by Sharon Lee
He smiled at me, and I felt the air go out of my lungs. I took a deep breath to replace it.
“What you said to me”—almost the very last thing he had said to me, before he’d gone into the healing of the sea—“that there was no keeping the land and the sea apart. Was that—” My breath was short again. I inhaled, deliberately.
“Was that—” Worse than my breath, words failed me.
He smiled, a little wistfully, I thought.
“A threat?” he said, and shook his head. “Truth is, I was thinking in terms of a promise, Kate.”
Oh, well. A promise. That was fine, then.
Wasn’t it?
I sighed sharply, turned and stalked—sloshed—through the dry sand, and stopped when I gained the firmer stuff to let him catch up.
He did, and stood quiet at my side, hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking chilly, despite the sweater.
“Where’s your jacket?” I asked, not meaning to sound like his mother and probably failing miserably.
He half-laughed.
“Well, y’know? I had that jacket for a long time and liked it real well. But, here’s the thing, Kate. Even though I know it wasn’t responsible for Mr. Wonderful’s using it to pull me in to ’im like a hooked sculpin—that it would’ve kicked ’im in the balls, if it coulda done—I just don’t seem able to favor it anymore. Funny, eh?”
I felt my eyes sting. Happens sometimes on the beach, when there’s a lot of salt in the air.
“No,” I said. “Not funny.”
Slowly, I reached out and tucked my arm through his.
I felt a jolt of connection—I’d expected that. What I hadn’t expected was for the jolt to fade to a simple, warm pleasure. I sighed, and felt Borgan sigh, too.
“I’ll buy you a jacket,” I told him, and turned downbeach, toward town, tugging lightly on his arm. “Let’s go.”
He didn’t move. I felt his arm . . . twitch. When I looked up into his face, he was half-smiling and shaking his head.
“Summer’s here—or will be, next week. I’m fine for now, Kate—thanks for the thought.”
It hit me then, what I’d almost done. Giving a trenvay a gift was a tried-and-true way of binding him to you. He’d owe you a favor, according to the rules he himself played by—
“Do Guardians and trenvay play by the same rules?” I asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact and just curious.
The half-smile twisted.
“I’d say it depends on who they’re playing with.”
Well, that put me in my place.
I nodded and slipped my hand out of the crook of his arm. The breeze being a little chilly, I tucked both hands into the pockets of my jacket, and started to walk, toward the Pier and downtown, since I was going that way, anyhow. Borgan walked with me.
Well, at least he wasn’t so insulted that he was washing his hands of me. That was, I thought, something. Even though I was an idiot.
The breeze was coming from landside; the low-tide surf more on the order of a whisper than a roar. There were people on the beach—a good couple dozen, walking mostly, like we were; it was probably too early for bocce.
Eventually, Borgan cleared his throat.
“So,” he said. “What’ve I missed, bein’ away all that time?”
Right, the news.
“Well, let’s see . . . the Coasties and the MDEA made two busts over the last couple days, and cleaned up a bunch of what has to be Joe Nemeier’s property, and a good number of his kiddies, too. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to be able to lay hands on the man himself. Or,” I added, recalling my previous speculations on the topic, “they hope he’ll lead them to somebody bigger, up the chain.”
“Shame what happens to a man’s investments when he don’t have an Ozali on retainer.”
“About that,” I said. “I told you the other night that he was at the reception at Wishes with a new lady friend, who—”
“Got ahead of the story,” he interrupted. “Wishes?”
“A year-round art gallery, believe it or don’t. Owner’s Joan Anderson, a returning daughter. She threw a Season Opener reception Thursday night—that’s where Peggy and I were coming home from. For some reason, Joe Nemeier was there . . .”
“Easy reason. Man’s got money. Makes good sense for the gallery owner to sweeten up the folks who have pockets deep enough to buy her artists’ stuff.”
He was right, of course. I sighed.
“Didn’t think of that. Anyhow, the man was there, and he’d brought his lady friend. Ulme, her name is.”
