The Stone Mage & the Sea (Books of the Change Book 1)

by Sean Williams

  Sal reached for the tool and slapped it into his father’s outstretched hand. He didn’t know why his father was so unwilling to talk about the Sky Wardens and the Change, unless the answer took the form of a folktale, like that of the Syndic Velzeboer who had turned into a dolphin. Once he might have given it up as too hard to pursue, but the fire had been lit in his memory and wasn’t going out.

  The morning passed before his father decided to call a halt. By then, the last remnants of the storm had been burned away by the sun, leaving the air humid and suffocating. Sal was sweating heavily as they made their way to the other side of Fundelry, to the market.

  The double line of stalls was even more crowded than it had been the day before. More traders must have arrived from neighboring towns, Sal assumed, bringing their children with them. There was a clown, a couple of jugglers, even a small brass band. Incense lay heavily in the air. A podium had been erected at one end of the market thoroughfare and people milled around it as though waiting for something to happen. Most seemed relaxed and cheerful enough, although Sal saw tension in a few of the uniformly brown faces. Maybe the day’s business hadn’t gone as well for some as they had hoped.

  Cautious and watchful, his father led them along the stalls, looking at the local produce and studying the people they passed. His father bought them meat and vegetable pies from the seller the old woman had accused of padding out his prime cuts with cat meat. It tasted good enough to Sal as he picked through the steaming filling. Aunty Merinda had apparently gone for the day; her tent sat empty apart from a pyramidal arrangement of twigs, string and feathers in its center. A charm to keep it safe until she returned, Sal assumed.

  They stopped to examine swatches of brightly colored cloth at a stall run by a large woman, clearly dressed in her own wares. “My weavers were all trained in Bellizzi,” she boasted. “And my dyes come exclusively from the Desert Port region--as you, sir, can probably tell.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” admitted Sal’s father, sniffing the cloth. “The color is pretty, though.”

  She looked down her nose at them. “’Pretty’?”

  “Beautiful. Bright. I’m sorry. I don’t know the right words.”

  “And you probably don’t have the money, either.” She smiled broadly, then, and winked. “At my prices, few people here have. Do me a favor and pass on the word, should you come across anyone with an eye for finery. Otherwise I’ll move on next week.”

  “We’ll tell them,” Sal’s father promised. He nodded good day, and she pounced on the next customer who looked vaguely interested.

  Sal noticed that, on a number of similar occasions, the vendors left him and his father alone. They weren’t pressured to sample goods or to haggle over a bargain. They were allowed to browse unchallenged, or were spoken to as equals. He wondered if they really looked that poor, or if there was something else at work.

  When he asked his father, he was told: “They can tell by our skin that we’re travelers. Even if we had the money, we don’t have a need for the sorts of things these people are selling. They can afford to be friendly. If we met them out on the road, though, and asked for food or lodging, it’d be a different story.”

  They were studying jewelry in a stand near the far end of the market. Sal’s father picked up a tiny charm bracelet and held it to the light while a brawny guard watched him closely.

  “This is from Millingen,” he said to the narrow-faced man running the stand.

  “Well spotted, sir. You’ve been there?”

  “A couple of times, when the boy here was young. I worked in one of their sweatshops for a few months. That’s how I recognize the welds on these links. They haven’t got any better, have they?”

  The man behind the counter stared stonily at him for a moment. “As you say, sir.”

  Sal’s father put the bracelet back on the counter, and winked at Sal. Then they left to do another circuit of the stalls.

  Thus far, Lodo had been noticeable only by his absence. Sal had hoped they’d bump into him at one of the stands, but there had been no sign of either him or his apprentice. When they reached the end of the market and his father said they should head back to the hostel, Sal despaired of ever getting the two together.

  “It’s bigger here than I thought it would be,” his father mused as they were jostled by a portly food seller.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I imagined it would be smaller.” Sal’s father glanced at him, then seemed to realize that his answer hadn’t explained anything. “Less crowded. Less like a city. Look at this.” He waved at the crowd. “We might as well be back in Kittle.”

