“You don’t want to leave her motherless,” the Chief Marshal said.
Cymbalin leaned forward with a sigh. “I heard stories about Parth and Linden, that a tired body could find peace here. I came to see if that was true.”
The Chief Marshall finished his ale with a gulp, then stood and wiped his hands on his thighs. “It is true enough,” he answered. He addressed the crowd. “This woman has done no wrong. I trust someone will see to her comfort and help her get settled.”
“But what about the child!” Rolo cried. “How did the brat get atop the mast?”
Without glance or warning, Rohn smacked Rolo with the back of his hand. “Watch your mouth,” the old man warned. “This woman and child are my guests.” He looked at Cymbalin. “If you agree, of course. I have the rooms.”
Cymbalin thanked him, but a little nervously. For the first time, she noted the resemblance between the two and the similarity of their names. Father and son, she realized. Then Rolo’s missing son would be grandson to Rohn.
The Chief Marshall turned back to Cymbalin. “Come see me tomorrow at the lunch hour,” he said.
Before Cymbalin could agree, the tavern door burst open again. A gnarly man, dripping wet and wild-eyed, called out. “Harbor-master! There’s another ship!”
The Harbor-master cursed and bolted out the door into the rain. Half the room followed, including the Chief Marshall. Those who remained were women. Cymbalin sprang up. She would not be left behind. Yet, the nurse at the hearth caught her hand. “Your daughter,” she said. “She’s awake.”
Cymbalin knelt down at Sorrow’s side and stroked her daughter’s hair as dark eyes blinked. “Mama,” Sorrow whispered. The child caught her mother’s hand. “Mama, I saw them! They spoke to me, and then they tried to take me. But I wouldn’t let them, Mama!”
“Who, Sorrow?” Cymbalin said, looking at the nurse. “Who did you see?”
All the other women pressed around as Sorrow hesitated. Finally, in her small voice she said, “The Sea Witches.”
A faint gasp went up from the nurse. She pressed a hand over Sorrow’s mouth and looked at Cymbalin. “Say nothing more!” she said to Sorrow. “Be quiet now!” When Sorrow understood, the nurse continued, her voice low enough to exclude the others. She turned up Sorrow’s hands. “I know these marks,” she said, showing the scars on the Sorrow’s palms and the backs of her small hands. “This child has been crucified.” Her eyes narrowed. “A sacrifice?”
Instantly suspicious, Cymbalin drew her sword closer. She noted the bowl of herb-scented water. “Are you a witch?” she whispered to the nurse.
“No, but I am from Esgaria across the sea,” she answered, “and I know things. If sorcery is behind all this mystery, those men are ill-prepared for it.”
“Then, watch over my daughter,” Cymbalin said. “I’ll watch over your men.” She kissed Sorrow’s nose, and sprang up to strap her sword over her shoulder. “Bolt every window and door!” she ordered the rest of the women, giving them something to do. She wondered how much any of them had overheard.
The rain and wind buffeted her as she ran back into the night. She could see the men ahead. They were gathering on the dock, and she hurried to join them. Lightning ignited the clouds and the sky exploded. Far out beyond the harbor, she spied the shadow of an oncoming vessel. “It should be anchored in safe waters!” the Harbor-master said to the Chief Marshall. “No sane crew runs at night in these waters!”
“Or in such a storm,” the Chief Marshall said grimly. “The wind will drive it straight into the harbor. It will smash the docks.”
“Not if we turn it.” Lane touched Micha’s arm, and the two sped off down the docks.
“Wait!” Cymbalin called after them, but they didn’t heed. “Reckless boys!” she cursed.
The Chief Marshall shook his head. “Newly-weds,” he said, putting his cloak about her shoulders. “Inseparable fools.”
“They’ll get themselves killed!” Cymbalin gave back the garment, which would have hampered her. She took off after Lane and Micha.
“You have no experience with the sea!” the Harbor-master shouted.
Fast as she was, she couldn’t catch up to the pair. They were not only agile, but also swift. Reaching the end of the docks, they jumped down to the beach and kept going. The wet sand didn’t slow them.
