by Ellen Renner
The guardhouse echoed like a cave with the thud of boots. Storm shivered with excitement and awe. Yanlin had never seemed so far away, so small and insignificant. When she saw what lay beyond the gate, Storm’s mouth fell open.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” Talon had anticipated her reaction and paused to give her time to take in this extraordinary place.
Like a precious emerald, a garden lay at the heart of the stone and brick town. Gravel paths wove among flowering trees and shrubs to a central pond. The garden oasis was surrounded on three sides by fifteen tall houses built of plaster-covered brick. Each had tall windows opening on to wrought-iron verandas. Balconies overflowed with wisteria, jasmine and roses. The steep roofs were covered in tiles glazed a shimmering blue that echoed the sky.
“That is my house,” Talon said, pointing to a large building facing them at the back of the square. “My daughter will be waiting to meet you. Come!”
“How old are these houses?” Storm hurried after him.
“Very old.” Talon’s moustaches waggled when he smiled. “My ancestors have lived here for many generations.”
Storm blinked in surprise. Talon’s words meant that membership in the Fifteen – the trading Pact that ran Bellum Island – was hereditary. On Yanlin seven Elders were elected by popular vote from among all those who had lived long enough to have had a chance of gaining the necessary wisdom.
It seemed dangerous to trust that your descendants would perpetually be both virtuous and wise, but, she thought, there was no arguing with the success of Bellum.
The door of Talon’s house was made of teak, its carvings ancient and worn by wind and sun. It creaked open at their approach to reveal a girl of fourteen or fifteen, dressed in a primrose-yellow tunic and white trousers. Her eyes sparkled with intelligence, her nostrils were elegantly flared, and her lips looked ready to smile.
Storm followed the Pact leader into a hall covered with thick mats of rice straw. A tall window opposite the door flooded the space with light. Storm’s eyes widened in astonishment. The window was filled with pieces of glass set in lead frames. She had only ever seen glass in the form of beads: tiny smudged blue and greenish pebbles far too expensive to own. Precious glass was so cheap to the Pact that they used it to shut out the wind!
Behind the primrose girl stood a man and a woman dressed in undyed linen. They bowed low as Talon entered the house.
Servants! Storm couldn’t help staring at the pair, who kept their eyes carefully downcast. She had heard that Pact members had people living in their houses whose only jobs were to wait upon their masters, bringing them clothes and food, and doing all the cleaning and cooking, but she had hardly believed such tales.
Talon reached out a crimson-spiked hand and his daughter grasped his fingers with a flutter of a yellow silk sleeve. They turned to face Storm, as though waiting for her applause.
Show-offs! said Storm’s mind-voice. Both of them. But she was entranced in spite of herself.
“Betaan, here is our guest, Yanlin’s famous Weather-witch. I am sure the two of you will become fast friends.”
Talon’s daughter granted Storm a bright smile, then bent her head in greeting. Long plaits of glossy black hair, twined with rose-coloured ribbons, spilled over her shoulders. Storm gazed with longing at the other girl’s beautiful hair. When she had been made a non-sex, her cherished plaits, laced with ribbon and as long as her arm, had been cut off and what remained of her hair tied in a topknot. Her neck and shoulders felt suddenly naked. Betaan made her feel too clumsy, too sea-browned, too plainly dressed, too everything!
“Show Storm where she is to live, Daughter,” directed Talon. “She will doubtless wish to tidy up for this evening.”
Talon clicked his fingers and the male servant darted forward to help him remove his outer robe. The head of the Pact held out his right foot, and the man knelt to untie the toe and remove the shoe. He presented his master with embroidered silk slippers, and Talon scuffed his feet into them.
“I bid you farewell until this evening, Storm,” said Talon. “We have arranged a gathering of the Fifteen Families. Betaan will keep you company until then.” He gave her a graceful bow and strode off into the interior of the house.
“Come with me.” Betaan made the command sound like a request. Her voice was breathy, like a wooden flute. “I’m sure we will become great friends.”
Was that a command too? Storm wondered, as she followed Talon’s daughter up a flight of stairs.
