by Karen Miller
Not when Charis is risking her life on my say-so.
“I believe it,” she said solemnly. “Now come on inside. It’s getting dark, and I’m cold.”
CHAPTER TEN
Charis woke before just before dawn. Months and months of caring for her dying father had honed that one small skill, being able to wake at the time she was needed. Lying in the darkness, she rolled her head on the inn’s miserly thin pillow.
“Deenie?”
A faint rustling of bedclothes. “I’m awake.”
Of course she was. Had she managed any proper sleep? Most likely not. The harbour and its horrible magics churned her so poorly.
She thinks I don’t see it. She thinks I don’t remember what happened to her the last time she was down here, when Rafe—
Her breath caught. Just thinking his name was hurtful. Ever since the day he rode off to cross the mountains with that horrible Arlin Garrick and those stupid councillors, every day since had been a day lived in pain. Loving him. Losing him. Fearing she’d never see him again.
But I will. I’ll not give up on him. I can’t.
“Charis…”
She knew what Deenie was going to say. She almost always knew what Deenie was going to say. Friends their whole lives, close as blood, she could read Rafel’s sister like a recipe card—even when she had trouble understanding her, what it was like to be her.
And that was most of the time, really.
“No, Deenie,” she said, but didn’t bite, because her friend was feeling poorly, sick with worry on her account. “I’m not changing my mind.”
“I know,” said Deenie, her voice small in the darkness. “Only I thought I should ask. Just so I did.”
They were all set to leave. Last night, after their stodgy hot meal of rabbit stew that Deenie hardly touched, they’d repacked their one haversack each, shoving their sharp knives and fishing lines and all the clothes they might need tightly inside. For wearing, Deenie had left out leather trews and a leather jerkin and a wool shirt and a leather coat, not the kind of clothes a good Olken lass would usually parade about in. She had nothing like that for herself, but she did have a pair of thick woollen hose and Papa’s old Guard jacket. Deenie had told her to bring both, saying a boat on open water was no place for frills and skirts.
“But I like frills and skirts,” she’d argued, because only boys wore hose. And Deenie had looked at her, lips tight, not a mouse at all, so she’d given in and packed them.
As for their food, it was safe in the carriage for collecting on the way to the harbour. Not that any regular person would call it food. More like teeth-breaking rotgut, it was. Hard-tack biscuits and strips of dried beef. Horrible. Only the nuts were truly edible. They had water, too. On the road to Westwailing they’d filled a score of waterskins bought here and there along the way, and packed them into a hessian sack. They’d have to be pinchy but their supplies should last.
And if they don’t we’ll have to try our hand at fishing, and eat our catch raw. Or take our chances in the first bit of land we can find, mage-poisoned or not.
It was thoughts like that that made her wince and wonder what Papa would say if he knew what she was planning.
Another rustling sound as Deenie threw back her blankets. “If we’re going to go, we’d best go,” she whispered. “At first light we want to be pushing away from the pier. We don’t want to be seen loitering.”
No, they surely didn’t. She couldn’t believe she was about to steal a boat, or that she’d already stolen a horse and carriage. As good as. And her father Captain of the City Guard and a mayor.
Honestly, Papa, whoever would’ve thought the Innocent Mage’s daughter would be such a bad influence?
“What?” said Deenie. A clunking sound as she groped for the chamberpot under her bed. “What’s so funny?”
She swallowed the rest of her breathy chuckles because really, none of this was funny. Especially not the horrible chamberpots.
“Nothing,” she said, and quickly used her own pot.
That done, she waited for Deenie to conjure the teeniest, tiniest ball of glimfire, not much bigger than a glowbug, so they wouldn’t crack heads as they dressed and found their haversacks. On with a linen shirt and the ugly woollen hose and thick woollen socks and a wool jerkin and Papa’s Guard coat. Oh, she didn’t mind wearing that. Wearing that was like having him with her on this mad, grand adventure. Then she laced on the stout boots Deenie had given her because she had no stout boots of her own. A blessing they could fit into each other’s shoes. Last of all she pulled on her best leather gloves.
