Maelstrom

by Jill Williamson

  “Would you now? Well, there ain’t much to you but skin and bones,” Randmuir said, “but I like that you escaped from those Magonian crows. Meelo, you’ve got yourself a new man. Get him a hammock. Now everyone out! I need my second sleep if I’m to maintain my charming disposition.”

  So Grayson had been passed to yet another master. Meelo turned out to be Randmuir’s son. He was a wiry man with no lips—only teeth that looked to be bared in a constant snarl, no matter what his mood, which was almost always cross. He thrashed men who were slow to obey, and one such beating was all it took for Grayson to know he never wanted a second. The sound of the man’s voice lit a fire under his feet that not even the Five Woes had done. In constant fear of Meelo’s fists, Grayson worked harder than he had in his life.

  The red shadir had stayed with him through the meeting with Randmuir, then vanished and never returned. Grayson figured it had reported back to the Magonian Chieftess. He didn’t like that the woman knew what he was and where he was. If a chance came to leave this ship, he’d take it.

  In the meantime he wondered daily over Sir Kalenek’s message from Onika. “Hold tight to your secret until you come to those twice your size.” Had Sir Kalenek gotten it wrong? Perhaps Onika had meant until Grayson had grown to twice his size. But . . . well . . . no man stood that tall.

  Pirates made their living stealing from others, and Grayson had no choice but to join in. He learned some of sailing, which Randmuir’s crew did much better than the Magonians, but more time was spent learning to fight from Meelo’s second, a grisly man named Satu. The idea of learning to use a sword thrilled Grayson, but unfortunately, even though he was as tall as the other men, he was thin and couldn’t make his long arms and legs move as quickly as he wanted to. After losing far too many matches, he was paired against Danno, a scrawny boy of twelve, who looked the age Grayson felt. The two sparred pathetically and were never allowed to join any of the raids, since Satu said they were more hindrance than help.

  Grayson didn’t mind that, and he and Danno formed a friendship. Days passed by and Grayson almost felt normal again. Randmuir attacked a ship every few days, always choosing smaller ships and always giving the crew the option to stay and sail the ship for him. Any who refused were set adrift in dinghies, tossed into the ocean to swim for it, or, if they put up a fight, killed. This had earned Randmuir a small fleet of about two dozen finships and fishing vessels. What he planned to do with his fleet, Grayson had yet to figure out.

  One sunny midday when Grayson was on watch, the Malbraid came alongside a fancy ship bearing the name Amarnath. The ships were roped together peaceably, and the sailors lowered a gangplank between the two main decks. Curious, Grayson pushed into the Veil and went down to get a closer look.

  Randmuir, Meelo, and six of their toughest men crossed over the gangplank to the Amarnath. Grayson followed, eager to find a better ship. If the ship wasn’t better, at least he could continue his work as a spy for Sir Kalenek and the king of Armania.

  A man in a blue-and-green uniform greeted the new arrivals. “Welcome to the Amarnath, Master Randmuir. If you’ll follow me, I will lead you to the dining room, where a feast has been prepared in your honor.”

  “A real feast or rations dressed to look like one, Timmons?” Randmuir asked. “Because I’ve been pillaging for two months now, and most ships don’t have any food left, let alone anything worthy of the word feast.”

  “King Barthel never goes hungry,” Timmons said. “He is a king and sorcerer, and I would never presume to understand his powers.”

  “Oh, of course not,” Randmuir said, rolling his eyes at Meelo.

  Timmons led them to a dining room, where the table was set with fancy bowls brimming with food. A servant walked around the table, filling goblets with wine. Timmons seated the pirates and invited them to enjoy the wine and appetizers while he went to announce their arrival to the king.

  Hungry as he was, Grayson couldn’t risk stealing food, so he followed Timmons, curious about this mysterious king.

  Timmons didn’t go far before he knocked on a gilded door and pushed it open. “My pardon, Your Highnesses,” he said, remaining on the threshold. “The guests have arrived. He will be expecting you.”

