The Emerald Sea

by Richelle Mead

  I sighed and tuned back in to the deliberations. The door opened again, bringing in a flurry of frigid air, and a pop of red couldn’t help but draw the eye in that room full of subdued colors. Jago Robinson shuffled inside and stomped snow off his boots before finding an unobtrusive spot to stand near some farmers. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and his hat had more wrinkles than ever. When had he gotten back? He’d traded his lighthearted countenance for a much grimmer one, and his attention on the debate was hawk-like.

  “Until the fort can send backup, I propose we post sentries of our own around the area. It’s not like those children were playing out in the middle of the wilderness. They were barely on the town’s outskirts! We can’t let the Icori sneak up so close again.”

  That declaration from the lead councilman drew clapping and shouts of assent, though one timid man suggested, “Perhaps we should send a delegation to talk to the Icori.”

  A magistrate in the crowd stood up and dismissed that notion with a snort. “We’d be sending that delegation to suicide, more likely. And what talking could they do? You heard the report—those brutes could barely string two Osfridian words together. You can’t reason with that.”

  That nagging sense of something being off played at the back of my mind again. Our assailants’ Osfridian had been terrible. I never would have given it a second thought, though, if I hadn’t met Orla. She’d spoken our language perfectly. Some of her companions hadn’t, but they’d still communicated better than the men I’d encountered today.

  The magistrate was still going: “We should spread word of this to other towns and forbid any Icori from entering Grashond. No more using our roads, no more trade in our towns. Icori who do should be imprisoned or removed. We need to put an end to these raids, and if it requires more offensive measures, so be it. The Icori must be stopped!”

  Over the scattered cheers, a voice suddenly called out, “Oh, come on! The Icori never started anything. You’re all acting like fools.”

  The noise faded, and heads turned. The lead councilman pursed his lips in disapproval. “Those are provocative words, Jacob Robinson. Perhaps you’d like to rephrase them.”

  The men standing near Jago parted, leaving a space around him that was particularly conspicuous given how crowded the church was. “Only if you didn’t understand them,” Jago replied. “I’m telling you, the Icori didn’t attack today.”

  “We have a couple dozen witnesses who say otherwise.”

  “But there’s no reason for the Icori to cause trouble. They’re content with the treaties, and they comply with them.”

  Captain Milford, emboldened by his new celebrity status, jumped to his feet. “Then who did I see in tartan and woad, accosting those children out there?”

  Jago hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  A cacophony erupted, equal parts mockery and outrage at Jago’s assertions. The lead councilman banged on the podium with a gavel. “Order, order!” When quiet returned, he continued, “Mister Robinson, while I am pleased to see you finally step through the door of this church, I think it best you abstain from participating in town matters—especially considering your bias.”

  My legs seemed to move of their own accord, and I suddenly found myself standing up. “Mister Councilman . . . with all due respect, I think Mister Robinson may be right.”

  Two rows ahead of me, Samuel rose, his face dark. “Tamsin, sit down. Gentlemen, I apologize. The girl is addled and easily influenced. As her guardian, I take full responsibility—”

  “I am not addled,” I interrupted. “I just don’t think those men we saw were Icori.”

  Gideon gave my hand a gentle tug. “Tamsin,” he said softly.

  Another councilman took up a spot beside the lead one. “Miss...Wright, is it? You just testified—under oath to the angels—about what you saw. Everyone heard you describe the tartan, the woad, their crude manner . . .”

  “Because I did see those things. But it wasn’t right.” The hostility in the room was growing, and its pressure made me falter. “Like, the way they spoke . . . it was so broken. Almost perfectly so. Every word punctuated too much—like it was being contrived to sound like they didn’t know Osfridian.”

  Samuel, still glowering at me, said, “Because they don’t speak Osfridian! Of course everything is going to be slow and loud. It was a wonder they could utter any words at all.”

