Water Witch

by Connie Willis

  Harubiki came and stood beside him. “They’re armed,” she said, and felt for her own dagger.

  “Yes, but they also carry the water goblet with them.”

  “It looks like a basin,” Harubiki said sharply. “The Tycoon is indeed a proud man. And a dangerous one. Yet we put ourselves in the care of a child-girl for the dealing with a man like that.”

  Radi ignored her. The basin-sized goblet told much about the Tycoon, though, since no real drinking was done from it, only the ceremonial sip that meant you placed yourself under the trust of the host’s water-hospitality. That trust, on a planet where sweet water was the most priceless commodity, was inviolable. Even sworn enemies would not break it and were safe under each other’s roofs. Provided the ceremony was performed. Provided Deza could get it performed when the Tycoon had expressly forbidden a priest inside his compound. They were bringing the basin, and that was a good sign. They were also, as Harubiki had noted, armed for battle. Radi frowned at the distant compound, trying to read expressions on the faraway faces.

  Deza was back. “Oh, good,” she said, squinting at the little group now almost to the gate. “It’s Edvar and not his father.” She turned to Radi. “I do much better with Edvar.”

  “I can imagine,” Radi said dryly, and then stopped. Deza had run a brush through the tangle of curls, but they were as wild as ever. Her skirts were still draggled and her bare feet dusty, one of them bound up in some sort of bandage, yet one look at her told Radi she could indeed manage Edvar, or his father, or even himself, very well indeed. He had never really believed the story that she was an innocent serving girl the son of the household had become interested in. That she and her late father had been working some sort of swindle was obvious, and now Radi saw what it was. She was undoubtedly masquerading as the lost princess from the Red City. And no con in which she figured as a water-witch from the City in the Red Cave could hope to work without the sign of her authenticity—the gembone filigrees. They were authentic. They fit her cheekbones perfectly, the delicately rosy gembone traceries carved to a fineness that had to come from his own people.

  And they transformed her.

  Insets made Sheria’s already narrow face positively skeletal. She wore them at the ceremonials of water, and she wore them in her receiving chambers. Aside from Sheria, only the very old women who claimed direct water-witch descent wore them all the time. But on Deza! They thinned and shaped her rather round face, the rosy gembone giving it even more color. She looked delicate and helpless and very pretty, a true princess. Even the tangle of curls around her cheeks was appealing. If only Sheria had looked like that in them, but they served only to make her look somewhat imperial, and terribly thin.

  “Where did you get those?” he demanded, angry at the disloyal comparisons he’d been making with Sheria.

  “Stole them,” Deza said cheerfully. “At least my father did. I could hardly be a princess without them, you know. And Edvar’s father is the kind to check things like that out. You should have seen the lengths he went to to get them off me so he could have them analyzed. He’ll check you out, too, so you’d better do your priest act right.”

  “Did he get them off of you, the filigrees, I mean?”

  “Of course. When I let him. I know how to handle him, thank you. My con has worked very nicely. I’m not sure yours will work at all. You don’t even keep your hands in your sleeves. And priests are celibate, remember?” She turned to the others. “Ready?” she asked sweetly.

  He could see the striking curve of the cheek and the curls brushing against it. Very, very flattering. And from her remark, she knew exactly what he was thinking. She was not only in control of the group, she was also starting to manage him.

  Deza stepped out from the cover of the rocks and started firmly across the open space, then stopped before the others had a chance to follow. She looked thoughtful, alert, preoccupied for a long moment. Radi had the feeling she’d forgotten all about them. But perhaps that was part of her skillful maneuvering too. He did not ask her what was wrong.

  She shook her head once, then again, then seemed to listen for another minute. “Oh, all right,” she said at last. “But I don’t think it’s necessary. I told you, I can handle Edvar.” She hiked her skirt up to reveal a long expanse of naked calf with a hidden pouch strapped around it. Rounded calves, he thought, making an even more unfortunate comparison with the thin Sheria and then feeling ashamed of himself.

