by Mirren Hogan
“It’s a shame they’re carnivorous and more vicious than a woman on her monthly blood,” he added lightly.
Adina was sure that Tabia would have struck him gently on the arm for that, but she didn’t dare. Instead she grimaced at him, but he just grinned back, undeterred.
“It’s not like it’s not true. At least with some women. Some are just vicious all the time.”
“I wonder why,” she replied, not meaning to be disrespectful. The moment she said the words, she wished she hadn’t. “I’m sorry, I—” She blushed.
He just laughed again. “Do I really seem like I’d be offended that easily?” he asked.
“I suppose not,” she mumbled.
“I’m not, trust me. I have a thick skin.”
That was the second time in a short while that a man had asked her to trust him. Harshal might be a jokester, but she knew she could rely on him as much as Tabia. Fanashil, on the other hand . . . She looked around in the direction he’d headed and saw him speaking to some of the members of his crew and gesturing toward the rigging. He glanced over at her and gave her a smile, as though they shared something intimate.
“I meant what I said about him,” Harshal said. “He has a story for every occasion and every person, and they’re different every time.”
She turned back to him. “How do you know?” she asked.
“I’ve travelled with him before.” Harshal’s demeanour changed slightly. He became more serious, a slight frown furrowing his brow, deepening the lines around his eyes. Whatever he was remembering, it wasn’t something pleasant.
“Where did you go?” she asked softly.
“Hmm?” He blinked twice. “Oh. I went back to Vanmala for a little while.”
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. To fill the awkward silence, she cleared her throat. “So that was a long journey on this ship?” He must know Fanashil quite well then.
“No, it was a different ship. He was first mate, but still the same as ever. Several of the female slaves died on the journey over and no one would really talk about it, but I heard whispers that they’d refused him, and he’d had them killed. They were young and healthy, they wouldn’t have just died while older slaves survived.” His frown deepened.
“I tried to—” He shook his head, seemed to come out of his thoughts with a start and looked surprised to see her still there. “Just be careful, all right? He’s dangerous and far too smooth for his own good.”
She wasn’t sure what to think, or whether there was any truth to what Harshal had told her. Obviously, he believed it to be true, but sometimes seemingly healthy people died. Perhaps they’d been so seasick they couldn’t recover? On such a long voyage, that didn’t seem impossible. She certainly didn’t want to think about food or water right now. For weeks on end, it would certainly get worse. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to believe Harshal, but rumours were only rumours and there were other potential explanations.
Either way, perhaps he was right; she should keep away from the captain. If she could stop being seasick, she could get on with learning to use her magic.
“Oh, by the way, I have something for you.” He reached into the pouch at his hip and grinned again as she gave him a sceptical look.
“Unless you prefer to be sick?” He drew out a packet of dried herbs and handed it to her.
She took it and sniffed tentatively. Anything nasty-smelling would be very likely to make her retch again. She had nothing left to bring up, but it was still unpleasant. The herbs smelled fresh and minty, both pleasant and potent enough to clear her head.
“It’s permanday. It’s good for treating nausea and vomiting. You need to put it some hot water and drink it. It works, believe me.”
Adina wondered if this was all Fanashil had been referring to as his secret remedy. But no, she suspected he was implying something far worse, like ayra. She would stick to harmless herbs like this.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him.
“You’re welcome. I’d heat you some water, but—” He gestured toward the coast in the distance.
It took her a moment to realise it, but of course without contact with the earth, he couldn’t use magic. She knew how it felt to be vulnerable; it couldn’t be something he’d enjoy.
“Maybe it’s time to start learning from Kwame,” he said lightly. At least they weren’t lacking in water.
CHAPTER 32
Dust.
Between Dassane and the Chaqian border there was nothing but dust. The road was churned daily by travellers, dozens upon dozens treading the dirt into increasingly finer granules which were swept up and around by even the gentlest breeze. Darai’s nose was clogged with it, his eyes watered from it. Dust flies warred with each other to lick the moisture from his face. His arm ached from waving them away. He’d thought Nageso was dry, but it was an oasis compared to this.
Hafta was amicable enough company. She liked to talk; he pretended to listen. He didn’t think she was fooled, but the arrangement worked for them both.
He swatted away another dozen dust flies and picked up several sticks that lay scattered under a dusty tree. They all looked like that out here. He had to be careful not to knock a branch, or he’d risk sending a shower of it into the air.
He was starting to wonder if he was making the right decision. He could have gone somewhere with water and bushes. He could have gone and sat on a beach. He could have done anything and gone anywhere, but he was on the side of a dusty road, gathering wood that would last an hour at most.
“Why are you going to Chaq?” he’d asked.
“Because I want to,” she said, then laughed as though she’d said something hilarious.
He hadn’t pushed her any further.
She told him about every other aspect of her life, from her dozen children to her husband who had died and left her only the cart and old horse. True, he’d only paid attention to some of it, but apparently no topic was out of bounds, except her reason for travelling in this direction. Strangely, it became the only thing he was really interested in.