  “Well, they certainly seemed to understand Osfridian. One flew into a rage when Alan put down Ozhiel’s curse on him. There are a lot of big words in that—why would he have gotten so upset if he didn’t understand them? And why would he even care, seeing as the Icori don’t believe in Ozhiel?”

  Another of the town’s ministers, one who served on the council, beckoned Alan forward from the cluster of children. “Alan Morwell, did you issue Ozhiel’s curse?”

  Poor Alan crept forward. As he did, I could see the side of his face was still red from where the bearded man had struck him. No one, not even the Heirs, actually believed speaking Ozheil’s curse could cause it to come about, but it was considered extremely vile and insulting—especially when uttered by a child.

  “I’m s-sorry, Pa,” Alan stammered. “He was taking Ma’s coat, and I just got so upset. I didn’t think he’d get so mad—I didn’t think at all! Oh, you should have seen what a beast he was. He would’ve ripped me in two if Miss Wright hadn’t given him those fancy mittens. And then when she hit him, I thought he was going to rip her in two, but then the—”

  “Enough, enough.” Mister Morwell held up a hand to silence his son. “Sit down. We’ll discuss your behavior when we get home tonight.”

  I watched Alan slink back to his spot and hoped I hadn’t gotten him in trouble. Turning back to the council, I continued, “Sirs, their tartans weren’t right either. They were all ripped up so that their chests were bare—in the middle of winter.”

  “It’s what they do,” the lead councilman said. “Everyone’s heard of the berserker Icori running shirtless into battle, impervious to the elements.”

  “They weren’t impervious,” I said. “I saw them shiver. They were cold. And when I traveled here with the Balanquans, the Icori in that party didn’t bare their chests or arms. They didn’t wear tartan at all. They were bundled up sensibly in coats and furs.”

  “What color were the tartans?”

  The question came from Jago. I met his eyes, again surprised at his serious demeanor. “Two were red, one was green, one was blue,” I answered.

  “What other colors? The stripes and hashes?”

  “I . . . I can’t be certain. It all happened so fast. The red one had yellow lines, and green squares . . . I think? The blue was crossed with white.”

  “And the green had black checks,” supplied Gideon, standing up beside me. “Does that mean anything to you, Mister Robinson?”

  Jago nodded. “Those are tartans from three different clans. They wouldn’t work together for a petty robbery. I mean, yes, I suppose a handful of renegades cast out of their clans could join up, but in that case, they wouldn’t be openly advertising those clan colors while committing crimes. It’d be an insult to the clans they came from, and they know they’d be punished even more severely if caught.”

  The magistrate who’d spoken earlier snickered. “I think you give the Icori too much credit, but that’s no secret. If I’m following this ludicrous exercise, you—and Miss Wright—are suggesting these men were not Icori, that they were imposters dressing in Icori clothing and pretending to speak like them.”

  “That seems more likely to me than the original accusation,” said Jago.

  The lead councilman banged his gavel when the crowd started buzzing again. “Then we’re back to Captain Milford’s question. If they weren’t Icori, then who do you think they were?”

  They were all looking at Jago, but I was the one who supplied the
answer. “When I slapped the one threatening Alan, he, uh . . . called me a name. In Lorandian.” I’d been startled at the time to recognize the name, but it hadn’t occurred to me then that I shouldn’t have understood it at all, not from an Icori.

  “That’s your extraordinary fabrication now?” Mister Morwell’s expression had gone from displaying outrage at my impertinence to derision at what he saw as my lack of intelligence. “That Lorandians, dressed up as Icori, robbed you? Young lady, I can’t decide if you’re just looking for attention or are truly fool enough to believe what you’re saying. Gideon, did you hear any Lorandian?”

  “No, but I also don’t know the language. If Tamsin says she heard it, I believe her.”

  “You’re too trusting,” said Samuel.

  “I know Lorandian!” I exclaimed. “Enough of it, at least. I grew up by a Lorandian baker and had lessons in the Glittering Court.”

