The Teeth in the Tide

by Rebecca F. Kenney

  “You still have to finish the dishes, and put in extra stakes for the tomatoes, and prepare the filling for the pies.”

  “What if I take an hour to do what I can, and then go? The ship is still a fair distance out.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Thank you, Mama!” Kestra began scrubbing faster.

  “I’ll help you.” Mai snatched a drying cloth.

  “You have to go help Umi,” Kestra reminded her. “She needs to complete a few large batches of herbed salts today, or she won’t be paid enough to last her through the next quarter.”

  Groaning, Mai tossed the cloth aside. “I’ll go. But remember what you promised me.”

  “I will talk to Flay,” said Kestra. “But perhaps not the very second he steps off the ship. Let me decide when it’s the right time.”

  “Agreed.” Mai disappeared, the back door slamming behind her.

  “The right time for what?” inquired Kestra’s mother.

  “Nothing.”

  Lumina frowned. “How many years have you lived with me? You should know that answering ‘nothing’ will only make me press you harder, child. I think you can do better.”

  “It’s really not important. Mai needs help with a project, and she wants me to ask for Flay’s help with securing the necessary—supplies.”

  “Hm.” Her mother didn’t sound convinced, but Kestra pretended not to notice. She worked over the dishes as quickly as she could without breaking them, deciding to leave them on the table to air-dry instead of wiping them. Then she slammed fresh stakes into the ground next to the new tomatoes. There would be no time to make the pie filling—that could happen later, after the ship had docked and she had seen Flay.

  Back through the kitchen she whirled, clattering up the wooden stairs to the room she shared with Mai. Their narrow space at the back of the inn barely accommodated a pair of bunks, a low dresser, and a washstand—and Mai had managed to clutter it even further with her racks of drying plant samples and her boxes of scrolls and leather-bound books. She’d pinned shiny black beetles and feathery moths to the wall, and the once-white washbowl was now stained with the colored remnants of a hundred chemical experiments.

  Kestra, on the other hand, collected beautiful things—torn lace and lost buttons left by inn guests, scraps of printed fabric from worn-out dresses, shiny beads from merchants, polished stones from the river, and bits of shell that the most daring of Takajo’s sea-hawks plucked from the lower ledges beneath the wall, when the tide was low. She kept it all into the little chest under her bunk, and she liked swirling her fingers through the colorful mass.

  She’d been working on a new necklace for this very day—a concoction of woven ribbons, pearly shells, and beads that lay over her collarbones and chest in an eye-catching display. She switched her high-necked brown work dress for a coral-colored one that skimmed the tops of her breasts and nipped in at the waist. Her stomach would never be as flat as Mai’s—she loved dumplings and pastry too much for that—but she liked her shape anyway. Her curves meant that she was healthy and well-fed, not painfully thin as some of the townspeople were by the end of each quarter. She and her mother tried to help the hungry ones. Lumina filled baskets with food scraps and Kestra took them to the lower sections of the town, where haggard fathers and wan mothers passed out the morsels to their children.

  Kestra had always been glad to live in the hilly southern part of Anchel, where the land surged high above sea level and a person could stand by the wall and look over it easily. In the northern part of town, near the river, the earth dipped closer to sea level, and the wall rose high, casting a shadow over the huts of the less fortunate residents. Living in Lower Anchel was like living in a soggy, stone-walled box, where the earth never fully dried and the buildings sagged against each other like weary old men.

  The food shortage had been worse this quarter. There were fewer scraps to offer, and more people clamoring for them. But now that Flay’s ship was here, life would be better. Wares would be sold and supplies delivered, and for a while, everyone would be fed and happy.

  Kestra smoothed her inky black hair and pinned back a section of it with a clip made of shells and beads. Then she dashed downstairs again, this time passing through the inn’s common room and tavern on her way to the front door.

  The sun itself seemed to know this day was special. The air fairly glittered with sunlight, and the sea sparkled like millions of miniature sapphires. Excitement raced through the streets, catching from one person to the next, until the whole village shimmered with it.

