Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII

by Waters, Elisabeth

  Was that what had happened here? Had all these people died and the crew along with them, leaving the Black Magic to drift for ten years at sea?

  She jumped at a deafening crack from high above.

  George froze, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of anything through the open steps to the next deck up. It couldn't have been lightning. Just moments ago, the sea had been calm and the sky clear.

  Then something boomed as it crashed into the ocean, and waves rocked the ship. Heavy footsteps rained from high above, and men cried unintelligible commands.

  George jumped to her feet and raced upward until she reached the top deck. "What happened?" She panted. "What's wrong?"

  Her shipmates were scattered across the deck, inspecting every final nook and cranny. Only Mr. Mungo took the time to give her a quizzical look.

  George ran up to him. "That sound... what was it?"

  Mr. Mungo looked at her blankly. "What sound?"

  George checked the skies. They were still clear and blue. She glanced around the deck. The masts were still in place, as were the sails and the sailcloth stacks. Nothing seemed out of order. "I heard something heavy fall into the sea."

  "No one dropped anchor."

  "I know what an anchor sounds like. It wasn't metal—it was larger and heavier. Almost like the sound of a figurehead falling." Automatically, George turned to check the ship's bow.

  One of the men had climbed onto the figurehead. Like a boy riding his father's shoulders, the seaman straddled the wooden genii's neck, holding onto his painted turban with one hand while reaching around to the figurehead's face with the other. The seaman yelped with joy as his hand yanked away something that gleamed. As he clambered back on board from the figurehead, Mr. Mungo called out to him. "What have you got?"

  It was Jansen, the same man who'd fainted after finding the skeletons. Now his face was flush with excitement. He grinned as he strode proudly toward them, holding up a pair of daggers with gems embedded in their hilts. "Some real beauties!"

  The sight of the daggers unnerved George. Only kings could afford such extravagance. "Where did you find them?" she said.

  Jansen grinned wider. "One was stuck in each eye."

  George gasped. "That's a bad omen!"

  Everyone knew the figurehead symbolized the heart and spirit of the ship. All seamen treated the figurehead with reverence and respect. She'd once heard tell of a captain who threatened to paint his own ship's figurehead with tar in a last-ditch effort to keep his crew in line, and it worked when all other forms of punishment had failed. Sticking daggers in the eyes of a figurehead was the same as blinding it. And how could any ship see where it was going if it had no eyes?

  But Mr. Mungo simply wrote another line on the list he was keeping, and Jansen walked away, clutching the prize daggers to his chest.

  Then she remembered what she'd read in the captain's log. Something about a crewman hearing voices telling him to stick the daggers he found into the eyes. Had the captain meant the eyes of the figurehead? How could the crewman have done it when everyone was against it?

  Unless the crewman was the last one alive and was making a last-ditch effort to save himself.

  "He should put those daggers back in its eyes, and we should get off this evil ship at once!" George said.

  Without looking at her, Mr. Mungo muttered, "People are evil. Not ships."

  A loud moan drifted up from the depths of the Black Magic.

  On the other side of the deck, the captain called out, "Who's missing?"

  George counted everyone in sight. "We're all here," she called out, but no one listened. Mr. Mungo and her shipmates were already following the captain down below.

  Get out, a voice inside her said.

  George wanted to climb down to one of the small boats and row herself back to her own ship, the Crown. She wanted to be back on board a ship that smelled like frankincense and coffee, not mold, death, and must. Every moment she spent on the slave ship was a moment too long.

  But if she dared to go back to the Crown alone, she'd be disobeying her captain's orders, which could cost her plenty, including her career at sea.

  I'm just spooked, that's all, George thought. I'll go back to the Crown and send someone else back with the rowboat.

  But what if there was real danger? Could she live with herself if she ran away when Captain Garcia, Mr. Mungo and her shipmates were at risk?

  George raced to follow them below.