  “Different languages often have words that sound alike.” The lead councilman pushed his glasses up, reminding me of our old history master giving a lecture. “It’s entirely probable that there are many Icori words that sound like Lorandian. Or like Osfridian. Or anything. That black stone the Balanquans are always trading is called reed in their language. Completely coincidental that it sounds like our verb or the name we give the river rushes.”

  “This was not a coincidence, sir. The word he used was—from his point of view—very applicable.”

  “And what was this revelatory word?” asked Mister Morwell, his voice exasperated.

  I glanced around uneasily, taking especial note of the children. “It was not a, ah, flattering term, sir. I don’t think it’d be appropriate to say in a church.”

  Mister Morwell stalked back to his chair. “We’re wasting time.”

  “What was it, Tamsin?” Gideon gave me an encouraging nod. “Go ahead.”

  “Putce,” I said, scanning the congregation for any sign of recognition. I was certain a number of townspeople knew Lorandian, but I doubted any had lived near a hot-tempered baker who was always yelling at his wife.

  I heard a startled exclamation from behind me and wasn’t surprised that Damaris knew the word.

  “What’s it mean?” prompted Gideon.

  I cringed under the weight of those gazes. I’d said far worse things in my life, but never in front of an audience like this. After a deep breath and a silent prayer for forgiveness, I blurted out, “It means ‘bitch’ in Lorandian.”

  I couldn’t have elicited more outrage than if I’d started knocking over benches and punching people around me. The lead councilman had to practically bang his gavel to splinters before the outcry finally faded. When Samuel ordered me to sit down again, I did. There really wasn’t anything else I could add.

  Incredibly, no one discussed what I’d said. The council started talking sentries again, with the lead councilman saying, “Now, if we can move past this nonsense, let’s start taking action before it’s too late. We’ll need volunteers to ride out to the fort in the morning, as well as to Piety and Reserve. Men willing to stand watch around our perimeters should meet me when we adjourn, and anyone who needs a gun should—”

  “Didn’t you hear any of that?” Jago broke from the throng and strode up to the podium, an action that was received with as much shock as my interruptions. “Those were imposters! If you start harassing real Icori and encouraging military interference, you’re just to going to escalate an already tense situation!”

  “They’re the ones who escalated things! Not just here—we all heard about the raids earlier this winter.”

  “That wasn’t them either,” Jago insisted. “The Lorandians are doing this.”

  Mister Morwell threw up his hands in disgust. “To what end? We’ve always had troubled relations with the Lorandians, but their numbers in Adoria are too small to be any threat, and they know it. And I really don’t consider one girl’s vile language to stand as proof that those men were Lorandian when all other evidence points to the contrary! Really, Mister Robinson, if you’re so partial to the Icori, perhaps you’d be better off with them.”

  “I’ll go to them right now and arrange talks, if you’d like,” Jago returned evenly.

  “We’ve already discussed the futility of that. Now. Are you quite done wasting our time? You’ve never shown any interest in being part of this town before, and I’m honestly a bit suspicious as to why you’d start now.”

  Jago’s jaw was clenched, and I could see his internal struggle to restrain both words and actions. A stillness fell as everyone waited to see what he’d do, but after several tense moments, he swallowed his temper and marched out of the church without a word.

  The council continued with its plans and adjourned shortly thereafter to form volunteer committees. Families began to leave, and I stood up and stretched, grateful to be moving. I walked over to the children to check on Alan’s injury. He assured me he was fine, and then I stepped outside to get some air. Cold or not, I needed it after the suffocating church.

  Gideon followed me, and we stood off to the side of the door, our breath making wispy clouds in the crisp evening air. “What do you think of all of this?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “If they really were Lorandian brigands, it seems like they could rob people without all the theater. But I also believe you’re right.”

  “Really? About which part?”

