by Ellen Renner
“The shoe-sellers must sell shoes, you know,” added Mer.
Storm’s face was still warm with embarrassment as she followed the other two out of the grand front door. But it wasn’t Betaan’s cheerful teasing or Mer’s gentle gaze that made her most uncomfortable. It was the four leathery-brown guards that followed them, with their impassive faces and long iron-clad pikes, watching and listening to everything while pretending not to. Betaan and Mer seemed not even to notice the presence of the three men and one woman.
“Surely we don’t need guards!” Storm whispered to Betaan.
“We never go out without guards!” Betaan’s eyes grew wide with amazement. “We are the Pact!”
“We might be kidnapped,” explained Mer. “All members of the Fifteen Families travel the city with guards.”
“Kidnapped? But this is your island! Oh … you mean by visitors, privateers?”
Mer opened her mouth to say something. Storm watched her eyes flick at Betaan, saw Mer shut her mouth.
Betaan turned, smiling. “Of course,” Talon’s daughter said smoothly. “Privateers, pirates. Everyone comes to Bellum Town to trade, even villains. We are the belly button of the world.”
Storm smiled, hiding her confusion. It must be true: on Yanlin every islander was a member of an extended family. You might have enemies among your own, but they were your own. Not even this island – belly button or not – could be that different.
A Pact daughter on each side of her, arms linked in her own, Storm walked through the echoey, sombre guardhouse out into the heart of Bellum Town.
The guards went front and behind and the crowded street emptied as if blown clear by Air-magic. Betaan led them from stall to stall. Though only mid-morning, the air was sticky with heat. Palm trees had been planted in clumps across the square, their fringed leaves offering patches of shade. Dust motes danced in columns of light where the sun speared through the leaves. The smell of fried onion and plantain from food stalls mingled with the odour of human sweat and exotic perfumes. Storm’s head swam at the richness of it all.
“Perfect!” called Betaan, stopping at a stall selling gold ornaments and gesturing for Storm to join her. She ignored the vendor, a thin old woman sitting in the shade of a canvas tent. Her fingers were so gnarled by arthritis it seemed impossible they had done the intricate work displayed. Storm gave the woman a quick bow and the woman blinked, as though in surprise. After a moment, she bowed in return. Something moved in the tent’s shadows. A cling-monkey leapt up on to the woman’s shoulder, bending its mouth close to her ear and chattering, its eyes on Storm. Then Talon’s daughter spoke, and Storm forgot the monkey.
“This, I think.” One long, curving, enamelled fingernail tapped a wrist cuff made of fine gold wires. “What do you think?”
Storm bent closer. The wires had been close-twined and braided to create the image of a seabird soaring over towering waves. “It is beautiful. I have never seen such fine work.” Or so much gold in one ornament! she thought. This would keep a family for a year on Yanlin.
Betaan peered sideways at her. “You like it?”
“Of course. Who would not?”
“Then it is yours.” Talon’s daughter plucked the bangle from the cloth and, taking hold of Storm’s arm, slid the cuff on to her wrist.
Storm stared at her arm, mesmerised. The gold was heavy; smooth, rich-feeling. She glanced at the stallholder, who was watching her with bright eyes set deep in her wrinkled face. Something in her expression reminded Storm of her old teacher and Elder, Teanu.
Disturbed by something she could not put words to – and by the strength of her own desire for the cuff – Storm blurted: “I cannot accept such an expensive gift!” She pulled off the bangle and held it out. “It is impossible.”
“Nonsense!” Betaan shrugged petulantly. “I want to give it to you. If you do not wear the trinket, it will lie in the dust. The beggars can have it!”
Storm turned to Mer. “I can never repay such a gesture.”
“You are a Weather-witch,” Mer said. “You will soon be as rich as any of us. Richer, perhaps. Besides, with Betaan all things are possible. Wear it and enjoy. It costs you nothing to accept, and it gives her pleasure and the old woman profit. Who loses?”