  * * * *

  When she reached the cargo hold, they were already picking their way through the field of bones and iron shackles toward a bare-chested man with long black hair who sat on the far end of the deck, chained by his wrists and ankles.

  George hesitated, staring in disbelief. "He wasn't here before."

  His skin was as brown as any seaman's, but his nose was large and hooked. Even though he was sitting and covered in bones and chains, there was enough light to see that he wore red pants. He looked like the Black Magic's figurehead come to life.

  George's eyes narrowed. "I know this man," she said, although no one seemed to hear her. "I remember him."

  Her father was a collector, and men often came to sell him artifacts from around the world. Her father also collected models of ships and never hesitated to invest in a real one. As a child, she'd been reading in an alcove when she'd overheard her father talking with a visitor.

  At first, she'd paid no attention. It was only when she realized they were discussing her that she'd closed her book and crept toward the railing that surrounded the square open space that let her see them on the floor below. Her father had been nestled in his favorite leather chair, smoking a pipe. His visitor had sported a red silk turban, embroidered ivory robes, and a flash of red silk pants beneath those robes.

  The visitor had argued, "She will simply follow where the rest of your continent has led for centuries. There are fortunes to be made. She will travel the world—"

  "I will let no child of mine near you," her father had answered.

  "Please, Sir, hear me out," the visitor had said smoothly. "She will be in good hands."

  "That's what I was told when I first agreed. And I was lied to!"

  Please, George had thought hard and fast. It's what I've dreamed of. Please let me go see the world!

  At the same time, she'd heard father's voice say something else to the stranger, even though his lips never moved.

  May the same happen to you as you wish upon others.

  She'd let out a little sigh, and that's when the visitor had looked up sharply at George. She'd ducked back into the shadows upstairs, but not before his eyes had met hers.

  The visitor's voice and manner had changed then. "You have something very precious inside this house," he'd said, turning back toward George's father. "Something I would like to borrow, perhaps."

  "Sir," her father had replied. "Our business is done."

  She'd slipped away into the depths of the house, and her father had never spoken about that visitor.

  But for many years that followed, she'd wake up in a cold sweat from having nightmares about the man wearing the red silk turban.

  George comforted herself with the words her father had spoken to him: I will let no child of mine near you. Perhaps her father's intent would be enough to protect her.

  "Stop!" George shouted.

  This time they heard her, stopping short and looking back in surprise.

  "I recognize this man," George said. "He is no friend to us."

  With all backs except hers turned to him, the man with the long black hair shot the same look at her that her father's visitor had given her years ago. One corner of his mouth lifted into a brief smile. Then he turned gaunt and ashen-skinned before her eyes. He moaned loudly.

  The captain's face sagged with disappointment as he faced George. "Have mercy on this man. It's only by the grace of Jesus Christ that he survived when all others died. You see a miracle before you." To the others, the captain said, "Has
anyone tools that would free this man?"

  Jansen called out, "I saw hammer and chisel by the carpenter's bunk."

  The daggers, George thought. They were stuck in the figurehead when I was here the first time. When Jansen pulled the daggers out of the eyes of the figurehead, did he release a genii?

  "Jansen!" she called. "Give me your daggers!"

  Jansen was already halfway across the hold. He shook his head without bothering to turn and look at her.

  Still perched on the last rung of the ladder, George began to hop off in order to run and stop him, but the hundreds of bones covering the deck suddenly turned into squirming white snakes. Yelling out in fear, she shrank back, clinging to the ladder.

  Standing nearby, Mr. Mungo cocked his head. "What's troubling you?"

  "Those!" George's hand trembled as she pointed at the hissing snakes between them. "Snakes!"

  Worry clouded Mr. Mungo's eyes. "There's no snakes anywhere on board this ship." He leaned down and picked one up while keeping his gaze on her the way he'd watch a rabid dog. The snake in his hand wound itself around his forearm, then displayed its fangs. "See?" Mr. Mungo said evenly. "It's just a bone."