“The Ozali you told me about.”
“No,” I said slowly. “Not Ozali. I don’t think. She has jikinap, but I think she . . . just does. Like almost anybody from any of the other Worlds, well, except Sempeki.”
“So Ozali is different from just having magic?”
“An Ozali has studied spellcraft—which is the loophole that lets me into the club. This girl—Ulme. I don’t think she has any training. I think jikinap is just . . . a sense to her. Like touch, or hearing.”
“So, not a replacement for Mr. Wonderful?”
I chewed my lip.
“Beats me. I guess if Joe Nemeier’s shipments go invisible again, we’ll have the answer. Otherwise, the good guys’ll eventually pick him up and put him away. Couldn’t happen soon enough, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Any other news?” Borgan asked, after we’d gone half a dozen steps in silence.
I shook myself out of my Nemeier-tainted funk.
“Sorry. Lots more. There’s a citizen committee got up by Jess Robald—Archers Beach Twelve to Twelve, they’re calling it. They want to lengthen the Season; eventually get to being year-round. You met Peggy. I pissed off my grandmother by dealing with the Enterprise for a replacement animal—”
“How’s Bonnie doin’?” Borgan interrupted.
That was an on-point question. Borgan was one of Gran’s allies—he’d not only been in on the secret of the Ozali who wasn’t in Googin Rock, he’d been an important part of making the con work. That meant he ought to have—no. He deserved the truth, so he’d know how much he could depend on her right at the moment.
So—“She says she’s fine, just a little worn out, but . . . she’s under Wood, and spends a lot of time in her tree. Mother . . . the trees are tending to her, too, but she’s frail, and not getting less frail as fast as I’d like.”
“This is when I say that it’s only been eight weeks,” Borgan murmured. “And when you’ve got a soul to regrow, and a body to heal, that’s no time at all.”
“I guess.” I stared down at the sand. “I just . . . I hate it, that they’re up there, vulnerable, no matter what Gran says about how the Wood will protect them, with the local drug lord right next door. The local drug lord who we know holds a grudge.”
“Ozali Belignatious went back to Flowerland, did he?”
I jerked my head up to stare at him.
“Mr. Ignat’? Of course not! He’d never leave Gran—” I stopped, feeling like an idiot, again.
“Okay,” I acknowledged. “Not completely vulnerable.”
“Not to say that I heard there was a granddaughter who was a dab hand at magic, too,” Borgan said ruminatively.
“A dab hand! I’ll have you know I’ve been taking spellcraft lessons from the best!”
“Well, there y’are. An’ I’m betting, tired or not, Bonnie’s nothing like a pushover, either.”
“No,” I agreed. I took a breath. “Anyhow, the upshot is that the carousel’s mine to run, and the house, to keep.”
“So you was saying you got that replacement animal?”
“I did, right. Pissing Gran off in the process. After the process,” I added, in the interest of being totally honest.
“Bonnie didn’t want you dealin’ with Artie?”
“Well . . . not Artie so much as the Enterprise, is what I gathered. Not that I had a choice. Long story short, Artie tricked me into taking a fiberglass rooster; either a bad copy of a
Herschel-Spillman or . . . just an ugly rooster. But relief is in sight. The rooster also offended a fine carpenter named Kyle, who’d done some ’prentice time with a carousel animal carver. He offered to build another horse. So . . . next Season, we’ll be back up to speed. This Season . . . we have a rooster.”
“What’ll you do with it, after the new horse arrives?”
I shrugged. “Hadn’t thought out that far. Might just store it, as a spare. Maybe auction it off on eBay.”
We passed under the Pier; footsteps sounded on the wooden planks over our heads, drowning out the murmur of the waves. On the far side, Borgan waved his hand toward the carousel.
“Gettin’ off here?”
I shook my head.
“I’ve got some business down Goosefare Brook at dead low. I’ll walk you to the Lady, if you don’t mind my company.”
“Always pleased with your company,” Borgan assured me, with a look that made my chest go tight again.
