Mearsies Heili Bounces Back

by Sherwood Smith

  “Sure do.”

  “Here.” The stable-man indicated a horse. “That runner who just came in. You check that gray’s hooves.”

  I grinned. Seshe had spent a lot of time telling us about horses’ feet—how that odd curly thing underneath called the frog, and how the hoof was actually a giant finger nail ...

  I found a hoof pick, and went up cautiously to the gray that had just been rubbed down and was under a blanket. I talked soothingly until the flicking ears relaxed, I ran my hand down a foreleg, and then cupped my hand behind, pressed—

  The horse shifted, and up came the hoof. I flipped my leg over, holding the hoof between my thighs, and checked the hoof, talking to the horse all the while. I carefully picked out a couple of tiny stones, checked the fit of the shoe, then let the hoof drop. The horse shifted, I looked up in triumph.

  “Hired,” the man said. “Talk to my wife about your kit and pay.”

  I told them my name was Timov, my latest joke disguise name, back home. The reminder of Faline convulsed with laughter made my heart squeeze.

  Argh. Well, just let Rel the Rotten figure that out.

  And so I became part of the trading caravan. And I didn’t have to cook, for they had someone who did that—but she refused to have anything to do with horses.

  The first day or two I took care to stay out of sight of the road; several times galloping messengers caught up and passed, and I wondered if any of them were sent by Raneseh, searching for a black-haired girl in a blue dress.

  But the day we reached the border mountains I relaxed. By then I’d made friends with the trader’s string of horses, and with the trader and his wife. I heard more than I ever wanted to about honey and mead, for their six wagons were full of both. I called the horses secretly after the girls at home, matching as best I could the names with personalities. I had been given a quilt, and slept under one of the wagons, near the horse picket.

  o0o

  The honey and mead traders stopped in Analas, where their daughter lived; I, now paid off, continued on to Arthla in a travel coach.

  But first I got rid of the rag bag clothes and replaced them with sturdy summer kneepants, which both working boys and girls wore on this continent as well as at home. I also got a plain summer tunic-shirt. I bought myself a knapsack. On long tramps or rides, I took to arguing with Rel in my mind, giving him the benefit of long strings of insults, self-justification for stealing, and of course gloating that I’d gotten away.

  Bermund is a quiet land, mostly trading in flax, rice, and the spectacularly beautiful weavings that people make with flax that is sun-lightened longer than ordinary flax, softened almost to silk in texture, but it lasts far longer than silk. Bermund’s history is shrouded in magical shiftings, as we’d discovered on the earlier adventure. One queen rules at a time, swapping off season by season.

  Arthla without the enchantment turned out to be a pretty city. There was all the white stone, including marble, with canals that remind one of Alsais in Colend, but now the houses all had pretty shutters, and window boxes, and little gardens everywhere, as well as a lot of flowering trees, some potted, others not. Shops were open, and people walked and talked and grouped and rode and did people-things in every direction.

  I went straight to the royal palace, glad to see it looking lively—and not all deserted, like my first visit, the only human forms all the statues of the would-be ‘royalty’ who’d hoped for some kind or reward, or maybe a throne, when they came to break the spell over the queens.

  As soon as I sent my name in Spring herself came running through an archway that had paintings of twined blossoms over it, kind of like at Pralineh’s house. It was her season, so she was in charge.

  My first thought was to write a nasty letter to Rel from the palace—but with my luck, the slob would stomp all the way north just to clamp his disgusting mitt on the back of my collar and haul me back.

  Then Spring said, “Welcome, Cherene!” And I forgot about Rel. “I’m so happy to see you! I told Winter and Summer that you are here.” Spring grinned, her curls bouncing on her back as she led me through the archway to a broad marble-floored outdoorsy kind of room, with potted trees growing alongside a fountain, and sweetly singing birds flying about.

  “These are the ones the big raptors hunt,” she said, sighing. “So they are safe here. They come in such numbers!” Indicating the birds.

  I nodded politely as we sat on a bench that overlooked the fountain and pools.