  George looked past Mr. Mungo to see the dark-haired man—the genii—collapse. When the genii moaned, George could hear him laughing at the same time.

  Suddenly, she remembered her father's words, which had drifted into her head the day the genii had visited.

  May the same happen to you as you wish upon others.

  Now she remembered—her father had also been drawing. The following day she'd snooped in his home office and found a drawing of a figurehead: a genii that looked like her father's visitor.

  Her father had always referred to the buildings he designed as his children. When invested with new business partners, he referred to their joint projects as his children, too.

  For the first time, George realized she'd left home because she thought her father had denied her the opportunity to sail away with the stranger and find adventure. But that wasn't what had happened. Her father must have discovered the genii was a slaver. The "child" her father had said he'd not let near the stranger wasn't George—it was the Black Magic.

  Jansen returned to the dark-haired man and took a hammer and chisel to the first of four shackles chaining him to the slave deck.

  Her father had always warned her to be careful of what she wished, because wishes had a way of coming true. Had the act of putting daggers into the figurehead's eyes shackled and imprisoned the genii inside? And had removing them set the genii free from the figurehead but still shackled?

  "No!" Terrified but determined, George ran onto the floor covered in snakes. Several pounced upon her legs, binding them like ropes until she tripped and fell on her knees.

  The metallic ring of cleaved shackles echoed across the cargo hold.

  George cried out as she struggled to free herself from the snakes.

  "Ah... " the genii said as Jansen broke off the last shackle from his body. His voice boomed like a war drum. "That's better."

  The snakes wiggled apart to create a path for the genii as he rose to his feet, suddenly blossoming from a weak and gaunt man into a healthy and robust one. As the captain, Mr. Mungo, and George's shipmates gaped in astonishment, the genii said, "Where is the architect's little girl?"

  When the snakes tried to tug her forward, they created enough slack for George to slam her heels down on them. Hissing and writhing in pain, the snakes released her. George raced up the ladder, through the narrow passageways, and up the stairways to the top decks.

  The figurehead was gone!

  The clear skies suddenly blackened with clouds and dumped icy rain upon her. Her feet slipped beneath her, and her face slammed hard against the floorboards. Dazed, she struggled to her knees.

  His breath warmed her face. "Hello, little one."

  George stared into the genii's face.

  Kneeling in front of her, he took her head in his hands. "Why worry about your friends and the Barbary Coast?" he whispered. "Why should you care if I sell them? My business is with you."

  Thunder roared above, and the ship trembled.

  Women were bad luck at sea—everyone knew it. That's why George had pretended to be a boy. She'd never have been able to get a job on a ship otherwise. It was only when a woman bared her breasts that she had the power to appease the gods and calm the seas. The rest of the time, women were magnets for trouble.

  George slammed her fist into the genii's eyes, startling him enough that he let go of her.

  Racing toward the bow, George pulled off her shirt, then released the muslin she wound around her chest to flatten it. She called out to the gods of the sea. "Help us!"

  Lightning struck the tallest mast of the Black Magic, and thunder boomed like cannons.

  A wall of white mist rose between George and the genii.

  As the men came up from below, George pulled her shirt back on and called out to them. "Quickly! To the row boats! We must get back to the Crown!"

  Mr. Mungo sprang into action, leading the way toward the row boats, but no one followed. "Captain!" he called. "Quickly now!"

  But Captain Garcia and the others stared at the genii.

  "Don't leave now," the genii told them. "There are hidden treasure chests throughout the ship. I can show you."

  George and Mr. Mungo climbed down to the boats below and rowed back toward the Crown.

  "Why won't they come?" George shouted.

  Looking back, Mr. Mungo stopped rowing. His stubbled jaw went slack.

  George turned to see the Black Magic turn into the misty white outline of a ship before it evaporated.

