! Old Talon, with a welcoming committee.” He gripped her arm, pulled her closer and said in a low voice, “Remember my warning – the old spider is spinning his web. Don’t get caught!”

  Storm looked where her uncle was pointing and saw three bright figures waiting at the end of a great pier, surrounded by a sturdy thicket of drab-coloured soldiers, like a herd of dung beetles guarding rainbow moths. The leaders of Bellum Town, the richest and most powerful people in the world, had come to witness the arrival of Yanlin’s new Weather-witch.

  She sat at the back of the long rowing boat, behind her uncle, watching Bellum Town grow closer with each heave of the oarsmen. The sun’s heat was already scorching, and she welcomed the spray that splashed over the bow. The Pact leaders, waiting on the pier, looked like brightly painted dolls.

  Storm clambered out of the rowing boat as soon as it was made fast and followed Lake’s broad back up the steep steps carved into the stone pier. As soon as she stepped on to solid ground, the earth seemed to sway beneath her. Storm grabbed the metal handrail until the pier settled into a slightly nauseating roll. So this was what it felt like to lose your land legs!

  “Mistress Storm of Yanlin!”

  Storm peered around her uncle to blink at the speaker, a tall round-bellied man with long, curling moustaches. He wore an ornate silk robe of gold and green; his feet were encased in narrow leather shoes of brightest carmine, with pointed toes so long they were tied to his ankles with ribbon to keep them from dragging in the dirt. Instead of a topknot, his hair tumbled in ringlets to his shoulders, and the top of his head was submerged beneath a triangular hat made of orange silk. It was wider than his shoulders, and the pink ribbon attached to its crown curled and uncurled in the breeze.

  Either side of him stood a woman and a man dressed just as strangely. Lake tugged her forward. Storm’s mouth went dry and she bowed deeply.

  She noticed, with amazement, that the three Pact grandees were wearing a sort of coloured paste on their faces. They had painted their cheeks pink, and drawn dark lines on their eyelids, and darkened their plucked and arched brows with kohl.

  “Mistress Storm!” The man – who must be the dangerous Talon – rolled the words on his tongue as though they were wine. “Welcome to Bellum Town. We are honoured to greet the greatest witch of our generation.”

  Storm could not help noticing that all three strangers watched her with a greed that even the thick layers of paint could not conceal. “The honour is mine.” She fixed a formal smile on her face. “But I am called simply Storm, not Mistress. I am a non-sex.”

  “As you wish, Honoured Storm. Let me present you to my colleagues. This is Waffa, who keeps the tally books for the whole of the Pact.”

  The woman stepped forward. Narrow eyes stabbed at Storm.

  “And Almond, who has taken himself away from the trading floors to meet you! The youngest member of the Pact.”

  The second man bowed gracefully, like a dancer, and when he raised his head Storm was struck by the symmetry of his face, made more striking by the blankness of the paint.

  Formalities over, Talon continued their conversation: “Your fame precedes you … Storm. The chanters sing of the sinking of the pirate raft in Yanlin’s harbour last season. Is it true they attacked again, during your voyage to the Inner Sea?”

  Impressed, Storm said, “Your spies are efficient.”

  “Of course.” His moustaches spread in a grave smile. “We pay them well. And now,” said Talon, pressing his hands together, “I offer you the hospitality of my humble home while you are on Bellum Island. My daughter is beside herself with excitement at the idea of meeting you.”

  Lake had warned her, but Storm had not expected Talon to pounce so soon. “But I could not impose!”

  “No imposition, but the highest honour, I assure you.”

  Custom dictated that she must accept, and Storm found she wanted to go with Talon, to see his grand house and meet his daughter. “My uncle and I would be honoured—”

  “Captain Lake will be able to visit you whenever he desires, of course. He will be too busy trading to enjoy our frivolities.”

