by Liz Braswell
The group of men, somewhat startled at the prince’s words, all nodded and made quick bows both to him and then the princess, and shuffled out. The head of the guild gave Eric one last, appraising look before following.
Eric steeled himself for a tense and obnoxious lunch with his princess…
…but once again, the prince was saved.
“My dear, I’m afraid I must off to bed now with this nasty cold. One must take care of illnesses before they grow serious,” Vanessa hissed, indicating her throat. “So sorry to leave you alone.”
“That’s quite all right. I pray you feel better,” Eric said, trying not to joyfully reach for a leg of quail before finishing his sentence.
He was nothing if not courteous.
Good, little Eric swallowed the whole “cold” thing.
She strode down the hall to her bedroom, Vareet and her manservants trailing like eddies in the wake of a very large ship. Her mind raced. This was what it was like to be a queen. Er, princess. This was what it was like to actually rule and wield power and make decisions and get things done. Real monarchs didn’t shy away from their problems; they dealt with them head-on and then either beat them into submission or used them to further their own objectives.
Every stumbling block is a stepping-stone.
She laughed to herself, remembering the first time she had heard that saying, from one of the especially sycophantic Tirulian nobles. At the time she had no idea what it meant. Because obviously if there was a stumbling block in the ocean, you just swam over it.
She checked out herself askance in one of the large gilt-framed mirrors that lined the eastern hallway. Getting her gait just right was one of the hardest things about being on land. Imperial, regal—yet simpering and attractive. She wished in retrospect she had chosen a slightly older, more imposing human body. But of course twits like the prince needed something young and pretty to fall for. Absolutely no respect for or appreciation of maturity and wisdom. And pulchritude.
But honestly, she didn’t have that many bodies to choose from. This sad sack of a human with gorgeous brown hair that the sea witch now wore had wanted to be one with the ocean…and Ursula had been only too glad to give her what she wished.
The transformation was a fairly permanent one, its origins invisible to all but the wearer. She had been wise to keep that body’s essence around for all those years. Some might have said she had a tendency to hoard, but Ursula knew everything had a use eventually. For an emergency, or as the Dry Worlders said in their ridiculous way, “a rainy day.”
Vanessa adjusted her muffler. It was uncomfortable and itchy and made her sweat and possibly break out. Human skin was so temperamental, exposed to naked air—too moist, too dry, far too parched, pimples and rashes and exfoliation…was this true with all Dry World creatures? Or just mortal ones?
Ursula, focus.
She went into her bedroom and headed directly to the vanity, where she pulled off the ridiculous muffler and threw it to the floor. Vareet dashed over and immediately picked it up, shaking it out and dusting it. The sea witch coughed and touched her neck lightly, dabbing it with a silk powder puff. Then she leered into the mirror. For a moment she could almost see her true self. She grinned, delighted with her remembered appearance.
“Good to see you, old girl,” she purred in her real voice, enjoying every syllable. “So tell me. Where is the little hussy now? Did she crawl back to the sea, or is she hanging around, hoping for a chance to reunite with Prince Dum-Dum?”
Anyone watching would have just seen a reflection of Vanessa, checking her teeth, running a hand through the top of her hair.
The transformation and accompanying charm and memory spells were some of the biggest, most interesting cantrips she had ever cast. She had done her sorcerous best in the three days Ariel pranced about on land. There was a lot there to be proud of. Still, it was a bit hasty and thrown together, and now its weakness showed, especially the mass-forgetting bit.
And was Eric regaining his will? He had acted a little odd at lunch, but sometimes it was hard to tell with humans. Especially dumb ones.
But if the day of the wedding began to grow clearer in the memories of those who had witnessed it…well, Ursula knew enough about mer and human behavior to know that it would amount to nothing. Mermaids? Witches? Sea gods? There was an opera about it already, for heaven’s sake. People who saw the show would confuse that with reality, and people who hadn’t actually been on the boat would think anyone who said otherwise was mad. No, Ursula wasn’t worried about the staff, the servants, the peasants, the nobles, the riffraff.
Only Eric and Ariel.
A quick tempest of a rage crossed her face, deranging it for a moment into a hideous snarl of lips and eyes and teeth.
Eric and Ariel. Whether apart or together, they were determined to screw up her life.
The game had begun! Or…continued from years before. Ariel had made the first move, and it was a doozy.
Well, she would put an end to that. Now it was her move.
“FLOTSAM! JETSAM!” she snarled.
Both servants were in front of her less than a tailslap later. Upon seeing them Vareet quickly betook herself to the closet—perhaps on the pretext of hanging up the muffler—and peeped out timidly. Ridiculous little idiot.
Speaking of hiding, she would have to do something about old Kingy now. He wasn’t safe from theft anymore…
…and maybe it was finally time to do that thing with him. The thing she had kept him around for, all these years, besides the fun of gloating. Just in case. Maybe it was time to set certain other plans in motion. Being a princess was fun. But there were greater stakes to play for….