  She seemed to sense my impatience, for she smiled and said, “I thought you might be here to visit, but maybe not?”

  “Oh, I would, except I got splatted here by the Chwahir. I mean, on this continent,” I corrected when she looked puzzled. “I gotta get home. You can send me, can’t you? You have plenty of magic.”

  Spring said simply, “Of course. We can go to the Destination right now.” Her high brow puckered slightly, then she touched my shoulder, closing her eyes—and pulled her hand away with a snap. “Oh! No, no transfer. That is, I could, but there lies a coldness between you and the world. A—a what do the mages call it? A ward.”

  “Oh no,” I muttered.

  “I believe if I send you, you will go not where you wish, but to a Destination appointed within the ward-form.”

  Cold ickies tunneled through my veins. “No. Don’t want that.” I remembered my imaginary nastygram-letter to Rel, and said, “Can you send a message, at least?”

  “Of course. That is, we do not know anyone in your part of the world, but there is always the Scribe Guild. You probably know that they relay messages anywhere there are scribes.”

  For about one second my heart leaped, then I thought, yeah, and if Kwenz really has taken over MH, who would see that message?

  Spring looked unhappy, and I realized I’d wrapped my arms round me, and was clutching at my own shoulders like it was sub-zero degrees in her pretty bird sanctuary.

  “Maybe messages aren’t a great idea. Because I don’t know who’d see ‘em. So. I have to go the long way, eh?”

  “We can happily give you travel wherewithal.” She opened her hands. “At the least, for we are still in your debt.”

  “No debt,” I said promptly. “Kids help kids. Especially rulers. There are enough bignose adults practicing Take the kiddie’s stuff because you can, ha ha! around. We have to band together.” I whooshed out a sigh. “But I’d be glad of some cash, if it’s okay. I mean, enough to buy passage on a ship.” I scowled at my dusty toes. “Except I don’t know anything about ships. What if I pick one where they’re all nice, but as soon as we get out in the water, they take my money and dump the kid overboard? I’ve only been on one ship, and that was a p—”

  I stopped on the word pirate, remembering Captain Heraford of the Tzasilia—the name coming from an old legend about a mer living among humans, Clair had said. Captain Heraford had invited us to come back, only what was the name of that harbor again?

  “Do you have a harbor where pirates land?” I asked.

  Spring laughed. “Pirate ships don’t land here—not and find any welcome!”

  “Good pirates, I mean. What were they called? Privateers,” I said stupidly. “Captain Heraford is a good pirate, because he only attacks the Chwahir. And, you know, bad guys.” I felt even more stupid, just hearing an adult scoff, Oh, and who asked YOU who’s a bad guy and who’s not?

  To my surprise she tipped her head, then sprang up. “I think—I better ask Winter. She knows maritime things.”

  She sped away, me pounding after, back through those arches and then up into a tower where the wind was cooler. We emerged in a room with almost no furniture, much less decoration, to discover Winter studying a very old-looking scroll. She looked up and Spring repeated what I’d said.

  Winter turned her serene, light gaze from Spring to me, then said, “I don’t know anything about your Captain Heraford, but there are many ships issued letters of marque by the Danarans across the border, if they promise to attack the Ch
wahir. They are too small to have a navy, you see, and the Chwahir are always trying to expand past their border.”

  “Just like at home,” I snarled.

  “These letters of marque—I do not know it’s such a good idea,” she added soberly. “For many use that as an excuse for outright piracy, flashing their letter of marque to escape the law if they are caught. Well, that is another matter. If you do not wish to walk all the way to Danai—”

  Danai. That was it. At the other end of a bunch of galloping, if I remembered from the previous adventure—and maybe a magic transfer or two.

  My heart sank.

  “There is an establishment at Laupgren Harbor where the privateers meet and arrange trade, the ones who really do fight against Chwahir incursions. You might ask there, at the Bowsprit, about your captain.”

  “That’s exactly what I will do,” I said, relieved to have somewhere closer to go—something to do. Anything that might lead me to home.