She had never been in a building with more than one floor. Storm climbed the wooden stairs slowly, staring at the paintings covering the walls. They showed people dressed like Talon and his daughter wandering through lush gardens, feasting, riding in gilded palanquins, overseeing the unloading of cargo in Bellum’s harbour. Betaan’s ancestors, Storm imagined. Those who had lived in this huge, rich house in distant times. It made her heart thump to see dead eyes looking out from the paintings as though they could still see.
Her mother’s house, which was hers now, had been built by Dain and Wing upon their marriage. It was only slightly older than Storm herself. And it would die naturally, of rot and decay, probably in her lifetime, for houses on Yanlin were made of simple reeds, thatch and bamboo, with bits of wood scavenged from the shipyard. Not of dead plaster, like this place.
An immortal house. It made her skin creep. But it was beautiful, she had to admit. A person might kill for a house like this.
“This is your room.” Talon’s daughter watched Storm from behind her face paint as the servant slid past them and pushed open a tall door of carved teak.
The room was as big as her mother’s entire house. A rug of knotted silk lay upon waxed floorboards; the sleeping mat was a thick pad on a low platform of carved teak, with linen neck pillows and a silk coverlet. It was wide enough for three! A clothes cupboard stood against one wall, a tall cabinet lacquered a rich dark red. There was a round mirror of polished bronze hanging on one wall, and a simple low table against another, with a kneeling mat in front of it. The window was filled with squares of coloured glass that threw a rainbow on the floor and across one wall, rippling across a picture hung there.
The image showed squares that must be buildings, doubled lines that must be streets. There were images of fountains, warehouses, the harbour with ships floating in it. All surrounded by the lava wall. It was all drawn upon parchment with flowing brown lines and painted with the soft colours of the earth itself.
“What is this?” Storm stood in front of the image and stared, fascinated.
“It’s a map.” There was a tinge of amusement in Betaan’s voice.
“Map?”
“Like a sea chart.”
“But why would you need such a thing? Bellum Town isn’t enormous and featureless like the sea.”
“Not full of treacherous reefs and hidden rocks?”
“Exactly.”
“But isn’t the map beautiful?”
“It is. Do you know the person who did it?”
Betaan laughed. Storm was being teased, but the mockery was gentle. “The artist died long ago. That is a very old painting. And it was painted out of vanity. Of course we don’t need a map of Bellum Town! But one of my ancestors wanted one – wanted to chart the town as it was in her day.” Betaan shrugged. “Life isn’t about what we need, but what we want.”
Storm turned from the map to see Betaan gliding across the room to a second, smaller door. The serving woman darted forward and pushed the door wide.
“Fill the bath,” Betaan ordered. The servant bowed and left. “I assume you would like a bath? The facilities aboard ship can’t be that luxurious.”
“It’s called going for a swim!” Storm peered through the open door and saw a large bamboo tub on a raised platform in the centre of a small room. “You have inside bathing rooms!” At home they showered outside, under water stored in cisterns.
“Of course! And as for swimming at sea… You are very brave.” Betaan looked
at her curiously. “But of course, being a Weather-witch…” Talon’s daughter gazed pointedly at Storm’s topknot. “Do you mind being a non-sex? Your hair, I mean. And never to have children?”
“There is no other way.” Storm spoke briskly. Betaan took the hint, merely raising an eyebrow in echo of her father.
The serving woman returned, a bucket of steaming water in each hand. She bustled into the bathing room, poured out the hot water and disappeared again with the buckets. Storm’s eyes flew wide. An extravagance of hot water!
“Let’s find some fresh clothing!” Betaan swept to the lacquered cupboard and threw open the doors, revealing piles of bright, soft silk. “I had to guess your size and what colours you might like. Come, choose what you would like to wear tonight!” She pulled out tunics and matching trousers and threw them on the bed, a heap of embroidered silk in all the colours of the rainbow.
Storm lifted up a tunic, then another. Her chest felt strangely tight. Even her Choosing tunic, lovingly embroidered by her mother, had not been as beautiful as these garments. She feared to snag the soft fabric with her calloused fingers. She knew, absolutely, that they were not for her, but she desired, oh, how she desired…
The serving woman hurried through the room, poured out more water. Lifted from her daydream, Storm said reluctantly, “These are not suitable.”
