The Storm Witch

by Violette Malan

  “It’s a few days longer than the turning of the moon to cross Long Ocean, Dhulyn Wolfshead. Plenty of time to talk.”

  Nice if that were true. She shook her head, and added a roll of the eyes for effect. “You really don’t know much about diplomacy and negotiation, do you?” she said. “First, you’ve asked for my help, so don’t think to tell me how to give it to you. Second, there is no such thing as too much time to prepare.”

  “As you say, Paledyn.” He swept her a bow with the suggestion of a smile on his lips. “But wait until your Partner joins us. As soon tell the tale but once, and my sister should be with us.”

  Dhulyn hesitated, this time making sure her face kept its expression of skeptical interest. Need Parno hear any of this? As she was still formulating her answer, the door to their cabin at the far end of the main deck swung open, and her Partner sauntered out, one hand tucked into his belt, and the other resting negligently on his sword hilt, head cocked as if he were strolling through some capital city’s main square. Dhulyn smiled. Parno’s amber colored eyes were bright and alert, and except for his bare feet—he’d been on shipboard before, and knew better than to wear his boots—he was fully dressed in trousers, shirt, and leather jerkin. In addition to his regular sword, a short sword and dagger were conspicuous on his belts. His golden hair was unusually dull in the light of the overcast sky.

  Parno Lionsmane spotted Dhulyn across the stretch of deck that separated the mid and aft cabins. He smiled. He should have known she’d found the one spot where she could sit down, be in no one’s way, keep her eye on most of the crew—and still be the first thing he’d see when he opened their cabin door. Still grinning, Parno made his way across the deck to where Dhulyn sat, taking care not to lurch or stagger. There weren’t many of the crew up and about, but it wouldn’t do to let anyone see a Mercenary Brother off-balance. He trotted up the gangway and nodded to the captain, a shortened parody of the bow his House’s Scholar had taught him as a child.

  “You didn’t wake me,” he said to his Partner when he was close enough to be heard without raising his voice. “No Shora this morning?”

  Again, that look passed over Dhulyn’s face, the paling of her skin, the parting of her lips, accompanied by a shiver as if of frozen grief. And then rapid blinking, and an even more rapid return to a normal expression, except for her lack of color. Could she be having a Vision? But Parno had never seen that look before now, and Dhulyn had been having Visions all the time he’d known her.

  “What?” she said, giving him the smile she saved only for him. “I wake you up, you complain; I don’t wake you up, you complain. Either way,” she shrugged. “The captain’s about to tell us why they need us.”

  “Darlara’s in our cabin. Perhaps could join her,” the Nomad said. “Devin, hot water?”

  A small boy looked over from his post at the steersman’s side, flashing a quick smile as he dashed forward toward the galley.

  After giving the order, Malfin Cor stood to one side and held out his hand with a flourish, an invitation to take the gangway to the lower deck. There, under and to the right of where the wheel man stood gazing out into the far distance, was a doorway, and a cabin slightly larger than the one they had been given. Parno looked at Dhulyn. She looked back at him. Parno touched his fingertips to his forehead in the Mercenary salute.

  “After you, Captain,” he said. “We insist.” As far as he was concerned they were here by force, job or no job, and until they found out more about the circumstances of their being here, even their client had to be treated with caution.

  Parno lifted his eyebrows as they followed Cor into his cabin. He’d wager that the untidiness was not habitual, but reflected Co-captain Darlara’s hasty relocation the night before. Like their own, the cabin was longer than it was wide, with bunk beds along the inner wall—the lower one with folded clothing and a jumble of land shoes on it—and two square casement windows on the outer, seaward wall more highly placed than would have been considered normal in a room built on land. What they could see of the floor showed tightly fitted tongue-and-groove planks of a dark red hardwood, though Parno suspected there would be drainage holes somewhere along the edges of the floor, or the bottom of the exterior wall, to allow any water that entered the cabin to escape.