  There had been many women in his life, but only one princess. Sheria the inviolate. Sheria the incomparable. But he found himself comparing the incomparable with Deza, comparing her to her discredit. Deza was maneuvering again. He could not believe, strange and disconnected as her remarks had been, that she would do anything without first measuring its effect on those around her, and that included lifting her skirts. Her con on Edvar, and even his father, Radi was sure, was based on her sexuality, which might or might not be withheld, whichever suited her purposes. He was almost sure that withholding suited her in almost every instance. It was amazing the power a woman could hold with just the promise of her favors, and how those favors once given, transferred the power subtly to the man. Get her in bed, and he would no longer be making comparisons with Sheria. Get her in bed, and the sooner the better. Radi smiled. That was definitely the answer.

  Deza turned back to the group. “Sorry,” she said, “I forgot something.” She had taken something from the pouch and now held it loosely in her hand. Radi had not seen what it was.

  She moved to Harubiki. “Would you mind carrying my mbuzi? I may have to move quickly if things… do not go as I’ve planned.” She handed the limp mbuzi over, and Harubiki shouldered the animal. Radi wondered if she had done it simply to make it more difficult for the volatile Harubiki to get to her knife.

  “All right,” she said, “let’s go.” She led them across the burred and cactused desert to the gate, stepping lightly just ahead of the decorous Radi, who was remembering to keep his hands in his sleeves. The others followed behind with their heads reverently fixed on the sand.

  “He has the water-goblet with him,” Deza said. “That’s a good sign.” She did not turn her head.

  “For you,” Radi answered, barely moving his lips. “Let’s hope he’s willing to offer it to the rest of us, too.”

  “Just watch,” Deza said and broke into a run. “Edvar,” she cried, “Oh, Edvar!” She flung her arms around his neck.

  Edvar was abashed, he was pleased, he was a little embarrassed in front of his men. He was everything Deza intended him to be. Simpleton, Radi thought, and then more observantly, young and innocent. He had the good sense to wear lightweight shirt and breeches, but they were the dark colors of Kalmar. Though his fingernails were decorated, his hands were calloused and tan and had the potential of a good grip in them. He had not gone native yet, but the symptoms were there, and Radi knew that he would be sent home shortly to marry, if he were not unduly distracted.

  Deza distracted. “Oh, Edvar! He was dead, my own father! And I didn’t know where I was and I walked and walked and couldn’t find anybody and finally just as I was about to give up and just lie down and die, guess who found me?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Oh, Edvar, what luck that you’d just sent for another priest. I would have died out there all alone, just wandering and wandering till I dropped down dead if they hadn’t come along, and I told them who I was and then they said that they were coming here and I was so glad because I was afraid I was never going to see you again!” She buried her tearful face against his shoulder. Real tears, too, Radi thought. She’s good. Almost too good.

  Edvar patted her awkwardly. “Well, Deza, I’m awfully glad they found you and all, but actually, Father didn’t send for another priest. He had a sort of disagreement…”

  “And they shared their food with me and bandaged my foot. See, it’s only swollen a little and I honestly thought I was going to lose it at first, it was so red and puffy and then it turned this sort of
purple color but I had to walk on it, because I just couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t bear to with my father dead, my poor father!” Edvar was being treated all this time to an enticing view of Deza’s ankle, not swollen at all in the brand-new bandage. He hasn’t taken her to bed yet, Radi thought exultantly, and look what a state she’s got him in. I’ll be like that in a few days if I don’t get her properly subdued. “But they had some wonderful medicine and they were so awfully kind, and I know when your father finds out he’s going to award them or something, though of course they’ll probably refuse because he’s a priest and priests are supposed to be kind for a living, but really they just saved my life and.…”

  Mistake, Deza, Radi thought. The reference to the father was unfortunate. Edvar’s face clouded and he raised his hand as if about to signal attack. “I know you’re grateful to them and so am I, Deza darling, but I’m afraid you don’t quite understand the situation. The priest my father had cheated him and he had to break off all relations with the local.…”

  She pulled herself abruptly away from Edvar and straightened up. The drawstring of her blouse had come undone and her breasts swayed tantalizingly before him. I’ve seen that trick before, Radi thought. “Oh, I see. You’ve been having some silly old political problem and that’s more important than me. You don’t care that they saved my life. You don’t care that my bones could be out there right now, fossilizing.”