“Done?” said Deenie, dashing in her leathers. On her pillow she’d left the remaining trins and cuicks and the letter she wrote last night, asking the coins be used to send the horse and carriage back to Meister Barett in Dorana City. If the innkeeper didn’t do it, well, the shame of that was on him, not them, said Deenie. Trying to convince herself as much as anyone.
She nodded. “Done.”
So they hefted their haversacks onto their shoulders and by the tiny light of their glowbug glimfire tiptoed, hardly breathing, down the Mermaid’s uneven staircase, through its side door—the front door had a bell on it—and round the back to where the carriage was housed.
Oh, Deenie had planned everything. For a mouse she had a surprising imagination. The sacks of food and water they’d tied with rope, leaving a loop free. The loops they threaded onto a thick wooden pole bought in a village called Trimtop, and they balanced one end of it each on their shoulders, walking single file. The weight was horrible, the pole digging in despite their clothes, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was they’d not roused anyone, making their escape.
Westwailing slumbered as they made their way to the pier, so quiet they could hear the sibilant roar of the harbour’s whirlpools and the higher-pitched thrumming hum of the ’spouts, the crashing splash as they fell apart and throaty roar as they were reborn. Unlike the township, they never slumbered. They were relentless and immortal like the magic that had spawned them.
“We’d best hurry,” said Deenie softly, a note of strain in her voice. “The weather’s going to change.”
She felt a flutter of alarm. “A storm, you mean?”
“Could be.”
Oh. Charis frowned at Deenie’s back. She doubted she’d ever get used to it, the way her friend could feel the weather and Doranen magic and find Rafel on account of his power. Next to what Deenie could do, her own Olken magic was feeble.
She’s right about one thing. Her family’s not regular. And I suppose I’m to be grateful for that. I suppose.
The dregs of darkness were lifting, a greyish sheen glossing the sky. The pier was close now, the harbour’s salt smell stronger, the sound of restless waves slapping against the ancient stone and the boats’ wooden hulls louder and more urgent.
But even so she heard the sharp intake of Deenie’s breath, and felt through the wooden pole connecting them the way her friend braced herself against the twisted magics in Dragonteeth Reef.
“Deenie,” she said, keeping her voice down even though they were the only souls stirring. “Are you sure you’re strong enough for this? If it’s bad now, how bad will it be once we’re out on the water?”
They’d almost reached the entrance to the pier. Deenie kept walking but turned her face, just a little bit. “I’ll be fine.”
She snorted. “You say that, but I’m not blind, Deenie. You talk of the lands beyond the mountains being poisoned, but you’re poisoned too, aren’t you? You feel sick and it’s getting worse, not better.”
“Charis, this is how it works,” Deenie said, sighing. “This is how I’ll get us safely through the waterspouts and the whirlpools, to the end of the reef and past it. By feeling them. By them making me sick. It’s how I know where they are and where they’ll be.”
“Yes, I know that’s how,” she retorted. “And I know you’ll let them hurt you so we can escape Lur. But what will that cost you?”
/> “What’s the matter, Charis? Are you frighted I can’t pay the price? I promise I can.”
Oh, Deenie. “Yes, but for how long? Days and days you said it would likely take us to sail up the coast and break our way past the reef. Can you be in pain like this for so long? Without any relief, having to think every moment about the next waterspout? The next whirlpool? And sail the boat while you’re about it?”
Deenie managed an awkward, one-shouldered shrug. “I’ll have to, won’t I?”
She nearly let her own end of the burdened pole drop, she felt so cross of a sudden. “Deenie. Don’t make light of this. We’ll be no good to Rafel at the bottom of the harbour.”
“And we’ll be no good to him standing on the pier fratching, either,” said Deenie. “Charis, if you don’t want to come, then don’t. I said all along you don’t have to.”
“You said you were glad I was coming!”
“I am. But you don’t have to.”