  The captains motioned them to take seats at a bench along one side of a large central table—both benches and table, Parno noticed as he slid himself in, made of seasoned pine and bolted to the floor. Dhulyn remained standing for a moment longer, looking at a set of floor-to-ceiling shelves built into the wall between the windows. Each shelf had a rail that would help keep its contents in place as the ship moved, and while most of them contained objects of daily use, metal dishes and mugs, small wooden containers and even a few glasses, there was also a small selection of rolled maps and books—which explained Dhulyn’s interest.

  When Dhulyn reached out her hand, however, it was not to touch the books, as Parno expected, but one of several small ceramic pots attached to the sides of the shelves, where the plants they held could take advantage of the light coming through the thick glass of the windows.

  “Tansy,” said Darlara Cor.

  “For making tea,” added her brother.

  The two captains stood together on the far side of the table, the daylight full on their faces. They were the same height—a finger’s width or so shorter than Dhulyn—with the same wiry build, and thick, coarse, dark hair. Malfin’s mustache made it harder to see, but they also shared the same fine lips, though Darlara’s were perhaps a shade fuller, the same high cheekbones and narrow noses.

  Their ears were precisely the same shape, and their luminous, almost black eyes were exactly the same distance apart.

  “You’re twins,” Parno said, leaning forward with interest. It was not so obvious with male and female siblings, but he’d seen twins once before. They were rare enough that some made a living traveling with troupes of players or musicians and putting themselves on display.

  “Are,” they said in unison. “Some landsters are superstitious about twins,” added Darlara in her light voice.

  “The Mercenary Brotherhood is Schooled to have no prejudice,” Dhulyn said. “It’s said that twins are often Marked. May I ask . . . ?”

  The two captains looked at each other, round-eyed, clearly surprised.

  “Many and many twins among Nomads,” Malfin answered. “A third of us, I’d say. But never heard of anyone who’s Marked.”

  “Marked among the Mortaxa,” Darlara added when it seemed that Dhulyn was about to ask. The two Nomads exchanged so swift a glance that Parno couldn’t be certain he actually saw it. “But none among us.”

  “Not one?” Dhulyn’s voice showed surprise, not skepticism. “They’re rare, I know. Fewer than three in two hundred, but to have none at all . . . Are you superstitious, then, about the Marked?”

  “That we’re not—ah here’s Devin with hot water.” Malfin rose at the sound of the knock, and let the boy in. Devin was balanced with unconscious ease, his two hands wrapped around the padded handle of a steaming kettle. Malfin took the kettle from the lad and shooed him out the door when he seemed inclined to stay and stare at the Mercenary Brothers. Parno smiled.

  “Peppermint or ginger?” Darlara rose to her feet and went to the shelves to peer into boxes. “Though there’s lemon grass here if rather have that.”

  “No ganje, I suppose?”

  Malfin was shaking his head and his sister turned to look at them over her shoulder, a small frown creasing her forehead. “Don’t use stimulants,” she said.

  Of course you don’t. Parno kept his sour thought to himself. Just his luck. He’d slept longer than usual, and now found himself feeling groggy.

  “Ginger would be fine, if there is enough of it.” Dhulyn folded her hands in front of her as Malfin took a tall, round basket as wide across as a dinner plate from a drawer to one side of the bunks. Dhulyn glanced sideways at Parno. They weren’t surprised when Malfin took
off the lid and revealed a porcelain teapot, of a kind they’d often seen in the lands of the Great King to the West. Of course, Parno thought. What served the migrating nomads of the western plains would serve the seagoing nomads just as well. Not only would the basket keep the tea warm, but it would serve as padding should the pot be tossed from the table by an errant wave—or from the back of a runaway horse.

  “You were saying, about the Marked,” Dhulyn said, as Darlara spooned dried ginger into the pot and Malfin added hot water from the kettle.

  “Wouldn’t mind a few Marked among us right now, and that’s a fact,” Malfin said. He put the lid back on the teapot, and closed the basket once again, to allow the tea to steep.

  “Those skills, Mender, Finder, Healer—were part of what we traded for with the Mortaxa.”

  “Were part?”