  “Deza, please, you simply don’t understand how difficult this situation is. There are things about it.…”

  “Oh, I understand. You told me I was the most important thing in the world to you. Well, apparently you didn’t mean that.” She yanked the drawstring up to her neck and tied it firmly. The message was unmistakable.

  Edvar was promptly at her mercy. “Wait a moment, sweetheart. I’ll work something out.”

  She still looked unappeased and Edvar flailed about, trying to find an answer that would please her and still not incur his father’s wrath. “They did save your life. And my father does owe them his gratitude.” He made a very slight motion with his hand and the servant carrying the water-goblet began edging a step at a time away from the group and back toward the safety of the gate. “I can hardly extend water-hospitality to them, but I can ask my father to give them an audience.”

  Deza looked somewhat placated. Radi was almost sure she had not seen the business with the servant. They could have an audience but without the protection of the water ceremony, Edvar’s father would be free to treat them any way he pleased. Throw them out, lock them up, have them murdered. Deza’s charm would not be enough to get them out or reincarnate them.

  “Oh, all right, I suppose,” Deza said. “But after the audience, you’ll do the ceremony, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” Edvar said happily. He bowed toward Radi. “On behalf of my father the Tycoon, sovereign ruler, may I welcome you to seek an audience…”

  “Oh,” Deza said, sounding vaguely surprised, and collapsed onto the sandy ground.

  For the mind of an mbuzi, Radi thought, annoyed. If she can’t think of anything better to do than faint, I was an idiot to put my people in her hands. Even Edvar won’t be taken in.

  “Oh, Deza,” Edvar said, half-placating, half-annoyed, and then, “Oh, my God! Water-bearer!”

  The servant hesitated, well inside the gate, then came shuffling back. Everyone drew back horrified. “Hurry, for God’s sake!” Edvar shouted at the servant. “It’s a peketa! Hurry!”

  Radi looked at Deza’s arm, alarmed. The peketa bite was clearly there, a red dryish mark, swelling a little and beginning to blister. But where was the bug? If it bit her again, she would be in serious trouble. He glanced hurriedly at the tumble of her skirts, then at her exposed ankle. The bug was there, sitting boldly on the neat ankle that had so entranced Edvar, ready to bite again. Radi dived, smashing it with the flat of his hand, then pulling it off his hand with his fingers so that the drilling tail, which almost had a life of its own, would not work its way into his hand. He ground it into the sand and knelt by Deza.

  Edvar was forcing water into her lips from the huge goblet. Her lips looked parched already, the skin of her cheeks under the filigrees tightening, or was that just his imagination? The bite of a peketa did not kill at once, did not kill at all if water in sufficient quantities could be given immediately to counteract the dehydrating effect of the poison. Deza would not be in any danger if the bug had only managed to bite her once. He examined the ankle closely, looking for the reddish bite mark, but could not find one.

  Deza’s eyes fluttered open. She hiccuped and choked on the water. “Oh,” she said again in that surprised tone. “Did I faint or something?”

  “No, darling,” Edvar said, his voice tender. “You were bitten by a peketa, but don’t worry…”

  Idiot, Radi thought, that’s not the way to tell her. Deza struggled to rise, striking at her clothes with terrified hands, brushing hysterically at her arms and face.

  Radi reached out and grabbed both of her hands in his. “It’s all right, Deza,” he said soothingly. “I killed the bug.” He took the goblet from Edvar’s passive hands and put it to Deza’s lips. “Now, just take a big drink… that’s it… and another…”

  Edvar looked grateful for his interference. Radi held the heavy goblet under Deza’s mouth again and met her eyes. She shot him a glance of fire and fury that almost surprised him into speech. He sat back on his heels, still holding the goblet in both hands, amazed at her reaction.