  Storm glanced at her uncle. Lake was turning pink with the effort of not scowling. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “But I have not brought my things…”

  Other than the clothes she wore, Storm had one change of clothing. As she considered her appearance, her face grew hot. Her tunic and trousers were made of coarse hempen cloth, patched and mended, faded with sun and sea spray. She had not given them a thought before now, but suddenly Storm imagined how she must look to Talon and his companions: a peasant in shabby rags.

  “No need, Honoured Storm. We will provide everything you might wish. It will be our pleasure!”

  “A private word with my niece, Talon, before you whisk her away!” Lake gave a grimace, which some might take for a smile, before grabbing her elbow and tugging her to one side. He glared over his shoulder at the nearest soldiers, and Talon, with an ironic smile, flicked his long red nails. The guards retreated out of earshot.

  “Blast the old octopus!” Lake growled, a low grumble of frustration. “He’ll try to dazzle you with riches and promises. Believe none of their words! Keep your wits about you, Niece, and meet me in the Merry Whale in a five-day when the sun is six hands risen above the sea. If you can’t get away that day, then you must come the next. Make any excuse you must, but meet me at the tavern!”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in the centre of town. Ask anyone. And—”

  Two guards suddenly loomed behind them, and Lake choked off his words, wheezing in irritation.

  “You can continue your conversation when you visit your niece.” Talon’s voice rang out behind them, musical as a bell. “Any time, Captain Lake, any time. Only do make an appointment at the guardhouse, you know. And now I fear we must leave. It is simply too fatiguing to stand here in the sun one breath longer!”

  The guards stepped between them, forcing Lake to let go of Storm’s arm. He bowed curtly, turned and stalked back towards the pier. Storm watched him go, feeling a heady mixture of excitement and trepidation. She was living Thorn’s dream. Here she was on Bellum Island, belly button of the world! And she was on her own for the first time in her life, without another Yanliner near. And the most important people in the world wanted her company! She felt grown up and important.

  Talon gestured that she should walk beside him. The two other grandees stepped back to let them pass, but Storm heard their silken rustle follow close behind. The beetle-brown guards pushed a path through the gathered crowd of townsfolk and sailors as the procession climbed the hill towards the heart of Bellum Town. Storm glanced over her shoulder and had a last glimpse of the Wayfarer, bobbing gently at anchor.

  The procession wound its way up the steep road. After weeks at sea, the smells of the island assaulted Storm: the stink of rotting seaweed; latrines; cook fires; charcoal from a forge. Hanging overhead was the green-resin scent of pine trees and the smokier perfume of the dis
tant jungle. Under everything lay the deep smell of earth itself.

  As they climbed, the vast warehouses lining the harbour became long rows of brick houses, the walls plastered yellow, red, blue or pink. It was all so different from Yanlin. Only the seagulls screaming overhead were the same.

  Townsfolk crowded everywhere, carrying bundles, pulling carts, dodging and yelling. Soon the road levelled out and the procession travelled along wide streets lined with tall, rich-looking buildings. At last, the procession turned into a square, surrounded on two sides by towering buildings, and on the third by an enormous gatehouse with a tiled roof.

  The open space was paved with alternating squares of red stone and yellow brick. To Storm, it looked like a giant gaming board. Only, instead of tokens, the squares were filled with tables and stalls covered in goods: pumpkins, mangoes and melons; fresh fish and dried; scarves and ribbons; boots and belts; knives and whetstones; arrows and bows; ornaments made of shells and beads; embroidered cloth; and lengths of silk dyed all the colours of the rainbow.

  “Is it market day?” she asked Talon.

  “You mean the stalls? No, they are here every day.”

  The noise of commerce died at their approach. People turned and stared as Talon’s procession marched through the square towards the gatehouse. The huge iron gate was quartered with images of the four Elementals.

  The gatehouse guards snapped to attention and hurried to push the gate inward. It swung open with oiled ease.

  As Storm passed the coiled image of the Salamander, her left hand crept to cover the scar on her right wrist – the brand that marked the Fire spirit’s last attempt to kill her.