I took a breath, and said, not quite at random. “My shift doesn’t start ’til four.”
“That a fact?” He snapped his fingers. “Nancy did say she was working the merry-go-round this Season.”
“She is, and so is Vassily Abramovich Davydenko, Greenie Extraordinaire. He’s from Ukraine; he’s morose; and he’s hungry! Anna’s taken it on as a personal mission, to feed him up.”
“No hope for the boy then,” Borgan said with a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, he’s pretty much doomed.”
“Which puts me in mind of your not-roomie. Her being from Away, how’s she handling the trenvay?”
“All good so far. She’s a fixer, so she tells me, and her job first and foremost is to get the midway operating and making lots of money for Management in New Jersey. To this point, she’s pulled at least one stunt, and agreed to pay in cash. My personal belief is that she’ll get through the Season before one of the big bosses realizes what’s she done and reels her in.”
“Likely to lose her job?”
“Depends on how good she is, generally,” I said, slowly. “Freewheels have their place in corporate culture, so long as they don’t wheel too far or too free.”
“Well, I wish ’er well. The midway needs a firm hand.”
“Don’t we all?”
He gave me a sideways glance.
“That a call on my good nature?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s what you think,” he said, somewhat heatedly. “An’ I can see that I didn’t do myself any good, trying to work it around so you wouldn’t think one thing in particular; then damn me if you didn’t go and think something else that wasn’t even on my radar.” He sighed deeply. “Never knew such a woman for thinkin’.”
I blinked. That had sounded genuinely aggrieved.
“Runs in the family,” I admitted, only half-flippant.
“Bonnie does have a long head on ’er.”
“You never met Aeronymous,” I said, “speaking of long heads. Ozali Belignatious isn’t a slouch, either.”
“Sliest man in Six Worlds, when he has his whole wits about ’im.”
“There you have it.”
“I’ll just have to learn to be quicker on my feet. Gotten lazy all these years without anybody to gimme an edge.”
We’d passed Fun Country’s far boundary. Ahead of us was Googin Rock, almost entirely exposed at low tide.
Borgan stopped on the apron and stood regarding the rocky length of it.
“Does look different,” he said after several long minutes of study. “Always was a nasty bit of navigation hazard, but I’d gotten so used to seein’ the balefire over it and the glamor we’d woven that I’d all but forgot that all it is—is a rock.”
“I never knew it any other way,” I said, standing next to him, my hands in my pockets. “Every time I look at it now, I get a little catch around my heart, like—oh, no, what’s it planning?”
He laughed, deep in his chest.
“I expect we’ll get used to it in another hundred years, and not be able to remember there was balefire at all.”
“I’m not likely to be here in a hundred years,” I said, as we moved on down the beach.
“No? Now I’d’ve said so when you first come back. Didn’t look likely you were gonna last a hundred hours, what with phasin’ in and out. But once you got connected up with the land again, that little problem fell away.”
I frowned at him. “You think being Guardian makes me . . . immortal?”
“Not immortal, no. Everything ends, eventually. But a hundred years? No reason not.”
“From what I’ve been told, most of the Archer Guardians went before their time, rather than wear out their welcome.”
“Well, there is a family tendency to put yourselves in harm’s way,” he allowed, as one being fair.
I took a breath, realized I didn’t have anything in particular to say, and shook my head.
Borgan grinned.
“Best you ask your gran,” he said kindly. “She’ll know how long-lived the family is, in general.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
We followed the hard curve of the beach ’round the foot of Heath Hill, and there was Kinney Harbor. Gray Lady was out at her mooring, looking sprightly and spirited.
“So,” I said. “What did you do with the ronstible—ronstibles? I only saw Daphne, myself. Was there more than one?”
“There was the one you’re calling Daphne, on the Lady—”
“Hey, I’m only calling her Daphne because that’s what she said her name was!”
“It’s not,” Borgan said grimly. “But like I was saying—there was the one aboard the Lady, and her sister, at one with the waters. It was her was keeping me slow, but their problem, see, is that they have to keep me.”