Charis pinched her lips shut. In his last few weeks Papa had relented of his stubborn tongue-holding and told her stories of Dorana’s days gone by. Before that, just like Deenie and Rafel’s da, he’d not liked to talk of the past. But then, as though he was of a sudden fretted that his time was running out, he’d sat her down beside his bed and held her hand and reminisced. Some of his memories had brought tears to his eyes, but a lot had made him laugh, even through the sadness.
Mostly those laughing tales were of Asher, the Innocent Mage. They’d made her laugh too. How the first time Papa and Asher met, the fisherman leapt onto the official Guardhouse table and scolded the Guildmeisters like they were a gaggle of naughty boys. How he’d talked back to the likes of Conroyd Jarralt, never once letting the hoity-toity Doranen lord browbeat him. How he’d won the King’s Cup, the first Olken ever to take that trophy. How he’d befriended Prince Gar. Saved his life. Stood for him when the king and queen died and made sure he wasn’t bullied.
“He’s the bravest man I ever knew,” Papa had told her, his voice close to failing. So close to leaving her. “Morg tormented him. Dorana turned on him. I abandoned him when he needed me most. And he forgave me. He forgave Dorana. He was ready to die to save the rest of us from Morg. No better man ever drew breath in this kingdom, Charis. No better man. It’s a blessing he was my friend.”
Staring now at Deenie’s stubborn back, as the sky overhead grew steadily paler, Charis felt her eyes sting. That was her friend’s father Papa had loved so much. And Papa never could forgive himself for not believing in him until it was almost too late.
Papa laughed at how stubborn he was. How he’d dig in his heels and say: This is me and I ain’t changin’. And isn’t that just like Deenie? Isn’t she her father’s daughter? And aren’t I mine?
Yes, she was.
“Deenie, I’m just asking,” she said, as they staggered down the stone steps leading onto the pier. “I fret you might think you’re stronger than you are.”
“Well, I don’t,” snapped Deenie. “I know how strong I am, Charis Orrick. I’m strong enough to do this—with you or without you!”
And now she’d gone and made things worse.
I never thought she minded that much, being called a mouse.
“With me,” she said meekly. “I’m not turning back.”
“Fine, then,” said Deenie. “Now hush up. I need to think.”
There was enough light in the sky by now that they didn’t need their little glowbug glimfire, so Deenie winked it out. Much more light and they’d likely be in trouble, get themselves spotted by someone wandering along the harbour road. She veered left across the pier so she could look at the first tethered skiff.
“No good,” she said. “We want oars, just in case.”
Oars? Oars? Did that mean they’d be rowing?
Deenie didn’t like the second skiff, either. The third one had oars but she said its mast was spindly and three boards were waterlogged. That didn’t bode well. There were only two skiffs left. The rest of Westwailing’s boats were runabouts and smacks. Charis felt a little proud of herself that she could remember the difference.
“This one’s got a spindly mast too,” said Deenie, glowering at the last skiff. “But its oars are better and there’s not a waterlogged board to be seen. And that’s a spare sail, and a coil of rope, and a good solid bit of canvas, folded there. That’ll come in handy for shelter. We’ll take this one, Charis.”
Just like that.
It was a horrible fiddly business, climbing down into the little boat. Though Deenie had sworn the waterspouts and whirlpools almost never sprang up this close to shore, Charis could feel the tightness of fear in her spray-slicked face, and sweat under her bulky clothes. It was a cold autumn morning but she was uncomfortably hot.
She knocked her knees and her ankles and her elbows on the side of the pier, and held her breath convinced she’d tumble straight into the water. There was meant to be a gangplank, Deenie said, but it was long gone. So she grunted and wriggled and trickled her way over the pier’s rough stone edge, down, down, down to the skiff.
I’d rather be in my kitchen, cooking.
The moment her feet touched the skiff’s floorboards the boat began to rock madly, and the horizon danced as though someone had it on a string. Swallowing a squeal of alarm she flailed her arms for balance. If she fell over the side now, well, that would be that.
Barl be praised, she stayed upright and out of the water.
With a small, encouraging smile Deenie handed down their haversacks and the hessian bags of food and water. Next she handed down the wooden pole, ’cause you never knew when that might come in useful, and last of all she unhooked the mooring chain and lowered herself into their chosen boat, landing lightly as thistledown.