Suddenly, they disappeared. Cymbalin stopped, staring and worried, her heart pounding. Then another blast of lightning lit up the sky and she saw against the night and black water a score of small boats—Linden’s fishing fleet. Lane and Micha were already aboard one of the boats, pulling anchor and preparing to launch.
Cymbalin wasted no breath calling out. She charged into the churning water and, with a lunge, caught the side of the boat. A wave practically bounced her aboard. She lay still for a moment, catching her breath, until Lane bent over her. “An acrobat should have more grace,” he laughed.
Cymbalin scowled. “Are you acrobats or fishermen?”
Micha extended a hand to help her up. “In Linden, nobody is only one thing.”
“Get this boat back to shore,” she said, “or the only thing you will be is dead. You don’t know what you’re dealing with!”
Lane went to the tiller and steered the small craft outward. “We’re dealing with the sea,” he said, raising his voice over the wind, “and all its mysteries and dangers, all the darkness lurking under its sparkling waters. We lost many friends to that darkness. There may yet be living souls aboard that ship!”
Micha began the work of unfurling a small sail. The wind filled it instantly, and the boat leaped forward. The prow smashed into an oncoming wave and, for a moment, the boat rose straight up. Cymbalin grabbed for anything she could hold onto as it came smashing down again.
Lightning flashed again with a brilliance that stung her eyes. She rubbed at them and looked to Micha, who worked the sail with determination and strength. If lightning struck the mast, he would burn. “How can I help?” Cymbalin shouted.
Lane worked the tiller, just as determined and strong as his husband. “Stay out of the way,” he ordered.
She didn’t dare try to stand. She crawled to a narrow bench that stretched across the boat from port to starboard and clung to it. The waves tossed the fishing boat like a ball, yet somehow Lane and Micha set a relentless course for the larger black vessel just entering Linden’s harbor. Unlike the Free Mariner, its crew had lowered its sails. Still, it charged onward through the sea, it’s gigantic mast carving through the lightning like a knife.
Then, Cymbalin gasped. She saw the first faces like spectral balls of light high above the vessel’s rigging. Eyes bright, hair whipping like strands of impossible smoke, three female figures danced around the charging ship. Then there were six. Then more. They dove into the water and sprang up into the sky, playing, chasing each other, embracing only to separate again and dive back into the sea, never taking corporeal form. They might have been children—or goddesses.
But they weren’t.
Sea witches, Sorrow had called them. Cymbalin knew them by another, much older name.
Syrins!
She had fixated on the spectacle, but now she jerked her attention away. Lane and Micha stared also. They saw the witches! They both wore rapturous expressions as they lifted their hands. The witches took notice and abandoned the larger ship. They darted above the waves to surround the smaller boat, to perch upon its mast, to dance in wildly dizzying patterns above and below and around the boat.
“They’re singing!” Micha cried. “So beautiful!”
“Don’t listen!” Cymbalin shouted. She heard no singing at all, but she knew the legends. Braving the boat’s tempestuous bouncing, she let go of the bench and leaped up. She drew her sword, swung it as one of the creatures passed above her. The creature might have been mist. A sharp chill radiated through the blade, almost numbing Cymbalin’s hand. Still, she swung repeatedly.
“Their song!” Lane called, raising his arms. “Th
eir song!” Abandoning the till, he rose up on the stern rail and spread himself like a diver. His knees bent, and he prepared to spring upward.
Cymbalin grabbed his ankle and pulled him down to the deck. With desperate strength, she hit him once, then twice until his eyes rolled up into his head. She spun toward Micha. A wave hit the ship, nearly toppling her, but it threw her in the right direction.
Enthralled, Micha danced in mid-air to the Syrin’s song, eyes closed, and head rolling. The creatures encircled him, and the young husband drifted like a ghost already above the side and out toward the water. Again, Cymbalin lunged and caught an ankle, but the witches caught his hands. Dropping her sword, she caught his other ankle and braced both feet against the side of the boat. “You can’t have him!” she shouted. “You can’t have either of them!”
She strained with all her might, refusing to surrender, as the boat rolled and pitched. Over one shoulder, she glanced at Lane, still unconscious. Unconscious, he couldn’t hear the singing, she hoped.