  My surprise brought on a wan smile. “All of it. I trust you on the language, and I didn’t even consider all those little inconsistencies until you mentioned them. How you managed to be so observant and so brave during all of that is beyond me.”

  “I think I was more impulsive than brave. I could’ve made things a lot worse.” I rubbed my hands together, reflecting on those moments. “I didn’t think. I was just worried about Alan.”

  “My heart nearly stopped when you went after that man, you know. Even now, it gives me chills just thinking how something could have gone horribly wrong for you or the children.”

  Serious or not, I couldn’t resist: “Are you sure it’s that giving you chills and not the weather?”

  “All I could do out there was pray to the angels when you were facing that man down. Of course, you’ve got enough divine favor that you probably didn’t even need my intervention.” He clasped my freezing hands in his gloved ones. “What you do need, however, are mittens. But we should be able to manage that without prayer.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll be going on my third pair. The angels might cut me off.”

  We stood together in comfortable silence, enjoying a rare minute or so of peace. Then, a sharp voice said: “Tamsin Wright, I pray daily to be worthy of the challenges laid upon me, and it’s clear I’m being tested today.”

  I sprang back from Gideon and saw Dinah silhouetted in the doorway. “H-hello,” I said as she stepped out to join us. She looked between me and him with an appraising eye.

  “You know,” she continued, “if I hadn’t witnessed that outburst and offensive language myself, I wouldn’t have believed even someone like you was capable of it.”

  Gideon put a hand on my shoulder. “Dinah, I know a few, uh, inappropriate things took place tonight, but considering the extraordinary circumstances, I would humbly counsel leniency.”

  Dinah stiffened as her eyes tracked his hand. She had to wet her lips a few times before continuing. “Gideon, you’re always so kindhearted, but it’s my job to shape her character. And now I’ve just heard the most confusing thing. Alan Morwell was telling me about those ‘fancy mittens’ of yours, Tamsin. He said they were jewel encrusted, and I told him that was nonsense. Was he lying?”

  “No,” I said swiftly. “Well, that is, he was a bit mistaken. They had silver beads on them, not jewels.”

  “Why weren’t you wearing your other mittens? The gray ones?”

  “I—I lost them on one of my erra
nds.”

  “I see. And where did you get these fancy replacements?”

  I swallowed, unwilling to sell out Jago. “From our luggage—our luggage from the ship, I mean. Some of it’s being kept in the meetinghouse, and I took the mittens while we were holding class there today.”

  “I see,” Dinah repeated, though her hard eyes said much more.

  “There you all are.” Samuel walked out of the church, Damaris and Winnifred behind him. He waved for us to follow. “Time to go.”

  Our party rode home without conversation, and I stared off into the darkness, apprehensive about both my fate and the Icori’s. It was horrifying to think one incident could trigger a war . . . except it wasn’t just one incident. Other towns had had run-ins with Icori, and Orla had insisted her people had been attacked without provocation too.

  Speaking of Orla . . . how would these new developments affect my own travel plans? Would she take back her offer? Would the Grashond settlers even allow us to go with the Icori, if they were deemed an official enemy? Of course, until I talked to Jago, I didn’t know if I even had travel plans.

  We ate a sparse dinner of cold leftovers, and then, after a brief prayer, my friends and I were sent off to the attic while Samuel, Gideon, and Dinah had a meeting by the fire. I climbed the stairs with a heavy heart, knowing my future was on the line.

  * * *

  The next morning, when we assembled for breakfast, Dinah told me, “You’re lucky. Gideon spoke up for you and convinced us to overlook your breach of etiquette in church last night, seeing as it was part of an investigation.”

  Gideon, already sitting at the table, didn’t really look like someone who’d achieved a victory. As I moved to take my own seat, Dinah held up a hand to stop me.

  “That does not, however, excuse you from the transgressions of theft, vanity, deceit, and negligence.”

  “Me?” It was the only thing I could think to say, seeing as she seemed to have mixed me up with someone else.