  By the time Kestra reached the docking station, a crowd had already assembled. A few bold boys Kestra’s age had even perched along the wall itself for a better view. Their carelessness sapped the smile from her face. She wanted to scream at them to get down, to stop being stupid—but she forced herself to look away, and to focus instead on the incoming ship.

  The Wind’s Favor aimed, not for the gated mouth of the river, but for the docking tower built atop the wall. The river’s source was the glassy green lake in the deathbed of the island’s volcanic mountain. Where the river met the sea-wall, there was a double-gate of tarred wood and steel, letting the water out but keeping the fish inside. If the fish escaped out to sea, they would be devoured within seconds. Most people in Anchel had never tasted fish beyond the meager supply in the river; and even the river fishing was carefully regulated by the town council, lest the villagers catch too many and lose that food source entirely.

  Several men moved closer to the wall, blocking Kestra’s view, so she darted back and climbed onto a pile of crates by the nearest building. From this perch, she could see the exposed part of the ship’s hull, reinforced with hammered plates of lightweight, impenetrable asthore and bristling with spikes, scarlet-stained from their recent encounters with mermaid bodies. Along the reinforced railing of the ship, sailors stood with arbalests, ready to shoot any mermaids who leaped too high or tried to find purchase on the ship’s armored sides.

  Kestra squinted at the churning foam where the ship’s hull met the sea. Small, slick wet heads bobbed in the surf, their gaunt arms raised and their claws scrabbling at the ship. These were the mermaids of lowest aspect, the smaller swarming ones. A spike just above the surface had impaled one of the creatures, but only part of the tail remained, dripping blood and entrails into the foam. As Kestra watched, another mermaid launched herself from the water, drawing a gasp from the crowd. The creature’s blue-gray body arched as she snagged the tail with her talons, ripping it loose and tearing out a mouthful of flesh before crashing back down into the water.

  “Did you see that? Did you see?” Murmurs raced through the crowd. “They’re eating each other. Monsters.”

  Kestra lifted her gaze from the lower half of the ship to the raised bow, where a lone figure stood with one boot propped against the railing, twirling a three-cornered hat with deft fingers.

  A pulse of delight shivered through her chest.

  Flay.

  She was too far away to distinguish his features, but she recognized the cut of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head, and the shaggy mane of yellow hair, pulled halfway back from his face.

  As the Wind’s Favor edged nearer the docking station, he flipped the hat onto his head and ran down the deck, waving one hand and shouting orders she couldn’t hear from this distance. The ship coasted a little nearer before the anchor dropped, securing it in place.

  The sailors of the Wind’s Favor set up their own scaffolding, a contraption of crisscrossed beams and wooden steps that brought them level with the docking station at the top of the wall. Several villagers scurried about the dock, unfastening bolts and working at the huge wheel that released the plank. The massive slab, cut from one of the thickest trees of the central island, groaned as it lowered into place, creating a bridge from the shore-side dock to the ship’s scaffolding—a bridge so far above the waterline that the mermaids couldn’t hope to snatch a meal or interfere with the loading of
goods.

  “Why is the bridge so high?” Kestra asked of no one in particular. “The mermaids can’t jump that high.”

  A townswoman turned. “My grandmother said that in the early years, when the mermaids first came, the more intelligent ones would cast lances threaded with seaweed ropes, spearing the sailors and dock workers and dragging them down. That’s why our ancestors built the walls and the dock so far above sea level.”

  “But they never come close enough to do that now,” said Kestra.

  “No, and it’s a mercy,” replied the woman. “Perhaps they fear their own swarms.”

  With a screeching of chains and a snapping of bolts, the bridge was locked into place. The young captain dashed across, not bothering to touch the rope railings on either side.

  Flay never walked. He ran, he danced—he twirled and bounded and climbed, and sometimes strode—but he never did anything so slow or prosaic as walking. When he reached the end of the dock, he looked down at the expectant crowd, spread his arms wide, and announced, with a flashing grin, “The storms nearly sank us and the mermaids tried to swamp us, but by thunder, we made it back!”