Another blast of lightning cracked across the sky, a deep blue bolt of radiant fire. Cymbalin fought an instinct to shield her eyes. A second bolt like the first followed. It struck the witches. Even Cymbalin heard their shocked screams through the rumbling thunder. They let go of Micha, and Cymbalin sprawled backwards with her new friend. Scrambling, she dragged him to the center of the deck. Then she dragged Lane and laid them next to each other. That done, she recovered her sword and stood protectively above the pair.
The witches regrouped and flew at her. Cymbalin swung her blade in wild arcs. Each time she struck one of the creatures, a numbing cold radiated through her arm. “I will not yield them up!” she shouted.
Blue lightning made a lacework above the boat. Again, the witches screamed and scattered, and again they returned to attack, bent upon their prey—Lane and Micha. With scant feeling left in her arm, Cymbalin raised her weapon.
The boat suddenly settled down and the sea calmed. No, not the entire sea, Cymbalin realized, only a placid circle around us!
Then, the water at the bow of the boat churned. A bubbling white froth shot up and at the center of that, as if rising on foam, an image of—Sorrow! Yet, it was not Cymbalin’s Sorrow. The woman on the foam was older, stronger.
Also angrier. This Sorrow raised her hands. The scars on her palms glowed like stars and blue lightning lanced outward from her fingers to stab the witches. Dancing above the boat, they tried to dodge the bolts, even tried to attack Sorrow. She drove them back with relentless power, burning them even as they finally tried to escape.
“Sorrow?” Cymbalin called as she lowered her sword. “How…?
Her daughter put a finger to her lips, indicating silence. With a quiet nod, she slipped below the bubbling sea. The waters ceased to churn, but the circle around the boat remained placid. Out at the harbor mouth, the black ship floated in a similar circle, no longer a threat to Linden.
There was nothing to do but wait out the rest of the storm. Cymbalin couldn’t steer the craft, and her two new friends were moaning heaps of manhood. She laughed at that, knowing that she shouldn’t. Her ordeal had been nothing next to theirs. What they had seen and heard would leave scars upon them that would never fade.
Other boats came out from the shore to meet them. Rohn and Rolo, father and son, jumped aboard from another boat and piloted the way back. Rolo seemed in a different, friendlier mood, and Cymbalin wondered what people had seen from the docks. She decided not to ask—some things were best never spoken about. Once the boat made anchor, she ran straight to the tavern and her daughter.
The nurse still sat at Sorrow’s side. “She’s asleep,” the nurse whispered, raising a finger to her lips.
The gesture made Cymbalin catch her breath. “The whole time?” she asked.
The nurse looked thoughtful as she brushed a strand of hair from Sorrow’s face. “She was pretty restless about an hour ago. She kept mumbling something.” The nurse looked up.
“What?” Cymbalin asked. Taking off her sword, she sat down by her child. On an impulse, she picked up the small hands and examined the scars of crucifixion, now eight years old.
“All she said was,” the nurse dropped her voice, “they tried to take me, mama. But I wouldn’t let them.”
Phoenix for the Amateur Chef
G. Scott Huggins
It’s generally not a good idea to criticize the chef—if you can avoid it. If you can’t, you may end up with problems, although having to cook something that burns instantly to ashes would probably count as cruel and unusual punishment. Unfortunately in most fantasy worlds cruel and unusual punishments are legal.
G. Scott Huggins makes his money by teaching history at a private school, proving that he knows more about history than making money. He has four more stories coming out this year. When he is not teaching or writing, he devotes himself to his wife, their three children, and the obligatory cat. He loves good bourbon, bacon, and pie. If you have any recipes featuring one or more of these things, Mr. Huggins will be pleased to review them if accompanied by sample.
Feathers ablaze, the phoenix fell.
Its sobbing death cry silenced by a coat of ravening flame, it corkscrewed to earth, bleeding dirty white fire. The thick black smoke left a smear across the dusk.
