“He is.” One of the men pointed to a stringy fellow with a moth-eaten ponytail. “Prude’s the cook.”
“He may be many things, but he’s no cook.” Gertie picked up the terrified sailor and shook him until his teeth rattled. “What do you call the gog shit in that kettle?”
“Stew,” Prude squeaked. “It’s fish stew.”
She held him over the steaming cauldron. “No, it ain’t. Muck, that’s what it is, a culinary nightmare I wouldn’t shove down a dead worg’s throat. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Gertie shoved his face closer to the glop. A gray bubble formed on the gelatinous surface and popped, releasing a noxious wave of odor.
“It weren’t my fault,” Prude said, coughing and choking. “The cook runned off. I only got the job ’cause no one else would do it.”
“It’s a disgrace.” Gertie flung him onto the deck. “A troll’s digestive system is a marvelous thing. I could eat a lump of molten iron without it upsetting my innards, but the swill in that pot would kill me. I should turn you over to your mates and let them take care of you.”
“Go ahead.” Prude got to his feet and straightened his tunic. “They’ve done throwed me overboard twice and fished me out again. None o’ them can cook any better ‘n I can.”
“If that’s the case, then I’ll do the cooking between here and Gambollia.” Gertie lowered her brows at Prude. “If you like, I’ll teach you how to prepare one or two dishes along the way.”
“I’d like that,” Prude said at once. “And thank you kindly.”
Gertie rubbed her paws together in anticipation. “First things first. Toss that bucket of swill over the side and pray it doesn’t kill every living thing in the river. After that, you can show me around the galley. Once I’ve an idea of the provisions we have on board, I’ll decide what’s for lunch.”
“‘We’ have?” Braxx puffed out his barrel chest. “See here, madam, this is my vessel. I decide who’s the cook, and it ain’t gonna be no troll.”
“You’re missing a rare treat, Captain,” Mauric said. “The Rowan’s chef is Valdarian and much sought after, but Gertie’s the better cook.”
“Never mind, Mauric. I’ve overstepped my bounds. The decision is up to Braxx.” Gertie held up her paw as her words were greeted by a chorus of groans from the crew. “Although, if Prude remains cook, I must insist we be given our own stores. Chaz and the girl are my responsibility. I won’t allow them to be sickened by bad food.”
Braxx hesitated, plainly torn between his dislike of her and the demands of his stomach. Work ground to a halt as the men waited anxiously for his decision.
“Very well, we’ll give it a go.” Braxx shook his finger at Gertie. “But, mind you, the first time I find troll hair in my food, Prude’s back in the galley.”
“Of course, Captain,” Gertie said. “I’ll not deny I’m a tad on the wooly side, but I’ll do my best to keep my fur out of the cook pot.” She cast Braxx a look through her lashes. “No doubt, that’s for the best. Troll hair’s an aphrodisiac, you know. Many a man has declared his love for me after sampling my cooking.” She heaved a sigh. “A marriage proposal inevitably follows. They can’t help themselves, the poor darlings. The troll hair drives them wild with desire.”
“Me, marry a troll?” Braxx stared. “I’d be laughed off the river.”
Gertie waggled her brows at him. “You’d be too loved up and well fed to care, Braxxy, my love.”
“Gar,” said Braxx.
Forgetting his dignity, Braxx fled.
Chapter 26
Troubled Waters
Gripping the frozen wheel, Raven fought to keep the ship on course. The storm had hammered them for days, striking as soon as the Storm sailed past Gambollia, with no sign of letting up. The wind moaned like a thousand dying souls and the sea slammed into the ship with the force of a titan’s fist. The men swore they heard voices in the gale, dark voices that whispered ill tidings. The way ahead is barred, the voices warned. A watery death awaits should you continue to sail north.
“A trick of the mind,” Raven assured his crew. “The wind and nothing more.”
The men kept to their tasks, but they were a superstitious lot, and Raven knew they were afraid.