  That was an exaggeration. Kittle had been crowded, but not a city. “Why is that important?”

  “In a city it’s harder to hide.”

  As though to prove the point, a short man dressed in a russet suit hurried up to them and begged their pardon.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, bowing briskly, “but I’d heard there was a Northerner in town. I could use your assistance, if you’d be so kind.”

  Sal’s father looked nervously around them. “I really don’t think--”

  “It’ll only take a moment, sir. Please, if you’ll just come this way.”

  The man tugged Sal’s father by the sleeve and led them back into the crowds. There, at a stall selling crystals and trinkets, the man held a honey-colored stone to the light.

  “See here?” The man pointed at some marks on the crystal’s base. “Can you tell what they are?”

  Sal’s father squinted at the marks, interested despite himself. “They’re toa. I’m not sure where from, though. Leonora, maybe. Or Yamarna.”

  “Could it be a name?”

  “It could be.” He hefted the crystal in one hand. “But the name itself doesn’t matter. It’s not a fake.”

  The man in the suit expelled a small, tense breath.

  “I told you,” said a voice from the shadows of the stall.

  “You did, but I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been looking a long time for the missing piece.” The man took the crystal back from Sal’s father and handed over a large amount of money in coins to the stall owner. “Thank you, thank you both.”

  He nodded and headed off into the crowd.

  “The missing piece of what?” asked Sal’s father.

  “I don’t know exactly, but he seemed pleased enough to find it.” The stall owner chuckled. “I owe you a small fee.”

  He leaned forward and held out a coin. As he did so, his face came into the light.

  Sal gasped. It was Lodo.

  “I couldn’t,” Sal’s father said.

  “Take it,” Lodo insisted. “That’s a sale I wouldn’t have made without your help. Or not so easily, anyway. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

  Sal’s father hesitated, then took the coin. “Well, I won’t deny we could use it.”

  “Good.” Lodo smiled warmly. “Would you care for a charm while you’re here? I can’t guarantee they’ll work, but I’ll give you the best price for a hundred kilometers.”

  Sal’s father studied the trinkets arrayed on the table before him, while Sal stared at him in astonishment. What was wrong with him? There was Lodo right in front of him, tattoos standing out like a bushfire on grasslands. Why didn’t he see?

  Then Lodo turned to Sal and winked. Another face seemed to flow smoothly across Lodo’s distinctive features--that of a younger man with a gray-mottled beard and darker skin. It was this face Sal’s father saw.

  Sal stepped back, at a loss to know what to do. He opened his mouth to blurt out what was going on when a voice whispered in his ear:

  “Don’t.”

  It was Shilly. He didn’t need to look to work that out. He could smell her, all sweet rosemary and sweat, and feel her in his bones, standing just behind him. He closed his mou
th into a thin line.

  She touched his elbow. “Come with me.”

  He let himself be led a short distance away. As soon as he could, he shrugged off her hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped.

  “The old boy wants to take a look at your dad,” she said. “Alone, and without being known for who he is.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s … sensitive. He can tell things by being near someone. He knew about you, for instance, the moment he saw you.”

  “Knew what about me?”

  “He won’t tell. But it was enough to warrant keeping an eye on you.”

  He glared at her. “You have been following me!”

  “Ever since you arrived, almost, and luckily for you. No one else was going to stop Kemp from smashing you into little white bits.” She smiled crookedly. “I did warn you, sort of. After the fact, yes, but--hey!”

  He ignored her protest as he walked back to his father. Lodo looked up at him, then at Shilly behind him. A flicker of annoyance passed over the old man’s true face.

  Sal didn’t care. He felt like an idiot. No, like they thought he was an idiot, which was worse. He wanted to get out of there, out of Fundelry altogether. Whatever his father needed Misseri or Lodo or whoever he was for, there had to be another solution.