  I was invited to stay as long as I liked, but my worries about home—about what could be happening, and no one to tell me—caused me to turn down the invitation, and leave again, this time for the Laupgren Harbor, which was at Bermund’s border at the mouth of the Margren River. We’d been there before, when the shanty-town was built next to it, but we hadn’t bothered asking the name.

  My journey to the harbor was a big nothing in the sense of adventure. Had my mood been less anxious about what I’d find—about home—I would have enjoyed it thoroughly. But there were too many anxious ghosts biting my heels—ghosts of my imaginings, not real ones, but that didn’t make me feel any better.

  o0o

  Laupgren Harbor again.

  I passed by the house where we’d stayed with all those kids. I wondered if that girl who had been so nasty was still there. I didn’t want to go searching.

  I climbed up the narrow little zigzag streets with all the little shops and eateries along them, built into the hills on either side of the great river. There were a lot of tourists and traders; I couldn’t count the number of languages I heard around me.

  I did not let myself look at the harbor until I got high enough up to see the entire thing. Then I followed a bunch of people out onto a fenced terrace that I bet had served as a lookout point for ages, and peered out under my hand. Clouds banded the sky, fuzzing the harbor with haze, but I was sure I would recognize the Tzasilia instantly—that is, if I could spot it in the middle of a forest of masts.

  My hope leaked out leaving gloom. Big ships, little ones, some going in, some warping out, many tied up not just at the docks but out in what the sailors called the “roads” though of course there was no dirt in sight. Little boats plied the waters between all the big ships, taking people and goods in and out.

  Nothing, nothing, nothing. Of course some were hard to pick out, but the longer I stood there the more definitely the conviction grew that Captain Heraford was not there. Among all those ships there were very few long, narrow craft with slanted masts, and not a single one with the figurehead of a mer-girl with hands raised, as though casting a spell over the waters.

  I stood against the railing above the noisy city, oblivious to the smells of brine and old wood mixing with the spicy scents of the world’s cookery. My throat tightened and tears blurred the haze, smearing the masts into a long smudge of brown.

  For the first time since Clair had brought me to this wonderful world, I felt alone. No friends. No enemies—that would be counted as a plus, I thought hastily, and hustled right back to the self-pity.

  But then I had to face the fact that I was feeling sorry for myself, which is okay if you don’t have to figure out where you’re going to eat, or sleep for the night. I looked around and sighed. There had been a time when I was little, now mostly forgotten, when I had longed to be able to travel without being in danger just for being a kid. I could do that now. I could go anywhere in this world, and I’d find adventure.

  But what about Mearsies Heili? Rel loomed in my mind, scoffing. What can a ten-year-old do?

  A kid can find allies, I told those skeptical dark eyes.

  That means, don’t just stand there. Do something.

  All right, so I would ask about Captain Heraford at the Bowsprit, and if I drew a blank, I’d just walk on to Danai, however long it would take.

  o0o

  The Bowsprit turned out to be an inn at the far end of the harbor, built on a ridge overlooking an old pier. The place was kind of like a weather-beaten finger built along the ridge, with round windows like the scuttles on ships; in the main office a lot of rough-looking nautical people came and went.

  I oozed up to the counter, where I discovered a girl my own age on duty. “Lookin’ fer a room?” she asked.

  “Maybe. More like information first. I’m looking for Captain Heraford of the Tzasilia.” I was about to add ‘if you’ve ever heard of him or it’ but to my surprise, the kid pulled a face. “You know, that sounds familiar. Stay put.”

  She ran back into another room. I stood at the counter between two conversations in different languages. Then my prentice clerk came back out. “Who are you and where from?”

  “I’m Cherene Jennet Sherwood from Mearsies Heili,” I said.

  The girl shrugged. “Well, there was no name we were to ask for. Just the country, Mearsies Heili. We could tell anyone from there his latest posted cruise or arrival.”

  “Which is?”

  “He gave next week as the date he’s expecting to anchor here again,” the clerk-prentice said.

  I grinned, then thought about food and board. Of course there was always wanding, but I thought of that awful girl, and decided I’d rather do something else. “Say, where can somebody my age get a job besides wanding?”