  “I feel like such an idiot,” Deza said, but there was an edge to her voice that indicated just who the idiot was, “to have interrupted everything like that, the water ceremony and all…”

  “But we weren’t…” Edvar began, and Radi finally came to, feeling like the idiot Deza had just called him. He hastily lifted the goblet to his lips and drank. “And I accept, as you give, the shelter of your water-hospitality and its trust,” he said, and practically threw the goblet at Harubiki. The others passed it hastily among themselves, muttering the responses as if Edvar had actually spoken the welcome, instead of just standing there looking helpless.

  “I have not…” he said.

  “There’s another one,” Deza shrilled. “Oh, get it away, get it away.” Her hands were in front of her face, shielding it prettily from a harmless buifly. Her drawstring had come undone again.

  “It’s only a fly, Deza,” Edvar said.

  “Ohhhh…” It was a wail this time. “Please take me inside. I’m so scared it’s going to bite me again.”

  He pulled her up and helped her through the gate. She leaned against him and favored her bitten arm, although Radi knew perfectly well that the bite of a peketa did not hurt at all, that its deadliness lay in its painlessness for the desert traveller, dehydrated and dying before he realized he’d been bitten.

  Harubiki and his attendants followed, secure now even in the face of the men’s weapons, safe under the inviolate protection of the water-hospitality. Radi hesitated a moment, looking down at the tumbled sand where Deza had fallen. He scraped at it with his sandaled foot, then stooped and picked something up. He put his arms in his sleeves, like a good priest, still holding on to it for future use, and followed the others at a slow and priestly pace. The sooner that girl’s in my bed, he was thinking, the safer I’ll be.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Edvar’s father met the group at the front door. “They request an audience, Father,” Edvar said firmly, then faltered. “They have passed water-hospitality with us.”

  The Tycoon already knew. His face didn’t change from its stern pleasantness at all as he took in the sight of the priest, hands piously up his sleeves, the empty drinking goblet, Deza hanging on Edvar’s arm. Deza tried to disentangle herself from Edvar’s grip, but he was determined to hold onto her.

  “Deza’s injured,” he said. “She has a twisted ankle, and a peketa bite. I will take her to her room.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Edvar,” his father said in a ton
e that allowed no argument. One of the servants appeared instantly at Deza’s side and took her other arm. She felt pinioned like a prisoner between them, about to be led off to the dungeon. She was not at all sure that Edvar’s father did not intend her to feel that way. He smiled broadly at her. “Welcome back, my dear,” he said. It sent shivers up her spine. She wished she had not allowed her mbuzi to be carried off to the household’s pens.

  The servant led her off up the main staircase to her old room. She could hear Radi and the others being disposed of just as rapidly belowstairs, told that an audience would come later, that it felt right and holy to have a priest in the house again, that he just now had important business to discuss with Edvar. Poor Edvar!

  “Your room,” the servant said, and shoved open the heavily carved wooden door.

  “Thank you,” Deza said, and sank carefully onto one of the fur-draped chairs, still favoring the ankle that was supposed to be twisted. She didn’t want the servants gossiping that she really wasn’t hurt. Servants could be your worst enemies in a con. Her father had taught her that. They saw everything, heard everything, knew everything in a household. They resented your elevated position because they sensed you were really one of them and would do anything to bring you down. “You may go,” she said kindly, and smiled.

  She waited a moment after the door had shut behind the servant, then raced through an inspection of the room. It was just as she had left it, the messenger’s costume intact in the cache that fit neatly into the base of the fiti board, the dark stain for her hands and face, the razor for her hair: the getaway costume that her father had insisted on, but never had her use, even when they dived so frantically for the hovercraft. The cache had not been found, either. The spidery liquid she’d spread over it was intact.

  She checked the room for listeners, then after making sure the door was secure and cursing the fact that the foreigners’ houses were so easily bugged, she slid the closet-back open and examined the slipspace she and her father had used. It too was intact, the web stretching across the dark door that Deza knew pitched almost straight down to the lower floors. Her father had managed to get the room below-stairs that connected with hers even though it had belonged to the priest. He had known, of course, which rooms had slipspaces between them before they’d come. He took infinite care with details and it always paid off. Her father knew how to work a con.