  An ear-splitting roar burst from the crowd—glee spiked with the fervor of desperation and the keen thrill of relief.

  In a normal town, Kestra imagined, the arrival of a ship would be routine.

  Flay made it feel like salvation.

  He swaggered down the steps and plunged into the crowd, clapping shoulders, shaking hands, transferring his attention from a town leader to a toddler and greeting both with equal cheer. Kestra had watched him perform this dance before, and she enjoyed it every time.

  The first tier of his crew disembarked after him, followed by two dozen more sailors. Kestra knew the routine. They would greet everyone, unload a few items, and then head up to The Three Cherries for baths and rest—baths, because the town code demanded cleanliness, and rest, because forging a path through mermaid-infested waves taxed even the strongest spirits. Tonight, everyone in town who could spare the time and the coin would trudge up the hill to The Three Cherries and fill the common room and the courtyard, thirsty for drink and for tales of lands beyond.

  Kestra sighed and scanned the crowd for Flay’s face one more time. She would speak with him later, at the inn. For now, she needed to hurry home and help with the baking of goods for the night’s festivities.

  Flay had draped himself over the shoulders of two town wives, his tanned face creased in a huge smile. After the long voyage, he must smell terrible, but the women didn’t seem to mind—they wore smiles as wide as his. Kestra waited a second, but when his eyes didn’t lift, she sighed again and leaped down from the crate.

  As she moved, Flay looked up. Their eyes locked for half an instant, and his smile changed—turned fiercely joyful—and then she was on level ground again, buried in the surging crowd. Kestra’s pulse skittered.

  That change in his face, the wild elation of it, carried her through the next several hours of hard work. She stayed in the kitchen, making dough and pie filling and glazes, listening to the sound of the boiler furnace roaring in the bathing room next door. She didn’t envy the two inn workers whose job it was to man the pump, toiling and sweating to pipe heated water from the boiler into two huge rectangular pools rimmed with pearly tiles. Kestra winced, imagining how filthy that water would be once Flay and his men were done with it. She hoped they would flush and refill the water at least once during the process.

  Of course, the idea of Flay bathing brought up other memories. Moments from his last visit, when he whispered beautiful, tantalizing things in her ear on the second night of his stay. She’d pushed him away, laughing, tossing a prickly rejection at him—but later that night, she had padded up the stairs to his room and slipped inside, her silky robe sliding from her body to the floor. She’d woken him with a hand on his chest, and he’d pulled her into the bed with a low chuckle that echoed in her mind more often than she wanted to admit.

  So when Cawl bustled into the kitchen and announced that it was time to begin serving everyone, she lit up inside.

  “There are too many guests for Enree and Lilu to handle,” said Kestra’s mother, ladling soup into bowls as fast as she could. “Mai, you and Kestra will have to help with the serving.”

  “I claim the common room!” said Enree, a pretty, sharp-faced girl.

  Kestra’s heart sank. The common room, where Flay would be.

  “Kestra will serve in the common room,” interjected her mother.

  “But I want to serve the captain!” Enree protested.

  “There are plenty of lusty sailors here tonight, and some young men from the other towns,” said Lumina. “You’ll have to make do with them. You will serve in the front courtyard—the boys have set up extra tables and benches, and the last time I looked they were nearly full already. Lilu, you’ll serve in the second gathering room, and Mai, help out wherever you’re needed.”

  Enree threw Kestra a vicious stare, but she obeyed Lumina, setting soup bowls on a large tray and sashaying out to the courtyard.

  When guests from other towns came to The Three Cherries, tea was always served first, with ceremonial flair and many assurances of welcome. But for the sailors of the Wind’s Favor, the inn relaxed its traditions and settled into a different pattern of service—hearty main courses, hot tea in steaming mugs instead of dainty cups, and plenty of strong ale.