  * * * *

  Months later, George wore a new dress for the first time in years. On one hand, she felt so restricted by the tight waist and bodice that she could barely breathe. On the other hand, she liked feeling like a woman again.

  As she walked down the London streets, George sometimes stumbled as if the ground had unexpectedly pitched beneath her feet. That was normal. It always took a few days for her to get her land legs back.

  Mr. Mungo had taken command of the Crown. Privately, he'd told her that ghost ships should be left alone, and he'd never make the mistake of going near one again. He also advised her to keep her shirt on if she wanted to keep working on the Crown.

  Maybe she did want to keep working on an Indiaman merchant ship. Maybe she didn't. Once the Crown landed in London, George decided to take some time to think before signing up for another voyage.

  All those years ago, she thought her father had been trying to control her life, and to a certain extent that was exactly what he'd done, whether it was something he intended or not. Regardless, that was no excuse for George to run away without letting him know where she was or even that she was still alive.

  Now, facing his strange and clever house, George was terrified. What if he was angry with her? What if he refused to see her out of spite? Or what if he was sick and had wasted away so that she wouldn't recognize him when she saw him?

  Just as she'd done when she stepped onto the slave deck covered with white snakes, George pushed through her fear and rang the bell. She was startled when a new girl answered.

  What if he's died? George thought, panicking. Or moved away?

  "Yes?" the servant girl said, eyeing George suspiciously.

  George glanced at the name plate by the front door. It was her father's name. She pointed at the plate. "Is this correct?"

  The servant girl nodded. "Who shall I say is calling?"

  "His daughter," George said, breathing a sigh of relief that was as refreshing as the cool, crisp air that powered Indiamen, slave ships, and every wonderful vessel at sea. "Tell him it's Sally."

  Remembering

  by Deborah J. Ross

  From scientific debate about "nature versus nurture" and "the search for identity" to fairy tales such as "The Ugly Duckling" the same questions arise: "Who am I?" and "Why do I feel so different fro
m everyone around me?"—the latter being particularly noticeable during one's teens. For many people, identity comes from the memories of their ancestors. Eliane, having no memory of her own family, risked everything to save the memories and children of her foster family.

  Deborah J. Ross began her writing career as Deborah Wheeler, so her early stories in the Sword & Sorceress series are under that name, as are her Darkover short stories. Her story "Imperatrix" in the first Sword & Sorceress was her first professional sale, making her one of "MZB's writers." As Deborah Wheeler she also sold two science-fiction novels: Jaydium and Northlight, as well as 50 short stories—Marion alone bought a couple dozen of them. Deborah was the person Marion chose to continue the Darkover series; she's done four novels so far, and is working on the fifth. It doesn't have a final title yet—MZB's working title was The Reluctant King, but that will change before it sees print. Check www.mzbworks.com for the new title; it will be posted there when it's decided.

  Deborah lives in the redwood forests near Santa Cruz with her husband, writer Dave Trowbridge, two cats, and a German Shepherd Dog. In between writing, she has worked as a medical assistant to a cardiologist, lived in France—which she describes as an "alien-encounter"—and revived an elementary school library. She has been active in the women's martial arts network and has spent over 25 years studying kung fu san soo. In her spare time, she knits for "afghans for Afghans" and the Mother Bear Project (teddy bears for children in Africa orphaned by AIDS).

  #

  Fire raced through the streets of Yvarath. The old city, where the Bharim, the People of the Remembering, huddled behind their wooden gates, had gone up like a torch. Greasy smoke smeared the night sky, blurring the moon. The stench of burning pitch mingled with the reek of charred flesh. Screams pierced the roar of the flames.

  A figure darted from one shadowed alley to the next, tracing an oblique path away from the wharves. Eliane was so slender, her movements so quick and light, that only a careful observer would have seen anything in the shifting darkness but an adolescent boy. Loose pants, shapeless tunic and sandals identified her as Bharim.