“Don’t you like them?” Betaan drew back.
“It isn’t that… They are beautiful. All of them. But … I am a non-sex. These are women’s tunics.”
“Is that all?” Betaan laughed, her voice pealing with relief. “But that is so provincial. The Pact makes the rules on Bellum. As long as you stay with us, you can be both girl and Weather-witch! Of course, if you prefer, I’ll have a seamstress come and alter them – cut the sleeves right off!”
“Oh, you mustn’t!” Storm stared at Betaan, horrified. “They’re far too beautiful.” She hesitated, heart hammering with eagerness. “Is it really true? Your people would accept a female Weather-witch?”
“Of course! Now choose. You must wear something tonight and, forgive me, but your shipboard clothes will not do.” Talon’s daughter raised both eyebrows this time, looking disdainfully at Storm’s weather-stained tunic and trousers. Storm glanced down at the tumbled clothing. Her agreement with the Yanlin Elders couldn’t matter while she was a guest of the Pact. She could be a girl again!
Storm smoothed the front of her tunic, feeling the coarseness of the cloth under her palms. She reached out a tentative hand to stroke a tunic of deepest blue, the colour of the Albatross. “This one. I want to wear this, please.” And she sighed with pleasure. Bellum Island was proving more wonderful than she could have imagined.
“The bath is ready, Mistress!” The servant, her face pink with effort, bowed to them.
Storm had never felt so gloriously clean in all her life. She had been soaped, scrubbed and towelled by the servant, much to her embarrassment. Her hair had been washed three times, oiled and combed. But she couldn’t get used to the feeling of it brushing her cheeks and the back of her neck. Betaan had refused to let Storm tie it up again into a topknot. “It’s the fashion here, for formal occasions. Besides, you have such lovely hair. It falls in waves, like the sea. Mine is as straight as a stick. You will leave it alone! It will soon grow long enough to plait, if you wish.”
“I won’t be here that long.” She sighed. It might be true, but she wanted to pretend otherwise.
“Don’t say that,” Betaan said. “Or do you wish to make me sad?”
Storm felt herself smiling at the words.
She doesn’t mean it! warned her mind-voice, but Storm pretended not to hear. She followed her hostess down the wide stairs to meet the members of the Pact, revelling in the feel of silk on her skin, tingling with excitement. She pushed Uncle Lake’s warnings from her mind. She could stop being Yanlin’s Weather-witch for tonight at least. After all, she was about to meet the richest people in the world!
They were ushered into a room as tall as two houses. The floor was made of blocks of yellow wood polished until they gleamed. But it was the windows that stole her breath. They reached from the floor to the blood-red ceiling, and their wooden frames were filled with square pieces of clear glass set in lead. The slanting rays of the dying sun flooded through them, and she could see Bellum Town below and around her, warped and shimmering.
“Mistress Storm of Yanlin! Betaan, daughter of Talon!” a servant bellowed.
With silken rustlings, the room turned to face them. Each figure wore a painted mask: pale skin, pink cheeks, black kohl around their eyes. They do look like wooden dolls, Storm thought, but far more frightening! Both men and women wore their hair loose, falling in oiled locks around their necks.
The room stared back at her in silence as Talon swept into view, swishing between the women and men in their paint and butterfly colours. This evening he wore acid-green. “Ah, Storm, you are come at last. Betaan has such tardy habits!” He cast an affectionate look at his daughter before turning to Storm and bowing with a well-judged mixture of formality and familiarity. “Let me make introductions. The Pact is dying to meet you!”
Talon paraded her around the room. Face after painted face swam into view; words of greeting were murmured, bows exchanged. Storm saw Waffa of the tally sheets rear up and disappear, before a pair of eyes the colour of burnt apricots caught her gaze. Almond, the young trader who had greeted her at the docks, swept forward and bent in a graceful bow.
“Ah, good,” said Talon. “Just the person to partner Storm in the dancing. You youngsters go and work up an appetite for the feast I have planned!”