That and looking back down the road in the hope of seeing Adina following. For the first few days, he’d looked perhaps a hundred times. As the days passed, the glances became less frequent and considerably less hopeful.
“Who you leave behind?” Hafta asked from where she stood in the meagre shade beside the cart. “Woman? Man? Family?” She frowned at the last, as though he might have abandoned a dozen children.
Darai considered lying. It really wasn’t any of her business, although she’d shared all of the details of her life with him. In the end he decided that he might as well tell her. What was there to lose anyway? He’d walked away from Adina, and she’d probably be better off without him.
And if, he thought sourly, she wanted to throw in her lot with the sorcerers, then he was better off without her. How she couldn’t see what they were really like was beyond him. None of them were to be trusted, not one. He did wonder if they’d come for him, but so far he’d seen no sign of them either.
“A woman,” he said finally. “We had different ideas about a few things.”
“I bet you were wrong,” Hafta replied, grinning.
He frowned. “What makes you think that?” he asked. Certainly his choices hadn’t always been the right ones, but this time he didn’t see it that way. In fact, he couldn’t see that he’d had an alternative choice. Leave or die. What could be right or wrong there?
“Because you’re male. Males always wrong.” She laughed.
He didn’t.
What did his sex have anything to do with it? Women made mistakes just as often as men did. If he had to weigh the last few weeks up, he’d say they made them more often. Between Tabia and Adina his life was upside down and inside out. True, Harshal hadn’t been much help, but he hadn’t inflicted as much damage either. And damn the gods but Hafta wasn’t helping much.
“Right.” He bent down to pick up the last of the wood and carried it
over to the wagon.
“You know I just joke with you?” she asked, reaching to take some of it from his arms. “Men, women, same-same. None perfect. Everyone make mistakes. What you disagree on?”
“She thinks the sorcerer’s guild is to be trusted,” he replied, more curtly than he’d intended. “I don’t.”
“Ah.” Hafta nodded sagely. “Why you not think you can trust?”
Darai hesitated. He wasn’t going to tell her everything, that much he knew. She might be scared if she knew he could use magic, and rightly so. She might also decide to take him back to Dassane. Not that she could make him go, by any means, but she could leave him here to walk alone. Or rather, with the dust and flies.
“They almost killed me,” he admitted. “And her. They don’t know what they’re doing. We’d all be better off staying as far away from them as possible.” He waited for her to respond, possibly to contradict him, but she merely nodded and waved for him to get back up onto the cart.
“We got ways to go before dark.” She squinted toward the northern horizon. “We make Joluwei before sunset or we spend night out in dust.”
She didn’t seem perturbed at the idea, but he grimaced.
“Joluwei?” he asked, unfamiliar with the area.
“Is no Dassane, but we can bathe there. Maybe you wash my back!” She looked him up and down and laughed while he blushed. “Ah, I joke again and you no laugh. I try harder.”
For some reason this made him smile. “I’m sorry, it’s just—”
“Ah!” She waved a hand. “You been through stuff. You get lighter someday.”
He assumed she meant he’d lighten up some day, but he wasn’t sure it’d be any day soon. The farther from Dassane he got, the better he should feel, but he felt more and more tense. He was determined that he was doing the right thing, but Hafta had instilled a small measure of doubt in the back of his mind.
***
Joluwei was, as Hafta had said, not Dassane. It was only a fraction of the size; several small buildings and a larger one which served as an inn. Darai had half-expected it to be run down or quiet, but it looked like everyone traveling in the direction of the Chaqian border had stopped here for the night.
Dozens of horses, donkeys, carts, and people milled around in the inn’s yard, while staff helped remove harnesses and settle the animals in stables or beside a trough. They looked very much like this amount of people was a normal occurrence. Of course, no one would sleep in the dust when they had a choice.
All of these people made Darai nervous. On the road, they could move at their own pace and let others hurry past. At times they’d gone for hours without seeing anyone apart from clouds of dust on the horizon. That had been fine by him. The fewer people he dealt with, the less likely he’d be to hurt someone.
A man pushed past him as he climbed down from the cart. He gave a hasty apology, but the man turned back and glared before hurrying on. It put Darai even more on edge. All he wanted was to eat and sleep, not make enemies.
“Go see if inn have room,” Hafta said. “I fix horse.”
Darai would have preferred the other way around, but as both horse and cart were hers, he couldn’t disagree with her. He gave a soft, reluctant sigh, but he nodded and grabbed his small bag.
Stepping inside, he realised the inn had at least three stories. Two were obvious from the outside, but a staircase descended underground. It looked well-used and although the carpet covering the treads was faded in the middle, it was wide enough for several people to walk side by side. A similar staircase led to the upper level, but the carpet here was newer. It made sense; out here it’d be cooler below the earth. The upper level was probably hot and undesirable. That made up Darai’s mind.
He walked across the polished wooden floor to what he assumed was the front desk. A man stood behind it, dressed in a neat uniform of dark blue trousers and a patterned orange and blue sleeveless shirt. His arms showed hints of excess fat, matching the layer around his belly. He looked the type to organise people, not carry things around.