“I want this castle put on high alert,” Ursula snapped. “I want a meeting with a captain of the guard—I want watches doubled, tripled. I want everyone to know about a certain red-haired enemy of the state. I want a reward put out for a sighting and another for capture. I want dozens of men on the beach again, men in front of every low window, and for every maid to be told exactly what she looks like.”
“Absolutely, Ursula,” Flotsam said with a grin.
“About time, Ursula,” Jetsam said with a sneer.
Vareet said nothing.
The bright bit of beach outside her window caught Ursula’s attention. A slow smile spread over her face.
“And,” she said slowly, “I think…a warning…might be in order….”
She watched the two birds fly off. She knew that one of them—or another winged friend—would remain silently near her at all times, above her, keeping an eye on things.
What a strange ability to have in this two-dimensional land! To be able to break the barrier of height, to ascend and descend at will above their fellow Dry World creatures. Yet even for seagulls it was an effort. If they didn’t keep gliding or flapping, they fell.
I need to keep gliding and flapping, Ariel thought as she picked out the path to town, or I’ll fall, too. Right now she was neither a creature wholly of the sea or the land. She should be ruling the waves. She should have been married to Eric, ruling the little kingdom. She should have been swimming free in the ocean, singing and playing with her friends and dreaming. But here she was instead, doing none of those things.
The town rose over the next crest, and so did her heart at the sight. Houses and shops as pretty as a scene out of a play. Tiny dark temples filled with smoke and clingings and clangings and noise and laughter and shouts. Life. The quick, speedy movements of a people who ferociously enjoyed their short time under the sun.
Ariel stepped quickly past the first great pier that stuck out into the bay: fishing ships were unloading net after net of catch, and she really didn’t want to witness that. By ancient law the rules for the World Under the Sea and those for the Dry World were different—but that didn’t mean she had to witness the more distasteful aspects of their differences.
And speaking of differences, the changes in Tirulia from the last time she had been ther
e were immediately apparent.
Three guards—no, soldiers—stood in a boyish cluster at the front of the docks, puffing their chests out, smoking, and bragging to a trio of girls who seemed so familiar Ariel could almost see them swishing their tails while flirting. They were rosy-cheeked with blushes as the boys regaled them with tales of their exploits.
“…they put up quite the fight, let me tell you. But that didn’t stop Andral and me from gettin’ them all out….”
“…aye, we torched the place good. Not a barn left standing…”
“…orders. Got the chief of the village myself, I did….”
“See what I got? Pretty, ain’t it? It was just lying out, practically begging to be took….”
Put up a fight? Torched the place? For Tirulia? Seizing people in the mountains, burning villages to the ground? Looting?
As Ariel looked around she noticed even more soldiers wandering among the crowd. Some had an extra medal on their lapels, some had bandages where their hands once were. New recruits wore their uniforms with an air of cockiness, finding every excuse to touch their caps when a lady looked their way. One scratched the back of his head with the muzzle of his gun.
Ariel shuddered. Eric had taken her to see a ten-gun salute at the castle; it was a tradition that honored Tirulia’s connection with the sea and the old sea gods they used to worship. An explosion of modern fire and gunpowder was thought to be pleasing to the occasionally warlike Neptune.
But the gunshots were utterly terrifying, especially because they didn’t come from the clouds or the waves or the sky or the rocks, the proper places for thunder.
Ariel had thrown herself to the ground under a cannon and covered her ears until Eric had taken her into his arms and told her it was all right. That had almost made it all worth it.
And here was a man scratching his head with a gun. There were men with guns all over the market. Carlotta had spoken truly—this was not the same peaceful and sleepy seaside town it was half a decade before.
The place wasn’t completely transformed, however. Past the soldiers was the usual line of stands and carts displaying vegetables, fruits, cheese, dried meat. Customers haggled over prices while eyeing great stalks of leafy things.
There was also an amazing scent of fresh-baked…something.
Baking wasn’t a thing under the sea. When Ariel lived at the castle with Eric she had tried breads, cakes, pies, rolls, and sweets, and found them all mystifying (though delicious). They were like nothing she had ever eaten before and sometimes came to her plate still warm, which was also an odd way to eat food. Eric had bought her twelve different kinds of pie at a fancy shop in town and laughed as she had a bite of each, swooning.
That was the old Ariel. The one who dove right into town life and interacted a little too closely with a puppet show, poking at things in shops that were for display only, dancing to music that was probably just for listening to. Now she stood back and watched. Was this the result of age, and experience, and time? Or of not having a voice for so long? Had quiet observation just become a habit?
Maybe this would provide an excuse for her to gather more information.
Observation is all well and good, but only if it leads to a thoughtful plan of action!
She followed the delicious aroma until she came to a small bakery. In front of it a young man with red hair—not half as bright as Ariel’s—was setting out savory pies.
She pulled out her little satchel and went through the things in there: gems, pearls, coins, bits of mismatched and sea-changed jewelry that could be useful. Two coins looked like the same kind she had seen other people use; with those in her palm she cautiously approached the stand. She felt like she moved slower than when she was younger, as if the water on the Dry World had become heavier and thicker.