“I see,” I said, and breathed a wish that they wouldn’t soon figure out a way around that little inconvenience. “How’s Gray Lady?”
“Had some cleaning to do,” he said, leaning his arms on the dock’s rail. “Nerazi come by last night and made sure of what I’d done, but we’re still not fit for company.” He turned his head to look at me, lazy, if you didn’t mind the tension in his shoulders.
“You’ll come aboard for coffee, once she’s shipshape again?”
It’s dangerous to go—especially to go invited—into a trenvay’s private space. On the other hand . . .
“Well, I’ll have to inspect, won’t I? To see if there’s a reasonable place for me to keep those clean clothes?”
His face lit with laughter.
“Hadn’t thought o’that, but you’re right.” He straightened and looked down at me.
“I’m going to have to leave you here,” he said. “The news wasn’t the only thing slipped by while I was dozing, so I got some few things to tend to. Tomorrow, I’m fishing.”
I nodded. “Hum’s boat?”
“Oh, aye; that’s the contract. Finn’s a happy man, going back to pickup crew.”
“Who wouldn’t be happy to be left off the hook?” I said, pushing away from the rail. “I’ll leave you to it, then. See you around.”
I thought I’d hit just the right note of casual, there, as I turned.
“Kate.”
I turned back.
He took my face between both of his warm, broad hands, callused fingers sliding into my hair.
“I’ll see you Midsummer Eve,” he murmured, while I stood still and tried to pretend that I wasn’t shivering in my shoes from his touch.
He snorted lightly, mouth twisting toward a smile. Then he bent, and kissed me on top my head.
“You be careful, Kate,” he said, and let me go.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Low Tide 10:09 A.M. EDT
Goosefare Brook enters the Gulf of Maine past Kinney Harbor. The pool it forms just short of the narrow mouth is a favorite hangout for egret, heron, and the occasional very bewildered swan. In addition to being narrow, the mouth sports a mess of broken pilings, like rotte
n teeth, visible at low tide, invisible at high, and at all times a threat to the navigation of any vessel but those with the shallowest draft: kayak, canoe, barge. Captains of such craft can easily come ashore at a pleasant little apron beach on the marsh side, perfect for a picnic and a spot of bird watching.
There’s another hazard to navigation in the area, too: a wrecked ship sitting well out on the shelf. I’ve seen it exactly once, myself, at dead low water during the lowest low tide in thirty years, according to Nerazi, who’d shown it to me. Mostly, its black and broken hull is covered by the kindly waters, but it remains a risk, not for that barge or kayak so much as any ocean-going rig whose skipper hasn’t done his homework.
To the best of my knowledge; despite—or maybe because of—the navigational challenges, the little beach has been used off and on for smuggling operations. Not lately, if what I read in the paper was so. Or maybe whoever was using the beach just hadn’t been caught.
Yet.
My interest today, however, wasn’t smuggling, past or present. It was the little beach itself, which showed up—or, say, didn’t show up—in my Guardian-gestalt of the land as . . . call it a dead zone. No—call it a still zone.
When I’d first come back home to Archers Beach, my two pressing problems had been:
One, make sure that the prisoners on the merry-go-round were secured beyond any possibility of breaking away—a significant challenge, given the state of my health (dying) and mage-craft (rudimentary).
Two, find Gran, who had gone missing at just about the worst time possible, though, to be perfectly fair, no time that springs to mind would have been good.
In the process of my search, my subsequent reconnection with both the land and my duties to it, I had become aware of certain . . . specific areas that seemed to need . . . help. Maybe even the help of the Guardian of the land.
The first of those had been Heron Marsh—Eltenfleur’s territory. I’d tended to him first because, well . . . because Eltenfleur hadn’t been remotely still or quiet or quite yet dead. He’d been dying. He’d been in pain, and he wanted everyone within the sound of his voice to know it.
Since the end of the Super Early Season, in my spare time, which had amounted to a fair number of hours, I’d been trying to map out exactly where those others—the quiet spots—were.