  Grayson slipped inside the room. A young woman in a fancy green dress stood before a full-length mirrorglass, three servants around her. One was lacing the back of her dress, another painting something on her face with a small brush, and the third kneeling and stitching the hem of her dress. The young woman was so beautiful, Grayson felt certain she must be a princess.

  “Tell the king we are coming,” said a woman, not among those Grayson could see.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Timmons pulled the door closed.

  Grayson shifted, looking for the person who had spoken. A chair came into view from behind the cluster of women. On it sat another woman, slightly older than the princess but dressed just as fine. A second princess, or perhaps a queen?

  “I don’t want to go,” the young woman said. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You will go,” said the woman in the chair. “And you will remain silent. I care not whether you eat.”

  The young woman sighed heavily. “What else would a prisoner do?”

  “Oh, Eudora, really. I wish you would stop martyring yourself. Your life is not so bad.”

  “My life would end if you would let me take it.”

  “Killing oneself is not an acceptable death for royalty. I will hear no more talk of it. I would mute you, but Father doesn’t want you to look like a prisoner to the pirates.”

  “He will have to compel me, then, for I will not lie or feign happiness or loyalty for anyone, least of all him. It is his fault Janek is dead.”

  The older woman shot to her feet, lifted her arm, and squeezed her hand into a fist. The princess gasped, grabbed her throat.

  “We have been over this, Eudora. Sâr Wilek is responsible for my son’s death. Is that clear?”

  The princess nodded.

  “Do not blame my father again.” She lowered her arm.

  The princess panted in several deep breaths.

  “You will go to dinner and play your role,” the older woman said. “The king must appear happily married and in control of his retinue. He must appear powerful enough to take the throne of the new Five Realms once land is found. And, Eudora, dearest, he must have an heir.”

  “Then he will fail,” the princess Eudora whispered, rubbing her neck. “I have told you I do not want to have a child, especially not some beastly evenroot creature that will kill me when it claws its way into the world.”

  Grayson frowned. A root child had no claws. It simply grew too big for the mother to handle. At least that’s what Jhorn had always said.

  “Finished, Your Highness.” The servant on her knees rose and tucked her needle into the apron she wore.

  The older woman walked toward the door. “Come, Eudora, let us go and see how you will displease your husband the king today.”

  Grayson followed the women back to the dining room. There a herald announced them as Queen Eudora of the Five Realms and Rosârah Laviel of Armania. Randmuir and his men stood, bowed, and the women took seats on either side of the empty throne at the table’s head. Rosârah Laviel picked up her wine goblet. Queen Eudora merely stared off into nothing.

  “Fancy me having dinner with you, Rosârah, after all this time,” Randmuir said. “How is that son of yours, anyway?”

  Rosârah Laviel flinched, eyes glittering as if Randmuir had taken something precious and destroyed it. She did not answer, but sipped her wine.

  “That well, huh?” Randmuir said. “Then I’m glad to hear it.”

  Grayson, who was standing near the door and the end of the table, heard Meelo whisper to his father, “Ask them how much longer.”

  “You were told to remain silent,” Randmuir said.

  The rosârah drained her goblet of wine, and a servant rushed forward to fill it. The door opened and the
herald announced, “His Royal Highness, King Barthel Rogedoth of the Five Realms, the Powerful, the Sorcerer.”

  Everyone stood as a man dressed all in red entered, accompanied by a swarm of shadir.

  Seeing so many shadir at once surprised Grayson, and even though the Veil hid him from human eyes, he slid back against the wall beside a guard, trying to look as though he belonged. The shadir paid him no attention, and likely wouldn’t, so long as he didn’t make eye contact with any of them.

  Then he saw the great. It stood no taller than the king as it glided along beside him. It had skin of brown mud and clothing of moss and leaves. Its fingers were thin sticks, eyes gray stones, and its hair . . . it looked like a gentle waterfall that cascaded down its back, disappearing into mist before it reached the floor.

  Grayson could not look away. He had seen this creature before but could not remember when. The great turned his way, and Grayson averted his eyes, staring through the shadir’s waist and focusing on a tray of honey tarts.