Mer’s words were convincing. Storm did not want to spoil Betaan’s pleasure. She slipped the cuff back on her wrist. It was a beautiful thing, and it covered the Salamander’s scar perfectly. Never had she worn anything half so lovely. She bowed to Talon’s daughter, pressing her hands together, unable to stop smiling. “It is beautiful. I will treasure it.”
“Good.” Betaan lost her marble-like aloofness. “By the Ancestors, that is an ugly scar on your wrist. It is shaped just like a hand. How did you come by it?”
“The scar?” Storm blinked. “I burned myself.”
“It almost looks like the Salamander had grabbed you by the wrist,” Betaan said with a careless laugh.
Storm held her breath, quelling a sudden desire to shiver. Did the Pact know even that horrible secret? But no, it had been meant as a joke. Storm glanced at the stallholder, who was still staring at her intently. The monkey had vanished.
“Gentle daughters of the Pact!” cried the old woman suddenly. “Draw near and I shall entertain you with a special magic, as thanks for your purchase.” She addressed Betaan and Mer, but darted a sideways glance at Storm that stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. Smiths work with fire! warned her mind-voice.
Betaan laughed, grabbed Storm and Mer by the hands and pulled them forward. “A show! Yes. Give us a show! Are you a witch, old woman? You look like one, to be sure!”
“Don’t be rude, Betta!” Mer said, her voice light and careless.
Storm stared at the other girls, deeply shocked. Those who have lived to old age should be honoured, no matter their station in life! It was on the tip of her tongue to say so when Betaan’s gasp of amazement made her glance at the stallholder.
The old woman stood behind her table, a coil of fine wire before her, her hands held out, gnarled fingers waving over the metal.
One end of the gold wire had risen into the air and was twisting and turning like a blind worm. It twisted and coiled, turning back on itself, in and out, knotting and twining until a tiny golden lotus flower stood before them, its circlet of pointed petals supported by a stem of braided gold.
“For you, Mistress!” The old woman snipped the flower stem from the remaining coil of wire and held the trinket out to Betaan, who cupped it in her hands greedily. Even more quickly, a second flower rose from the table and was handed to Mer.
“And for you,” said the old woman, looking into Storm’s eyes. “Something a bit different.” The goldsmith’s fingers fluttered like the wings of a humming bird, quicker and quicker, as she wove a spell over the last coil of wire. A shape formed, but not that of a flower. An animal stood on the table – a tiny gold monkey with long arms and tufted ears.
“A cling-monkey!” cried Mer. “How clever.”
The old woman held the figure out to Storm, who looked at it warily.
“Are you a Fire-witch?” Storm asked.
“Never!” The old woman chuckled. “I am child of the Tortoise. Come, let me embrace you, for you remind me of my long-dead daughter.”
Still nervous, Storm bent her head towards the old woman. But instead of kissing Storm’s cheek, the old woman whispered in her ear: “You are wise to fear the children of Fire! Look for the old man with the monkey. He will help you. Fare you well, Weather-witch, and beware the Salamander’s child!” She placed the golden monkey in Storm’s hand, then stepped back into her stall and sat on her stool. The show was over.
Talon’s daughter turned to the nearest guard. “Pay the woman! She has entertained us well.”
The female guard strode to the stallholder and took out a wallet. Storm stowed the old woman’s gift carefully in her waist pouch before her companions caught her once more by the hands and pulled her along the streets of B
ellum Town.
Like the twisting strands of her wrist cuff, side streets led off the central square to smaller ones packed with market stalls, hawkers, jugglers, musicians. Storm’s ears were battered with the cries of sellers vying for attention; buyers haggling; minstrels singing and dancing; jugglers crying at the passing crowd to stop, watch, part with a piece of silver. Several times Storm spotted ragged figures being pursued by the crowd to the call of “Thief!”
Stealing was almost unknown on Yanlin. But then, so was insulting the venerable. Her fingers pressed against her waist pouch, feeling for the wire monkey. Why had the old woman warned her to beware the Salamander’s child? A Fire-witch, replied her mind-voice. It can be no other. She pushed the thought away. Worrying would not help. She must simply be careful. Very careful. And find an old man with a monkey!