I mustn’t be jealous.
They took a moment to stow their supplies under the folded canvas at the end of the boat. Aft, Deenie called it. But it was also the stern. And the front end was the bow. But if you went there, you were going for’ard. The steering bit was the tiller. There was a low wooden bench stretched side to side and that, said Deenie, was the rower’s bench at midships.
Charis sat on it, grateful.
The spindly mast had a sail attached, but Deenie shook her head. “We need to row from the pier.”
Oh. So there was rowing. Charis sighed. “I’m going to get blisters, aren’t I? Even with gloves.”
“Prob’ly,” said Deenie, shrugging again. “Never mind. You’ll live.”
There were so many things she could say to that, but she bit her tongue. Deenie’s salty-wet face was pale and her lips were thinned. Unpleasant shadows smeared beneath her dark brown eyes. Her father’s eyes. Deenie looked a lot like him.
She watched as Deenie put the oars into their slots on each side of the skiff. Rowlocks, Deenie called them. As if knowing what they were called would make the oars any easier to use.
By now there was enough light to see waterspouts dancing in the distance. Light enough to see an ominous band of dark cloud swiftly building. A storm was coming in, just like Deenie had foretold.
“Right,” said Deenie. “So we’ve got to row until we’re a goodly distance off the pier, then I can get the sail up and we can fiddle ourselves away from Westwailing. But Charis—”
“It won’t be easy,” she said. “I can tell that, Deenie.”
“It’s not a big skiff, as skiffs go, but it was meant to be rowed by brawny fishermen,” said Deenie, pulling a face. “We’re going to crack our muscles and our backs afore we’re done, I reckon.”
Charis heaved another sigh. “I don’t suppose you can fiddle the water, can you? Make a wave to help the boat along? You know, like Rafe did?”
“No, I can’t do that water trick,” said Deenie. She almost sounded cross. “I don’t know how Rafe managed it. He always could. When he was a sprat he played magic in his bath. But when I tried, nothing happened.” She pointed to the right-hand oar. “That one’s yours. Wriggle over and brace your feet against the
blocks there. The most important thing is that we pull together, as hard as each other. If we pull out of time all we’ll do is row ourselves in a circle.”
“I don’t even know if I’ve got any strength,” she said, under her breath.
Deenie pretended not to hear that.
When they were both settled on the rower’s bench, the oars gripped tight in their hands, Deenie nodded. “On three, Charis. One—two—three—”
And oh, Barl’s tits. With one pull she’d swear she’d snapped her spine in two.
“Again!” said Deenie. “Come on, Charis, pull again.”
So she pulled again, and thought her eyes might pop right out of their sockets. Was the skiff even moving? She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t feel it. She heard the wet salt air rasping like sobs in her throat and chest. She felt a burning in the muscles of her arms and shoulders, her back, her legs. Her heart was pounding, sweat pouring down her spine.
“Good, good, keep on pulling!” said Deenie. “Only don’t dig the oar in the water. Let it settle in and scoop and glide.”
“Deenie, I hate you,” she croaked, her popping eyes burned with sweat and tears. “I’ll never forgive you this.”
“Yes, you will,” said Deenie, close to giggling. “Pull. Stay with me. Come on, Charis. Pull.”
So she pulled and she pulled and she scooped the oar, she didn’t dig it. The skiff was moving, carving a slow passage through the water. Her tightly braided hair began to loosen and tug.
“At least there’s a good breeze up,” said Deenie, panting. “We’ll have some speed behind us once I can raise the sail.”
“How soon?” Her body was screaming at her. “Deenie, how soon?”
Sweat dripped off Deenie’s chin. “Not yet. We’ve hardly moved at all.”
From the corner of her eye she saw a twisting column of water, dark green and whipped white. “Deenie!”
“Don’t fratch on it,” said Deenie, impatient. “It won’t come near us.”
“How do you know?” she squealed, nearly letting go of her oar. “Deenie, it’s heading this—”