  Kestra darted back and forth from the common room to the kitchen, deliriously busy and loving every minute of it, because with each fresh foray into the common room, she gained another glimpse of Flay. He lounged sideways on a wooden captain’s chair, his scuffed boots kicked up over the curved chair arm, popping fried potatoes into his mouth between uproarious laughs at the salty stories his mates shared with the crowd. Whenever Kestra crossed his line of sight, his eyes latched onto her, warm and arresting, drawing her gaze to his. And when she met his stare, he would grin widely, refusing to look away until she blushed and hurried back to the kitchen for another tray of cups or a dish of stew.

  Flay always looked at her that way. As if none of the other girls who pressed upon him at the table even existed. As if she were a lantern glowing brilliantly in his dark world.

  She knew better than to take him too seriously; after all, he likely had a favorite girl at every port of call along his usual route. But she couldn’t help enjoying the attention.

  “Kestra, my blossom,” he called to her, holding up his mug.

  She hurried over, refilled the mug, and set it before him with a little half-smile that she saved for him alone. He caught her wrist as she was moving away.

  “A plate of something sweet, too, if you’d be so kind?” he said, his fingertips shifting, stroking along the underside of her wrist where her pulse beat close to the skin. Kestra thrilled along every nerve, but she kept her face placid.

  “Of course, Captain.”

  With two hours until midnight, the flurry of eating and drinking ebbed as most of the villagers wandered out of the inn and headed for home. They had no money left for any further festivities, and no credit left with Cawl. Tomorrow, bargains would be made, money and goods exchanged—and the second night of the crew’s stay would be merrier than the first. But for tonight, the party was over.

  Once most of the townspeople had left, the crew members settled in at tables to play cards and carouse, or drew giggling village girls into shadowed corners of the common room. Flay sat up straight, hooked his hat on the corner of his chair, and leaned his elbows on the table, a sign that he was ready to parley with the town council. His first mate, his navigator, and two other crew members drew up to the table as well. Kestra brought them all a round of hot tea—no more liquor, for they had hard matters to discuss.

  She caught bits of the conversation as she wiped down tables, scooted abandoned chairs back to their places, and swept up the constellation of crumbs scattered over the floor.

  “It’s becoming more perilous each time,” Flay was sa
ying. “We began seeing them a full two days’ sailing from the island.”

  One of the councilwomen gasped. “That far out?”

  “Yes. I suppose they’re spreading outward to find food.”

  A councilman snorted and shook his head. “They’ll starve themselves and us at this rate. A hundred years we’ve labored along, but it’s becoming too hard. We’re struggling, and so are the people in Nishvel. We share resources as best we can, conserve our materials—but it’s not enough.”

  “The situation is becoming untenable.” Council Leader Chiren looked directly at Flay, a frown denting his forehead.

  “I do what I can.” Flay spread his hands, palms up. “I have profits to make, and men to return to their families. We cannot come more often than we do. And if the threat grows worse, we may not be able to return at all.”

  Kestra’s heart stuttered. What would that mean for Kiken Island? Deprivation, surely. Starvation. Maybe even war between Nishvel and Anchel—tensions were already mounting as supplies grew scarcer.

  Leader Chiren cleared his throat. “Would your father consider helping us? He has ships, weapons. Perhaps he could—”

  Flay threw back his head, golden hair spilling behind him, and laughed. “My father? Oh, my dear Chiren, if you met him, you would know why your words amuse me. My father helps no one but himself. He wouldn’t even allow me to make these little voyages to your charming island, if it weren’t for the value of asthore.”

  Chiren’s face reddened, and Kestra sympathized with his anger. But Chiren didn’t know that Flay’s father was no mere merchant or shipping magnate—he was the commodore of a score of slaving ships. It was a shameful secret that Flay guarded closely—one that he’d shared with her privately the last time he came to Kiken Island. There would be no aid from the commodore. He cared nothing for humans in distress.

  “Couldn’t you find a way to thin the herd—or the swarm, or whatever you call it?” Flay tugged off one of his rings and spun it on the table, transforming it into a whirling, glittering orb of gold.