“Is there much thieving here?” Storm asked her companions, after yet another hue and cry rose above the market sounds, and she spotted a thin, grubby-looking girl of eight or nine struggling in the grasp of a stallholder.
“No more than normal.” Mer shrugged.
“What will happen to that child?”
Betaan ignored the question. “Another witch!” she cried, pointing. “I’ve never known so many in town at once. Let’s go and watch.” She marched towards a clump of loitering shoppers. The cheers and laughter stopped as the guards pushed through the crowd. Storm’s face grew hot with embarrassment as she followed Betaan and Mer to the front.
A thin young man in a sea-green robe stood on the stone ledge surrounding a fountain. The water he had been magicking fell back into the pool with a messy splash as he stared at the guards in alarm.
Ignoring the sullen faces of the townsfolk, Betaan ordered, “Perform well, Water-witch! Today you entertain two daughters of the Pact!”
The young man gazed at them gravely. As his eyes met Storm’s, they widened, and he bent his head in a slight bow of acknowledgement. He knows who I am! Storm thought. Like the old woman. But how?
“Get on with it!” snapped Talon’s daughter.
The man straightened in surprise, his face reddening. “I am a visitor to your island and will perform with pleasure although, on my island, patience and good manners are held to be more valuable than magic.”
Talon’s daughter is spoilt! Her mind-voice was scathing.
She doesn’t know any better, Storm replied. Go away! I want to watch this. Water-magic was tricksy, like the Dolphin. She needed to concentrate.
The young man dropped his hands to his sides, lifted his head and began to sing a wordless song. The notes rippled and danced in Storm’s head. The witch drew a circle in the air. Immediately, the water in the fountain began to rotate, swirling faster and faster. He pointed to the sky, and a long, thin snake of water leapt into the sky where it circled, writhing and dripping.
The crowd cheered. The Water-witch gave an involuntary smile, full of confident joy. Storm felt a twinge of envy: she still had to force herself to trust the Dolphin. Now the young man raised both hands high in the air and fluttered his fingers. The tempo of his song increased; notes trilled from his throat. The water snake split into ten snakelets.
Watery serpents twirled and danced over the square, meeting and disengaging, pairing and parting. The witch began to whistle, a series of playful notes. The ten snakelets flowed into each other and formed… Storm gasped. It was the Dolphin itself! Lithe and sleek, the sun shimmering on its waterspun skin, the Elemental sported overhead, leaping and diving.
The crowd screamed its appreciation as the water-image swooped low, straight at Storm. She flinched. The apparition floated over her head, just out of reach. She could smell the mossy taint of the fountain, see the water swirling and shifting, contained by a magic skin. The Dolphin caught her eye and grinned. It lowered an eyelid in a slow, sly wink. Then leapt into the sky and plummeted towards the empty fountain. Water hit stone with a dull boom. The backwash drenched them all.
The crowd screamed its delight. Even Betaan and Mer were laughing and clapping. Storm saw Talon’s daughter order a guard to pay the witch. The woman tossed a handful of bright silver at the Water-witch, but the man ignored it. He stood, motionless, soaked to the skin, his eyes fastened on Storm’s face.
“Beware!” She could not possibly hear him over the noise of the crowd, yet the witch’s voice was close and clear in her ear: “There is danger for you here. The Salamander sends its most powerful agent against you. Beware the Fire-witch!”
Talon’s daughter spent the rest of the morning buying gifts for herself. Soon the guards were laden with packages: silk scarves; earrings of gold and silver; leather belts and shoes; a fighting stick of precious ebony inlaid with silver.
“I am deadly with a fighting stick!” Talon’s daughter stroked the silver inlay. “You bear my bruises many a day, do you not, Mer?”
“I used to.” The taller girl pushed her hair back from her forehead, where sweat had melted tiny furrows into the paint. “Until I learned not to fight you. Never accept a challenge from Betaan,” she advised Storm gravely. “She is quite good, but she also cheats.”
“Liar!” Betaan pretended outrage and motioned the guard to pay for the stick.