  “That’s easy.” The clerk pointed through the window. “Go down to the dock master’s, the big building behind the quay at Pier One. They have a list of who needs what done. There are always jobs, if you don’t mind running errands, stocking, mending nets and the like.”

  I thanked her, sped out, and discovered a gaggle of kids more or less my age lurking around the dock master’s. I signed up, stated my skills—glad that Captain Heraford had taught us plenty on my previous sea voyage—and before dark I had a job mending nets. I was paid by the piece, so if I worked quickly, I had plenty of time to explore along the quay and look at all the ships coming and going. At night, a lot of the kids met near one of the warehouses, sat on barrels, and told stories—some true, some not. I did most of my net mending while listening. I made up stories, and though I finally got the courage to tell some of my real adventures, but I didn’t admit that I’d been in them, just used another name. That was in case Certain Baggies somehow heard where I was, and loomed up just to scoff and sneer. Oh, I’d managed to turn Rel into a monster even worse than Shnit by now, I’d been mentally arguing with him so much.

  Anyway, aside from my usual fuming about Rel, and the occasional middle-of-the-night worries about home, the week sped by more or less pleasantly.

  By then I knew who was where among the ships—and where newcomers were likely to anchor.

  So on the day when the familiar three-master Tzasilia sailed into the harbor I was there watching through a hired glass, and when the captain’s boat reached the dock, I hardly let Captain Heraford get his feet onto the dock before I was tugging at his long coat.

  For a moment we stared at one another: him a tallish man, sun-browned from life on the sea, brown-haired, sharp-eyed; me an anonymous kid with blue-black hair braided back, scruffy clothes, bare feet.

  “I know that blue-eyed glare. Do I not?” he asked, grinning down at me.

  I hopped impatiently from foot to foot and blurted, “It’s me! CJ! I’m in the log!”

  Captain Heraford bowed. “Your highness?”

  “Ugh!” I bellowed, almost tearful. “Don’t do that!”

  Captain Heraford realized then that I was far too upset for a little gentle teasing. “Forgive me,” he said, serious again. �
��You are here because?”

  I let out a huge sigh, and if it shuddered a little, the captain pretended not to notice. “I’m here alone. Something’s happened at home, and I got bucketed away, and—”

  “I know.” He looked serious. “That is, I know at least where one of you is, and rumors about the rest. We will talk as long as you like, as soon as I get these matters seen to.” He waved at the waiting privateers, dock officials, and what looked like outright pirates, all staring.

  “Will you take me home?”

  Captain Heraford scratched his head, then said under his breath, “I never thought I’d be asked to rescue a kingdom that once—”

  I was so indignant that I cut him off before he finished. “I asked you to take me home,” I grundged. “Rescuing the kingdom is my job.”

  Captain Heraford looked at me as if I’d sprouted tentacles out of my nose, then said somewhat wryly, “If you want to go aboard and wait for me, there’s the boat.”

  He turned away, and walked back up the pier with his group. I heard the words “Chwahir” and “convoy” before all their voices dwindled into mutters, drowned by the sounds of the sea.

  I looked at the rowboat, and the teenage girl sitting in it.

  She said, “Coming? I can take you out and get back in plenty of time before he wants the boat.” She leaned her forearms on the oars. “Did you know that your queen’s cousin is a prisoner in Narad?”

  Puddlenose!

  “We’re going to rescue him,” she added with a triumph that I found thoroughly proper and deserving.

  I hopped down into the boat.

  NINE

  I plopped onto the bench behind the table in Captain Heraford’s cabin, there in the stern of the Tzasilia. Sun-spangles danced on the water below the open windows, sending glow worms of reflected light wriggling across the low ceiling and the curving walls that I’d learned were called bulkheads. The table was nailed right onto the deck.

  Happiness had given me plenty of energy, despite waking up before dawn in order to climb the hill before the tide came in so I could watch, as I had for three days. Now it was just before sunset, the sinking sun making that golden path of light over the ripples. The captain’s business had taken longer than he’d planned for, then a sudden thunderstorm had swept through, keeping boats from rowing around much.