Glory glided up to the helm. “Turn back, nephew. You are meant for Gambollia.”
Sleet blinded Raven. Cursing, he wiped his eyes with the back of one arm. The wheel jerked free of his grasp and he made a grab for it, the friction of the madly spinning wood burning his palms through his leather gloves. A giant wave crashed against the bow, soaking him with icy spray. The masts creaked and groaned, protesting the fury of the storm.
“Tro, take it,” he shouted. “I don’t understand. It’s too early in the season for a storm like this.”
“Nature herself rises against you,” Glory said. “Turn back, before it is too late.”
As she spoke, a sail split in two with a sharp shriek.
“Looks like I don’t have a choice,” Raven said through his teeth. “We’ve lost a sail. We’ll have to limp back to Gambollia for repairs.”
“That is as it is meant to be.”
“So help me, Glory—if this is your doing . . .”
“Controlling the weather is extremely difficult and not one of my talents. My gift is the sight.”
Divination, again. Seething with frustration, he wrested the wheel, turning the ship south toward Gambollia. The ship came about and the tempest dissipated, as if by magic.
Magic; Raven felt a trickle of unease. Some things, it seemed, were meant to be.
Raine reached the top of the galley steps and was greeted by a blast of cool air. Ah, sweet blessed relief. The heat below deck was stifling. Hot as it was in the galley, she preferred the heat to the scrutiny of the sailors.
She’d confided as much to Mauric a few nights earlier. “I swear, sometimes I feel like a steak in a butcher shop window.”
“It’s to be expected. They’re men, cooped up on a boat with an attractive woman.”
Raine had laughed. “Attractive? Hello. I’m wearing a tunic that hangs down to my knees.” She plucked at her castoff trousers. “Breeches that are four sizes too big, and I’m clomping around in thick, ugly boots.”
Mauric stroked his jaw, considering her. “You’re right. You’re an absolute goggin. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He’d ducked to avoid her playful swipe, and the subject had changed. Still, his comments had made her curious, and one morning she’d worked up the courage to look over the rail into the river in hopes of catching her reflection. She’d caught a glimpse of a pale, oval face surrounded by a halo of unruly curls before the wavy image had dissolved in the swirling eddy.
Balancing the baskets she carried, Raine stepped onto the deck.
Mauric hurried over to help. “Smells good,” he said, relieving her of her burden. “I’m hungry.”
She shoved a damp stray curl out of her face. “This is not news. You’re always hungry.”
“True enough—and not always for food.” He looked her up and down with a critical eye. “You’ve got flour on your nose, lass.”
She plopped down on a crate and lifted her face to the breeze. “Ask me if I care.” Through slanted lids, she saw Mauric reach into one of the baskets. “You’ll stay out of that, if you know what’s good for you,” she said. “Gertie’s right behind me.”
“Tro,” Mauric said, snatching his hand back.
He was setting the bread baskets on a wooden table when Gertie and Prude came on deck.
“What are you doing?” Gertie said, giving Mauric the eye.
“Helping, mor.”
“Helping yourself to my bread, more like. How many loaves did you snitch this time?”
“Not a one,” Mauric said, much injured. “Raine wouldn’t let me.”
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p; “Good girl.” Gertie nodded at Raine in approval. “Between this one and Braxx, there’s scarce enough left for the crew.”
“I like to eat.” Mauric edged closer, sniffing at the dish in Prude’s hands. “What’s that you’ve got?”
Prude set down the baking dish with a flourish. “Apple crumble. The Lady Raine showed me how to make it.”
Gertie took the cover off the kettle, and the aromas of stew, fresh bread, and baked apples combined in a fragrance so intoxicating that several sailors nearly swooned.
Braxx hurried to the front of the line. “Smells good. As captain, it’s my duty to be your first victim.”
“I see you’ve overcome your morbid fear of troll hair,” Gertie said, ladling a generous portion into his bowl. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself, should you start chasing me around like a lovesick youth.”