  “See anything you like?” Sal’s father asked as though he had never left.

  “No,” he said curtly.

  “I’ll take this one.” A small jar of brownish paste.

  “Pearl shell and blood, sir? Are you sure? I doubt we’ll be needing rain after last night.”

  “You never know.” Sal’s father handed over the coin he had been given and received half its value back in change.

  “Thank you again.” Lodo smiled as broadly as any satisfied trader as they moved away. “The best of luck in all your ventures.”

  They left the stall. Shilly fumed silently as they passed her. He could feel her stare burn into him like a blowtorch.

  Sal’s father shook the jar by his ear. “Probably full of ground bark,” he said. “Still, I couldn’t take all the money. It wouldn’t have been right. I’m sure he needs it as much as we do.”

  They reached the podium end of the market. “I still haven’t seen any signs of you-know-who. Have you?”

  Sal shook his head in frustration and resisted the urge to say that he didn’t know who.

  “Oh well. We’ll try another day. Where to now, then, do you think?”

  Sal didn’t care, as long as it was somewhere else, but at that moment a tall woman stepped up onto the podium and rapped loudly with a gavel. The crowd around them instantly hushed. His father stopped to see what was going on.

  “Thank you,” said the woman. She gazed across the faces staring up at her, smiling gently. Her nose was broad, and her graying black hair curled as close as a sheep’s coat. “Welcome to the muster. Not a bad turnout this week; that’s good to see. Does anyone have any urgent business before we move on to notices?”

  A hand shot up at the front of the crowd. “What’re the chances of fixing the weather, Iphi?”

  “That’s quite enough from you, Reed. I may be Mayor, but I can’t work miracles. If you have a problem with the rain, you’ll have to talk to the Wardens next time they pass through.” She waited a second, then raised a sheet of paper. “I’ll be quick. All jokes aside, last night’s storm did cause some damage. Anyone with spare time or materials are welcome at Serafin and Balfort homesteads, where roofs came down. Anyone with serious crop damage or lost stock can report to the usual places; if the damage is severe enough, you’ll qualify for compensation.” She read a few personal messages for and from specific members of the crowd: birthdays, the death in the previous week of someone’s grandmother, and an invitation from another town to celebrate an anniversary in three weeks’ time. “Oh, and Alder Quinn asked me to remind you that Selection time is almost upon us. Application forms must be lodged by the end of this week. Anyone having trouble filling out the form can see me afterwards.”

  “Anyone having trouble filling out the form shouldn’t be hoping for Selection,” called someone in the crowd.

  “Yes, well, that’s not for me to decide.” The Mayor looked around. “If there’s nothing else …”

  A disturbance from the back of the gathering caught her eye. A short, very black man was pushing his way forward.

  “Yes, Alder Sproule?”

  “I’d like to say something,” he said, his voice a light tenor with a sharp edge. But he wasn’t content to address the crowd from the ground. He came all the way to the front and indicated that he would like to stand on the podium.

  Sal watched him ascend with disquiet. He recognized the man’s name from his conversation with Von. Hard to credit though it was, this black-skinned man was Kemp the albino’s father.

  “There’s been a theft,” he said. “One of my neighbors, Gai Kilmartin, had a sum of money removed from her premises last night. There was also a necklace and food missing when she woke this morning. Now, I know we all like to keep our doors unlocked, this being an open, trusting community, but be aware that someone has betrayed that trust and may do so again. If anyone knows anything about it, they can talk to me in private; I give you my assurance it will go no further. The same if the stolen goods are returned immediately. If not, as sheriff of Fundelry, I promise you that any further thefts will be dealt with severely.” The Alder studied the crowd, his gaze lingering pointedly on the lighter-skinned strangers at the rear. “This is my first and only warning.”

  “Thank you, Alder Sproule,” the Mayor said with a slight scowl as Kemp’s father stepped down. “And on that cheerful note, may you all enjoy the rest of the day!”