  “Yes. About a year ago—”

  Dhulyn held up her hand. “Start even farther back. How long have your people been dealing with the Mortaxa? What is the history of your relationship with them?”

  The two Cors, brother and sister, looked at each other, identical frowns marking each forehead. Without changing expression, Malfin retrieved a shallow box from the same drawer that had held the teapot, opened it, and offered it to Parno. There were biscuits inside. Parno took one, but Dhulyn shook her head.

  “Are shrimp flavored, very good,” Darlara said with an air of abstraction, as if she were merely going through the motions of courtesy while thinking about something else. “Our mother’s recipe.”

  “We cannot both eat at the same time,” Dhulyn said. “I will wait, to see if Parno becomes ill.”

  Frowns disappeared as both their faces flushed. “But the tea . . .”

  “Comes from the common pot,” Dhulyn said. “I can assume you will not poison yourselves in order to poison us.”

  Now their faces showed white spots of anger. Dhulyn held up her hand, palm toward them. “We’d do this no matter where we were, or who we were eating with,” she said. “Even in the court of the Great King to the West. It’s our Common Rule. Better careful than cursing.”

  The two captains looked at each other. Finally, they both shrugged. Malfin put the box of biscuits down on the table, picked out one for himself, and began.

  “Nomads have been trading with the landsters for generations—as far back as any record, story, or legend—”

  “As far back as the Crayx remember,” Darlara added, her formal phrasing giving the words a certain ritual feel. “Which is as far back as time.” She lifted the teapot from its basket and poured out four cups, handing the first one to Dhulyn, then one each to Parno and her brother, before taking the last one for herself.

  “Like all Nomads, follow the Crayx, each to our own Pod. Seven here in the Long Ocean. Thirteen in the Round, three in the Cold South, three in the Northern Bite. Each with our own trade time and trade center.”

  “And what is it you trade to them, if you don’t mind my asking,” Parno said.

  Once again that lightning flash of a glance between the two captains. This time Parno knew that Dhulyn had caught it as well.

  “Other oceans, other ways,” Darlara said with a shrug. “Mortaxa had no boats or ships, none that could leave the sight of shore.”

  Past tense? Parno thought. They had no boats.

  “So bring them food from the sea. Deep-water fish, seaweed, the birds and shellfish that live in the weed beds, even sponges—all the fruits of the seas and oceans.”

  “As well as pearls, salt, artifacts of the Caids—”

  Here Parno and Dhulyn exchanged a look of their own.

  “—and skins, of course.” Malfin tapped his scaled vest.

  “Not the scaled ones, naturally,” Darlara added.

  “Naturally,” Dhulyn said. Under the table, her foot pressed against Parno’s, silencing the question that was about to leave his lips.

  “And they’d no Long Ocean vessels, no connection with the Crayx, and so no way to cross the Long Ocean and trade with Boravia,” Malfin said, using the term for the land north of the Midland Sea. “Or across the Round Ocean. So those things, too,” here Malfin tapped the basket that so clearly came from the Great King’s realm. “Those things formed part of our trade goods as well.”

  “But most, we trade for them, carry their goods—fressian mostly—for a share,” Darlara said. “And so we buy our own made goods, clothing, utensils.”

  “And land-based foods,” Malfin added. “Fruits, root vegetables . . .”

  “Meat,” they said in unison, their tones noticeably wistful.

  Dhulyn blinked, reached into the front of her multicolored, patch-worked vest and pulled out a stick of sausage, dried and smoked for travel.

  “I’m afraid it might be a bit sweaty,” she said, holding it out.

  Both captains had their hands halfway across the table, eyes shining, before they remembered their manners.

  “Thank you, Dhulyn Wolfshead,” they said.

  “If you’ve any trade goods with you now,” Parno said, “we could stop at Navra before we pass through the Straits. We know trustworthy people there.”

  Both Malfin and Darlara shook their heads. “Not here to trade,” he said. “Just to find Paledyn.”