“Excuse me,” she said, and it was still strange to hear her voice. The man looked up from his pies to give Ariel his full attention. There was a streak of flour in his red hair and a tired but pleasant smile in his eyes. So much plainer than Eric…but still, so much more interesting than a merman!
“How much are the…” She fought for the right word to speak aloud, which had no equivalent underwater. “That?” she pointed.
“Onion and cheese pie’s a real,” the man said.
Ariel held out her coins.
The man looked at her, raised an eyebrow, then carefully chose a single green coin.
Ariel tried to memorize it: the size, the color, the smell. One real. Made of the metal that tastes like blood.
The baker, still mystified but too polite to say anything, picked out a good-looking pie and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” Ariel said, trying to make her words sound normal.
Then she bit into the pie.
It was all those tastes she remembered from before. Fatty, doughy flour crust. Cheese. Spices and flavors that spoke of foreign Dry World places. And, she supposed, the overwhelming taste of onion. Green, and not unlike certain seaweeds. But stronger.
The baker just watched her as she chewed and enjoyed.
Ariel stopped. Didn’t people eat the things they paid for?
She looked around and saw that no one else was gulping down their treats immediately. There went the old Ariel again. Impulsive.
“Ah, this is wonderful,” she said quickly, sounding interested; as if she were eating it only to compare with other pies she had in the past. “Very unusual.”
“It’s my pickled calçots,” the baker said triumphantly. “It is the wrong time of year for those—so I preserve them in the early spring, when they are harvested. A special treat, for an…unusual lady. I haven’t seen you around the market. You must not be from Tirulia?”
“No, I’m from…farther south.”
“The ocean, then?”
She began to choke—possibly on an onion. Or calçot.
But before she could come up with a suitable reply the baker was already talking again. “One of the islands, or the continent of Alkabua, I suppose.”
“Oh, but I’ve been here before,” she said smoothly, as if he were right in his guesses and therefore it didn’t merit more discussion. “Tirulia has changed a bit since the last time I visited. There seem to be a lot more soldiers.”
“Oh, aye.” The baker’s look soured. “Prince Eric—or should I say, Princess Vanessa—is much more hungry for war than the king and queen ever were. Of course there’s always been the fight over water rights or passes through the mountains or a particularly fine hillside for vineyards….But this is a whole new cursed thing, and it’s bad business, I don’t mind saying.”
“Why are you so against what the princess is doing? Specifically, I mean?”
The baker looked at her as if she were mad. “War is war. Fighting and death and more food for the soldiers and less for everyone else. Twenty-three Tirulian boys are dead and buried already. And still more boys flock to join the insanity, lured with promises of pretty uniforms and gold for their families. Have they been coming around and spending their new pennies on pies for their sweethearts? Certainly! Win for me! But rather less of a win for their dead comrades.”
“Oh…” Ariel began, unsure what to say.
“And that won’t be the end of it, I’ll bet you reales to sweet buns, sister. There are already shortages because the trade routes are getting cut off. And we will lose more than our fair share of soldier boys, families, mothers, fathers, babies when the other countries decide to hit us back.”
Ariel studied the baker: what was his age, really? He seemed young, but spoke with a strange authority on the subject. Like a mermaid suddenly made queen.
“You seem to know a lot about war,” she ventured.
“My parents moved here from up north, where those kingdoms are always fighting. Kings and queens and princes and princesses like a giant bloody game of chess where no one cares about the pawns.
“I got out. I was nine. My oldest brother didn’t. Enjoy your pie—and treasure peace, while it
lasts. You won’t miss it until it’s gone.”
And with that, the pie maker turned his back on her.
Ariel was a little flummoxed. She was queen; no one ever turned his, her, or its back on her. To someone who couldn’t speak aloud, that was the most effective—and devastating—way to end a conversation with her.
Then she remembered her voice.
“Your pie was delicious. I will think over your words. Have a nice day.”
The pie maker waved over his shoulder: not upset, just busy. He was speaking his mind to a customer who would listen and held nothing against her.
Ariel wandered away with mixed feelings. On the one hand, everything the baker said was troubling.
On the other hand, she was exploring a whole new world—successfully—by herself. She was getting to observe a completely different way of life, and it wasn’t just about breathing air; it was how families and people worked, and how food was made, and customs and actions and habits, and it was all fascinating.
Of course she knew that a ruler’s actions had an effect on the people—but up until now, she had thought only of the direct effect. She wouldn’t send merguards to storm Eric’s castle, for instance, because she didn’t want to put their lives at risk. But…would she have thought of how sending soldiers into battle might impact bakers, down the line? Was this something her father understood, and which had tempered his own decisions?
Father.
She hadn’t forgotten her quest; she had just become distracted for a moment.
She ate her pie and made her way back through town, heading once again toward the beach. She passed the cart with the puppet show she had rudely interrupted years ago; sitting in the back was the man who made the puppets, carefully painting a lush set of eyelashes onto one of his manikins. Fascinating.