  A smattering of applause greeted her departure. Sal’s father sighed as the crowd dispersed.

  “He doesn’t really think it was us, does he?” Sal asked.

  “It’d be easier for him if it was. Better us than one of his own turning against the rest.” His father looked resigned to it all. “It wouldn’t be the first time as simple a thing as skin color has got us into trouble. And maybe that’s why I didn’t get any work today, even though there was all that storm damage to be fixed.”

  Sal’s mind churned as they strolled back to the hostel. As if Lodo and Shilly and Kemp weren’t enough to worry about, now Kemp’s father suspected them of stealing. And the Selector was coming, according to the Mayor: that meant Sky Wardens. More than ever he was certain that Fundelry was the wrong place to be in, and he was no closer to a reason.

  “Dad?”

  “What, Sal?”

  “Why don’t we just leave?”

  The question didn’t seem to take his father by surprise. “We can’t. Not yet. I’m sorry, Sal. There’s something I have to do first.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll find out when I’ve done it. Hopefully not sooner.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “I don’t know. It might be.” His father turned to face him as they walked, and attempted a joke. “Guess we’d better fix that buggy, eh? Just in case we have to make a quick getaway.”

  Not terribly reassured, Sal forced a tight-lipped smile and trudged on back to Josip’s.

  Chapter 5. “A Tear in the Water”

  Mrs Milka was a middle-aged woman with only two fingers on her right hand and a regular, singsong way of speaking that made Sal want to sleep. Not even the topic of her lesson could keep him alert.

  “The Sky Wardens rule us, their subjects, only indirectly,” she was saying. “Each village is run by a group of ten elected Alders, who in turn elect a Mayor. The Mayors then elect a Regional Governor, and these gather once every four years in the Haunted City to meet with representatives of the Sky Wardens to discuss governance of the Strand. The Alcaide, equivalent to a grand chancellor or highest judge, and the Synd
ic, the Alcaide’s chief administrator, hear the requests of the governors and decide how best they can be met. That way all are heard, and all have a say in the future of our great nation.”

  Sal tried to concentrate. It was information he had been taught at various Schools in the borderlands--and no doubt his new classmates had heard it many times before--but listening to it was the easiest way to avoid looking at Shilly, who sat two seats across from him. They had been studiously ignoring each other all morning. It took a great deal of his attention.

  “Similarly, we keep our villages small to ensure everyone receives the attention they deserve. Neither the weak nor the strong slips through the cracks. The former are given extra care by their community, while the latter are often Selected to join the ranks of the Sky Wardens themselves. This ensures the greatest well-being for all, and gives everyone the chance of attaining the highest possible level in the Strand. Are you following this, Sal?”

  He nodded, thinking: what was the point of knowing your enemy if you didn’t know why they were your enemy?

  Mrs Milka pulled out a chart and began naming the various regional centers and important towns along the Strand. She gave a brief history of each of the major ports: where trading ships went to and arrived from; who the governors were and what causes they championed; which famous Sky Wardens had come from which place, and what great works they had performed. The chart was sketchy when it came to Interior geography, though, listing at least two major cities in locations Sal believed to be wildly incorrect. Geography was something he was relatively familiar with, thanks to the maps in the buggy’s tool box.

  “Does anyone remember the name of the current Alcaide?” the teacher asked, reverting to current events.

  A half-dozen hands went up. “Yes, Manny?”

  “Dragan Graham.”

  “Close. It’s ‘Braham’ with a B. What about you, Sal? Can you guess the name of the Syndic?”

  He didn’t even try. “I’ve no idea.”

  Mrs Milka smiled patiently. “Well, that’s perfectly understandable. The current Syndic is Nu Zanshin of Farrow. She was unanimously elected five years ago by an emergency sitting of the Conclave after the death of her predecessor, Salton Halech, in a freak accident.”