  “Would have sent someone more important,” Darlara said. “But was our Pod’s turn to cross, so we came.” She had taken out her knife and scrupulously cut the stick of dried meat in two, giving one half to her brother before she cut a small piece off the part she’d kept for herself. The meat was dry and hard, Parno knew, and they would have to soften the bits in their mouths for a while before they could chew them, but they didn’t seem to mind. He took another biscuit from the box in front of him.

  “So this is the history of your trade.” Dhulyn took a sip of her tea and put the small cup back down on the table in front of her. “You spoke of distrust. Has it been the cause, or the result, of war between you?

  This time the look that passed between the two captains was long, and undisguised.

  “There’ve been disputes,” Malfin said finally. “How not? But in our time all we’ve seen are fights in taverns and such.”

  “A blockade here, a boycott there,” Darlara said, shrugging. “They’re landsters, without Crayx, small surprise there’s no open water between us. Times they say we hold back goods, wait until there’s desperation to drive up prices, but we come and we go as the Crayx bring and take us. Tell them this, and they don’t believe.”

  “Times they say there’s been drought, or flooding, and they drive prices up,” Malfin said. “And we don’t always believe them.”

  Darlara snorted and looked quickly to one side. “Still, for generations, there’s been trade and profit, even if it didn’t come easy. And these past few years, when the Tarxin’s son, Tar Xerwin, was spokesman for them, looked like things would get better and better.”

  Parno nodded, leaning forward on his elbow, and wishing the bench seats had backs. Probably the most common cause of war—as the Mercenary Brotherhood had reason to know—was dispute over trade. And even when the dispute was settled, and treaties and tariffs were formalized, that didn’t mean the ones who actually did the trading would always see eye to eye.

  “So what changed a year ago?”

  “Dawntreader Pod went to their regular trade fair in Ketxan City, the capital, good to the day and all, and merchants took goods contracted for but nothing else,” Malfin said.

  “Nothing else?”

  Darlara nodded. “No new trade. Were allowed to anchor in their usual place and put ashore. But there was no fair set up, and were told there wouldn’t be. Dawntreader asked when next fair would be, told to wait.”

  “By order of the Tarxin, not the son, mind you, the Tarxin himself. Not worried at first,” added Malfin. “Crayx remember, type of thing Mortaxa has done before when wanted to change old treaties, old agreements. We thought—”

  “We don’t go to the capital, that’s not our route,” Darlara int
errupted. The first time, Parno realized, the twin captains hadn’t spoken in turn. “Ours is Caudix, farther along the coast and a bit north. And at first our trade wasn’t affected, but seven months ago, contracts were fulfilled, and our landsters turned us away as well.”

  “Found out all trade, everywhere, stopped. Told us they’d no need to be cheated by us anymore . . .” Malfin’s voice died away.

  “Had you been cheating them?” Dhulyn’s voice was matter-of-fact, with no judgment in it. The Mercenary Brotherhood did a great deal of negotiation and bargaining, and Parno knew there was often a very fine line between careful dealing and cheating.

  “It’s trade, Dhulyn Wolfshead,” Malfin said, in unconscious echo of Parno’s thoughts. “Each makes the best bargain they can, we and the landsters both. Times we feel we’ve caught the current ahead of them, times they’d feel the same.”

  “The captains of our oldest Pods took our protest to Xalbalil, their Tarxin, who the landsters call the Light of the Sun, and he says, will need new treaties, or maybe no treaties since now will build their own ships,” Malfin said. “Breaking most ancient and treasured of agreements.”

  “So we think, what of it? Still cannot cross the Long Ocean without Crayx,” Darlara said.

  “And say they don’t need us now,” Malfin added. “Say have lodestone.”

  Dhulyn whistled. “I’ve read about them, but I thought they were old magic of the Caids. Has one been found?”

  The two Cors gave identical shrugs. “Wouldn’t know. Reminded Mortaxa that Crayx would not accept landster ships, any sent out into the Long Ocean would be destroyed. That is their right by the agreement.”

  “Then came a storm—”

  “Winds and rain—”

  “Scattering the Pods, confusing the Crayx,” Malfin said.