“I’ll risk it. Your grub’s worth it, Madam Troll.” Squinting at Raine, Braxx thrust his hand in the bread basket. “Morning, girlie. You’ve got flour on your nose.”
A sailor made a lewd remark, and Raine blushed. Mauric took a menacing step closer to the man, and he shrank back.
“That’s enough, Mauric,” Gertie said. “Stop terrorizing the men and eat.”
Mauric gave the deckhand a last warning glare, and held out his bowl. The rest of the crew shuffled through the line, and everyone fell to. When the last of the supper dishes were washed, Raine wandered the barge in search of Gertie. She found her lolling on deck enjoying an after-dinner smoke.
“From Braxx.” Gertie blew a smoke ring and held up a beautifully carved pipe. “Gave me a pouch of Esmallan tobacco, too. That man loves my cooking.”
“You shouldn’t smoke,” Raine said. “It’s not good for you.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“I’ve been around a while, and I don’t need some wet-behind-the-ears whippersnapper telling me what to do.”
“Have it your way.”
“Thank you,” Gertie said sweetly. “I intend to.”
Raine took a seat on the deck next to the troll. At this level, the hull of the barge blocked the river from view. If she kept her gaze fixed on the trees along shore, she could pretend they weren’t on the water.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said after a while. “Remember the day we met? Why did you eat that rabbit raw when you’re such a good cook?”
“Trolls are, by nature, hunters, and the occasional fresh kill strengthens the blood.”
“I guess that makes sense. So why do you cook?”
“Because I like it.” Gertie sent another smoke ring into the air. “Inconsistent, perhaps, but, then, humans are far more unpredictable than trolls.”
“Yeah? How so?”
“Trolls mate for life. Unlike humans, we only kill for food or to defend ourselves or our loved ones. We’re fine jewelry makers, but it’s the making of the thing that gives a troll pleasure, not the thing itself. We don’t lust after gold and gems the way men do.”
“What else?” Raine asked, intrigued.
“We have a talent for camouflage. It’s one of the things that makes us such excellent hunters.” She bared her fangs. “That and the razor-sharp teeth and claws, not to mention our prodigious strength and stamina.”
“Go on.”
“We love to sing. Trolls write awful songs and worse poetry, but we write anyway because we love the weaving of words. We enjoy dancing, eating, laughing, and telling jokes. Oh, and we have a particular fondness for ale and children.”
“Rare or on toast?” Raine teased.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said trolls have a fondness for children. How do you like to eat them?”
“Observe that I do not laugh.”
“Sorry. You said trolls like jokes, so I assumed you have a sense of humor.”
“I do if something is funny.”
“Ouch. I get the message. You didn’t like my joke.”
“That was a joke?”
“I give up.” Raine laughed, and executed a small bow. “Please, ma’am, tell me more.”
Gertie relented. “That’s about it, except for this—trolls seldom hold a grudge for themselves, but hurt someone they love and they’ll go into Skelf itself to avenge them.”
Raine clasped her hands around her knees. “Trolls sound much nicer than people.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
They lapsed into companionable silence, watching the sun slide behind the trees. Evening settled around them. Two days ago, they’d left the pleasant rolling hill country and entered the marshes of northwest Durngaria. The air in the lowlands was heavy and wet, the river sluggish and sleepy. Raine eyed the underbrush and the impenetrable curtain of trees, thankful that winter still clung to the land. Passage through the swamp in summer would be a misery of heat and biting insects.
Something hit the water with a heavy splash. The gray-green marsh surrounding them was sullen and dreary, the trees twisted and bent under the weight of choking vines. Tufts of yellowed grass rustled and swayed in dry whispers on the riverbank. Twilight descended, and small unseen creatures scurried for cover in the thick scrub. A night bird sang a plaintive song from one of the trees.
“How many days until we reach Gambollia?” Raine asked.