“Deefu? Ya vanya ji?” The inn keeper looked questioningly at him.
“I don’t understand,” Darai said in Mindossan.
“Ey, sorry fellow.” The man switched from Chaqian to lightly, accented Mindossan. “You looked like you’re from Chaq. Can I help you?”
Darai looked down at himself. Perhaps Chaqians were known for being dusty. If that was the case, he’d fit the description perfectly. His dark skin was covered in a layer of it. If he coughed, he’d be coughing up brown saliva. He just wanted to wash it all away.
“Yes. Can I have an upstairs room please?” he asked.
The inn keeper’s eyes widened in surprise. “Fellow, we have plenty of rooms available downstairs. A party just left and—”
“No, please I’d like to be up there.” Darai pointed. If sleeping on the upper level was undesirable, then fewer would do it. Maybe he and Hafta would have the place to themselves. He considered asking for a downstairs room for her, but dismissed it. Neither of them carried enough gold for separate rooms. As it was, he’d probably be sleeping on the floor.
“Righto fellow, I can do this. Please follow me.” The innkeeper grabbed a key and started up the stairs.
Halfway up, Darai almost changed his mind. The upper level of the inn felt like the inside of a fire-pit after a boar had been set to roast for several hours. It lacked the enticing smell, however, having instead the odour of people and the lingering scent of something floral and cloying.
“Here you are, fellow.” The innkeeper stopped at the end of a corridor and unlocked a room.
The heat inside was even worse, although the windows at the other side of the room looked like they might open. The room itself was small, containing only a bed for two, a small table, two chairs and a small privy. A jug of water on the table wouldn’t be enough to wash with.
The carpet on the floor was dark green and only looked well-trodden near the table. Everything in the room seemed to shine; it must have been dusted often, or at least recently.
“Sorry fellow, the windows were closed to keep out the dust.” The innkeeper unlatched them and forced the groaning frames to open far enough to let in the breeze. It did little to cool the room, but sent a torrent of motes to dance in the shaft of twilight which pierced the glass.
“I’ll leave you to it.” The innkeeper backed out quickly, possibly concerned that Darai would change his mind.
The door closed with a click and Darai was alone for the first time in weeks. He walked to the jug, but only renewed his earlier assumption that it’d do little to wash him. The dust made his skin itch, he wanted it off, but there was only one way he could think of to do that. The idea was unpalatable at best and dangerous at worst. Still, it was just this once.
Taking a breath, he pulled off his shirt and drew on the magic in the air around him. It parted the dust and made the twilight even more red. Gently, it wound around his arm and began to sluice the dust off his skin.
He’d done both arms and was starting on his chest when the door opened.
“What you do?” Hafta demanded.
CHAPTER 33
Darai released the magic immediately and grabbed his shirt to hold in front of himself.
Hafta smirked. “You think I care if you no got a shirt on? Nothin’ I haven’t seen, boy. Not that you not nice to look at.” She waved a hand. “Doesn’t matter. You do magic?”
He looked at her face and couldn’t lie. “Yes,” he admitted sullenly. “I wish I didn’t, but . . . ” He’d been stupid to use it, especially for something like this. For the gods’ sake, it was only dust. He’d spent most of his life covered in it, and the blood of various animals he’d killed. The guild had made him soft, and he was disgusted with himself.
“I wish you didn’t too,” she replied. “You no travel with me now. I not trust.”
He gaped at her. “I’m sorry, I won’t use it again. I swear by all the—”
�
��No!” She cut him off. “I might be old, but Hafta is not stupid. You not trained, that’s why you leave, yes?”
He nodded.
“You put everyone in danger. If you can’t control, then you can’t use. Same with any tool.”
“I said I won’t—”
“No!” She shouted him down. “You used. I can’t trust you. You not stay near me!” She backed away. “You ran away, now you a danger.”
He felt a sudden jolt of anger. “I had no choice! The sorcerers almost killed me, and I was attacked by something. If I’d stayed I’d end up dead.”
“There’s always choice!” She roared. “You chose to run. You a coward. You think your life is more important than mine, or innkeeper, or some woman in room downstairs? You think the world needs you? Maybe you think the gods need you, eh?
“Boy, the gods not need you. No one need you. You nothing special. You better off to stay and train or die there than make dangerous for everyone else. You think of this? No. You not think at all!”
She was right, but her words made him so furious he felt the blood pounding in his ears. He wanted to yell back that she was wrong; that he could control himself and the magic. He was no child, he could avoid using magic, he’d just been thoughtless. Maybe if he believed those words, he’d have been able to say them.
Instead, the realisation of his selfishness filled him with white hot fury. He should have been angry with himself, he should have backed down and agreed to start back to Dassane. However, his mind wasn’t rational enough for that. He blamed her. Hafta was the one who took his mistake and threw it in his face like a fistful of boiling water. She was the one who stood screaming at him like an orange-bellied ember bird.
The anger burnt up inside him and without thinking he drew enough magic that it filled him from the bottom of his feet to the hairs on his head. His hands tingled with it, an itch far worse than anything the dust could have given him.