“I’m safe. I don’t fight with the stick,” Storm said. The other girls’ banter was a distraction now, not a pleasure. She couldn’t forget the Water-witch’s warning. A Fire-witch could be stalking her right now! She shivered, wishing she had been able to talk to the young man, but he had scooped up his coins and disappeared before she could approach. “I’m better with a bow and arrows,” she explained, fearing her words had seemed abrupt.
“I’ve heard you’re not bad with wind and water!” Betaan tilted her head sideways and peered at Storm with an arch smile.
Something about the smile caused a tiny flicker of irritation. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Storm held out her bangled arm. “Nor would you have given me this.” The cuff glinted in a shaft of sunlight and Storm felt suddenly ashamed. She knew these girls were befriending her because of her power, not because they liked her, but sometimes the truth was best left unsaid. She glanced about, looking for a distraction. “Oh, look there!” And hurried over to a stall selling knives.
Storm had given her father’s old knife to Nim, the Drowned One boy, in a moment of pity she knew she would regret for the rest of her life. She bowed to the stallholder, a woman of middle years, perhaps thirty. The woman bowed back, but made no greeting. Her eyes were wary. Storm was getting used to it, but she was beginning to wonder about how the rest of the inhabitants of Bellum Island felt about the Pact.
She bent over the table and forgot the teeming crowd, her impossibly elegant companions, the leathery guards watching and waiting. A knife had caught her eyes. It was similar to her father’s old knife, but far finer. The bone handle was plain but for a band of silver wrapping the hilt where the bone had been split to take the iron. But the blade of the knife – she saw at once – was the work of a master craftswoman. This blade had been forged and forged again. It had met the fire many times, and its edge was deadly and pure. Then she saw it: an image near the hilt, stamped into the hot metal as it cooled the final time – the image of a Dolphin. Storm caught her breath.
“How much?” She raised her head to find the stallholder studying her.
“You are the Weather-witch.”
It was not a question so Storm did not bother to reply beyond a quick smile. She picked up the knife almost reluctantly, fearful that it would prove less than it seemed on close inspection. The hilt fitted her hand as if made for it; the weighting of blade and hilt was perfect.
The Dolphin had taken her father from her when she was five. It had taken the rest of her life to forgive the Elemental and accept its magic. This knife held them both: the Trickster she had feared and the father she had loved.
“Please, how much?”
“You want that?” Betaan was peering over her shoulder. “It’s very plain.”
Storm
ignored the dismissive note in the other girl’s voice.
“How much?”
“No price.” The stallholder was looking at her. She did not seem to see the daughters of the Pact, did not bow or retreat into the dimness of her tent. It was as if she and Storm were alone. “For you, no price. Take it!”
“I cannot. It is work of the highest quality. You must have payment.”
“You are the Weather-witch. It bears your sign. Take it. But remember this place, this island, our people. Remember us!”
She heard Betaan draw in her breath sharply. “Where has she gone?”
The woman had melted into the darkness of her tent.
“After her!” Talon’s daughter gestured to the guards, who stood gaping, laden down and unable to give chase without dumping her purchases on the ground where they might be stolen or trampled. When a guard finally pushed the flap aside, there was no one within.
“Leave it!” Mer put a restraining hand on Betaan’s arm. “There is no harm done. We will mark the stall; the trader will doubtless return.”
Did she say “trader” or … “traitor”? Storm stared at her companions, trying to make sense of the scene. Her fist tightened around the knife’s hilt. First the other witches’ warnings, now this sign of something amiss on Bellum Island. What was going on?
“Time to return, I think.” Mer had taken charge, giving Betaan a little shake. Talon’s daughter seemed to come out of a spell. She turned to Storm, a stiff smile spreading her lips. “Mer is right. We will go home. We have enough purchases today.”
“You have, you mean!” Mer laughed. “We have bought nothing.”
“What am I to do with this?” Storm stared at the knife in her hand. She wanted it desperately.
“Leave it!” Betaan’s voice was sharp. “It is a plain, poor thing.”