Storm wiped what she knew must be a look of horror from her face. “B-but I am sure I do not know how to dance in your fashion and…” The idea of dancing with Almond, who stood looking at her with barely disguised amusement on his too-perfect face, made her want to sink into the yellow floor.
“Nonsense, Father!” Betaan stepped between them. “Our guest is far too young to dance with an old man like Almond.”
Storm felt her eyes open wide at the insult, but an expression of amused tolerance crossed the young trader’s face.
“I shall partner Storm this evening.” Betaan gave her father an admonishing glance. To Storm she said, “Come and meet my friends.”
“Thank you!” Storm gasped as Betaan led her through the crowd. It parted before them as Talon’s daughter called out greetings, gathering a group of other girls. Face after painted face turned to study her, and Storm’s mouth went dry. What had she to do with these perfect, delicate-looking creatures?
“Gather round and rescue Storm!” Betaan sang out. “She’s my new best friend!”
“Lucky Storm,” said a tall young woman in a grave voice. Beneath the painted mask, Storm saw a clever and possibly kind face. “I am Mer,” said the girl. “I used to be Beta’s best friend, but she changes us round weekly.” The group giggled. “Welcome!” said Mer.
“Let us dance!” Betaan cried, as the drums began to tap out a rhythm and flutes tootled a catchy tune. She grabbed one of Storm’s hands, Mer the other, and in a heartbeat Storm was part of a circle of dancers rotating to the music. If she closed her eyes, she could have been back at home, dancing with Ma and Minnow. Storm let her feet travel the familiar steps, feeling giddy, even reckless. She wasn’t Yanlin’s Weather-witch now. She was an ordinary girl having fun. Don’t be stupid! scolded her mind-voice. If you were an ordinary girl you wouldn’t be here. Remember what Lake said about Talon: you cannot trust these people!
Go away! Storm replied and danced even harder.
A knocking sound pulled her from an instantly forgotten dream. Storm opened her eyes. Instead of the sea-stained boards of the Wayfinder deck an arm’s length above her hammock, she saw a gold ceiling high overhead. It took a few amazed heartbeats before she remembered where she was. The knock became an impatient rapping.
“Who is it?” She pushed herself to sitting.
The door fl
ew wide. Betaan marched into the room, carrying a small tray. “Breakfast, sleepy-head! I couldn’t wait for you to wake up any longer. I’m dying to gossip about last night. And to tell you about today’s excursion.” She placed the tray on Storm’s lap. It held a tiny teapot, a porcelain cup and a plate of steaming pumpkin rolls. “Eat up! Quickly now.”
“Excursion?” Storm poured out tea, took a bite of roll, suddenly famished. It seemed strange to have a whole day before her with no job to do, no task, nothing to make or mend. Work had always come first on Yanlin: she could not remember a time when she had been too young to have any chores.
“I am going to introduce you to the wonders of Bellum Town!” Betaan exclaimed grandly. “Mer will come with us. I think she likes you! But you are my best friend, remember?” The other girl tossed off the words with an arch smile.
This is a game she plays. Storm chewed thoughtfully. And I don’t know the rules.
Her lifelong best friend had been a boy. Thorn had been killed by the Drowned Ones, and she missed him every day. On Yanlin, she had never had a girl friend, only a girl-enemy. It’s a game, her mind-voice confirmed. It doesn’t mean anything. But even so, Storm felt a surge of pleasure at Betaan’s words and her archly possessive smile.
“I can’t wait!” she said. And stole dead Thorn’s almost last words: “I’ve wanted to see Bellum Town my whole life!”
“But I can’t walk outdoors in these!” Storm stared woefully down at her feet. A servant had brought delicate saffron-coloured leather slippers and showed her how to tie the long toes to her ankles. “The soles are thin as rice wafers. They will wear out within days!”
“And then you get the pleasure of new ones! In a five-day the fashion might be for longer toes, or heels, or no toes at all. What fun, eh? Come, you are no longer stuck on an outer island. Enjoy yourself!” Betaan smiled at her indulgently, but Storm thought she spied a hint of scorn behind the smile. She must be more careful not to appear provincial!