“We’re still a hundred and fifty leagues up river from the city,” Gertie said. “Five days, at the least, before we reach the city. We’ll be tying off for the night soon. The river horses need rest, and no captain in his right mind sails this part of the river after dark. The rapids are too tricky.” A thin stream of smoke curled past the troll’s black lips. “Brefreton will be in a lather but there’s no help for it.”
“And then?”
“I’m not sure. The main thing is to keep moving, so Glonoff doesn’t find us. Hara saw us in the temple and will have described us. Glonoff won’t be happy. He and I aren’t fond of one another.”
“Is Glonoff a better wizard than you?” Raine asked.
Gertie took a puff of tobacco. “Not better, exactly. Different. Each adept has his or her strengths and weaknesses. This adept may be better at one thing, that adept another.”
“What’s Glonoff good at?”
“Fear. Glonoff excels at it. He uses it to control people. He has a knack for sensing what frightens you, and uses it against you. A master of the art of mind control and illusion, Glonoff.” Gertie glanced to her right and left. “And it’s rumored he dabbles in the dark arts.”
“Dark arts?”
“Demons. Traffic with the djegrali is forbidden.”
“Djegrali.” The strange word made Raine shiver. “What about you? What’s your talent?”
“I’m a decent enough animage—that’s the animation of inanimate objects. And I’m a fair hand at controlling the elements. Weather’s a tricky thing, though. Not for green wizards.”
“I’m sure you’re good at all kinds of wizarding stuff.”
“I dabble a little. It’s different with each adept. Bree, for instance, has a way with growing things. All the Tannish have the same knack, but he’s first rate.” Gertie pointed her pipe at Raine. “On the other hand, we don’t know what your talent is. All we know for certain is you can raise spirits.”
“One ghost,” Raine said. “Big deal.”
“Very few wizards are necromancers,” Gertie said, “but only time will tell whether you have other talents. You need proper training. An untrained wizard is an accident waiting to happen.”
“What sort of accident?”
“Oh, the usual things. Dismemberment, slow excruciating death, catastrophic events. Not pleasant for the wizard or those around him. Magic is not for the careless or foolish. Few wizards live long enough to be good at it.”
Raine swallowed. Magic was serious stuff. “What
do I do?”
“Eh?”
“How do I learn to be a wizard—if I am a wizard? I don’t want to hurt anybody by mistake or . . . or kill myself.”
Not now, when she was healthy for the first time in her life.
“Don’t fash yourself. We’ve got time.”
“Are you sure? I hear this Glonoff guy is bad news.”
“Oh, he’s bad, all right. Magog’s bung hole is a bright spot in the universe compared to Glonoff.”
“All the more reason for me to learn to defend myself.”
“I admire your spirit, gal, but you can’t take on Glonoff. He’s been around a long, long, time, and he’s a slippery one and evil as they come.”
“I still need lessons.”
“Yes, you do,” said Gertie, “and you’ll be properly taught, in time, but lessons can wait. It’s not a good idea to use magic this close to Shad Amar.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Gertie said with exaggerated patience, “Magic makes a vibration that other wizards can feel.”
“You used magic to start fires and to shapeshift.”
Gertie gave her a disgusted look. “Parlor tricks to an adept. That sort of magic hardly makes a ripple, once you know how to do it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s power in everything, pet. A trained wizard can tap into it and manage little magicks without disturbing the fabric of things. Bigger spells, or those performed by a neophyte, disturb the current. It’s the difference between giving someone a nudge on the shoulder and bashing them in the head with an ax.”
Raine digested this. “It sounds complicated.”
“Magic is like anything else. It takes hard work and practice to be good at it. Think of it this way—it’s like making a pie. You can have all the makings in front of you, but if you don’t know how to put them together and in what combination and proportion, you have a mess.”
“Oh.” Raine propped her chin on her knees. “I hear it in my head, you know, the humming. At first, it was loud and annoying. After a while, though, I learned to push it to the back of my mind. It’s still there, but now it’s more of a murmur.”
A Meddle of Wizards Page 22