By the time it struck the cliff face thirty feet above our heads, it was a ball of charred meat. It bounced. Splashed. We ducked the searing gobbet of flesh. Of the fallen bird, only a little pile of ash and bone was left, and even those were rapidly whitening, like charcoal.
I looked at Tywin, who stood sucking his teeth and polishing his great stonebow. He dropped the remaining stones to the earth, unanointed by Trelesta’s unguent.
“Well, shit,” I said finally.
~o0o~
The memory snapped me out of my fatigue-induced daze. I was still in the Imperial Kitchen. For the hundredth time, I looked at the cage that held my plucked phoenix, safe in its enchanted sleep, lest it should suddenly have combusted into a pile of inedible ashes. For the hundredth time, I bit back a growl at Tywin’s cheerful smile, and the jaunty way he laid out our utensils.
Shaking, I laid out the four eggs I had prepared last night, and Tywin fetched the small pot of marinade in its ice water bath. I had calculated the ingredients over and over since noon, and Tywin had pronounced it good. But I wasn’t worried about the entrée. That I had tested.
I looked at the plucked phoenix that would be my main course. For that, there could be no test except the one that I had to pass or die. I groaned. The dishes were already more prepared than I was.
~o0o~
The only reason I was still alive was that His Imperial Majesty didn’t kill people at Family Dinners. They were supposed to be happy occasions.
What was a Family Dinner? Well, His Imperial Majesty said any ordinary King could have banquets. He had these, of course, but was not about to be counted among selfish and ordinary monarchs. He certainly wasn’t about to keep the Imperial Master Chef on retainer and then let her sit idle.
No, His Imperial Majesty was pleased to share his treasure, and so every month, the Master Chef arrayed the Great Hall for an immense feast, or at least an immense supper. And the entire staff of the palace ate whatever the Emperor was having.
It was a meal dreaded by all.
His Imperial Majesty prided himself on his refined and delicate palate. And he loathed anything predictable or pedestrian. He wished to delight his “family,” as he spoke of us, and when His Majesty wanted people delighted, they damn well were delighted. So I had sat with my fellow sorcerers, trying to look delighted.
I grew up in a seaport. A Fellowship in the College of the Wise had meant a chance to get away from the things that poor people could (or more often, had to) do to seafood. Even there, the poorest of us knew that jellyfish were for tossing back, not for serving with fine vinegars in thin, quivering slices. They now writhed in my stomach like cold, living fat. I had managed to down the steamed scar
abs by squinting and pretending they were bad lobster. The bird’s nest soup was what did it. And I might have made it even through that if I hadn’t happened to say idly, “There aren’t as many twigs or grasses as I would have expected from bird’s nest soup.”
Sitting beside me, Chief Diviner Ghislane looked over with a little smile. He was the only one at the table not picking his way through the food; he actually enjoyed the Family Dinners.
“My dear Hanael, these bird’s nests are not products of grasses and leaves. These are the nests of the cave swallows of the Eastern sea-cliffs.”
“And they don’t have plants there?”
“Not many. The male cave swallow attracts his mate by painstakingly constructing his nest with regurgitated fishbone. This gives the meal its subtle undercurrent of sea salt, augmented by the kelp...”
“Bird vomit?” I was eating bird vomit? My spoon fell from my hand. “Well, when do we get to the urine course?” I asked, desperate to distract myself. My superior, the Archmage Trelesta, shot me a quelling glare.
I looked up, and there, not five feet away, a silver-chased platter in her hands, was Master Chef Angwy, immaculate in jacket and toque. The platter was laid with pale yellow, white-flecked spheres. The cheese course! Salvation. I swallowed gorge. A bite of cheese would be just the thing to soothe my injured stomach.
“Casu marzu, from the islands of Sardica,” she intoned, eyes stabbing at me. Oh, yes, the Emperor’s favorite had heard me. I looked down, pretending to be mute. When she finally stood before me, I reached quickly for the platter. My fingers nearly sank into the very soft cheese, but I popped it into my mouth nonetheless.
The flavor wasn’t just sharp; it was stinking! And then I felt the wriggling. My eyes popped open. The platter still hovered before me. The white flecks on the pale yellow balls... moved.
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