  Onika had warned of a future where shadir tried to rule kings. She had always said that Grayson might somehow prevent such a thing from taking place. He couldn’t imagine how. He had no desire to bring attention to himself. Besides, Onika had warned him not to reveal himself until he met those twice his size. While he still didn’t understand what that meant, no one here could be described that way.

  The king took his seat at the head of the table, and everyone else sat down. Servants swarmed the room, carrying platters of steaming fish and bowls of some kind of pudding.

  Grayson’s mouth watered.

  “I hope my wife and daughter have been hospitable,” the king said.

  “They spoke not a word,” Randmuir said.

  The king glared at Rosârah Laviel and then returned his attention to his guests. “Have you at least enjoyed the wine while you waited?”

  “I always enjoy wine,” Randmuir said, “but let’s not waste time with polite drivel. You want us to take the Baretam and bring you the emperor and his brother. Then you’ll fix my son’s face. Do I have that right?”

  “Once I have the emperor and his brother alive and unharmed, yes, I will do this,” the king said. “Keep in mind, Master Randmuir, creating a permanent change to someone’s appearance takes a great deal of evenroot and strength. That I’ve agreed to do this at all is a rare favor I bestow upon you.”

  “Have you learned anything from our prisoner?” Randmuir asked. “He say anything about his homeland?”

  “He says plenty,” the king said, “but I understand none of it. Not even with the aid of my shadir.”

  But couldn’t shadir speak every language? Grayson fought the urge to look at the great, wondering why the king would lie. Unless the shadir had lied to the king.

  “Have you tried drawing? A sketch of a boat and land might speak better than foreign words.”

  “We are not incompetent, Master Randmuir,” the king said. “We’ve drawn, even taken charts down to him. He simply stares like he cannot make sense of anything. Perhaps his vision is impaired or he cannot read. Or maybe he’s not the captain, and they tricked us into putting the real captain out to die with his crew.”

  “Couldn’t blame them for pulling a trick like that.” Randmuir stood. “Take me to him. I’d like to give it a go.”

  “Surely that can wait until after dinner,” the king said.

  “Look, Rogedoth, or whatever name you’re going by these days, you and me, we have a business arrangement. We’re not friends and never will be. I answer to no king, and I’ve got plenty to eat on my own boat. So don’t bother buttering me up with your fancy meal. I want three things in life. My son’s face put back to normal, land where the Omatta can live, and Sâr Wilek’s head on a pike. That’s it. Your prisoner can get me one of those things, so don’t take it personally if I’d rather spend my time with him.”

  “Very well,” the king said. “Timmons, escort these pirates to the hold, where they can speak with the prisoner. Will you be returning to dinner once you fail, Master Randmuir?”

  “I’ll let your man know,” Randmuir said, striding from the room.

  Grayson followed the pirates to the hold, where they stopped before a tiny door. As Timmons set about opening it, Randmuir muttered to Meelo.

  “Don’t know why that pompous windbag thinks he should rule the Five Realms.”

  “Because he is the only one left with a supply of evenroot,” Meelo said.

  “He’s not,” Randmuir said. “The Magonians have root too. Rogedoth is as bad as those crows, using dark magic to control everyone. My mother would have hated that I’m helping him, but the alternative is far worse.”

  Timmons opened the door, and they crowded around the entrance and looked inside. The cell was half the size of a horse’s stall and had a low ceiling. A man sat in the corner, knees pulled up to his chest. His eyes and hair were brown, but his skin was pale like Onika’s.

  “Will you look at that,” Meelo said. “Never saw skin like that before.”

  The sight thrilled Grayson. Another prophet?

  “What’s your name?” Randmuir asked him.

  The man flinched and ducked his head.

  “Nice job, Father,” Meelo said. “You scared him.”

  “It’s your face he’s scared of,” Randmuir said, crouching before the pale-skinned man. He reached out, and the man scrambled across the hay-lined stall to the other corner, raised his fists, and started to talk. Randmuir and his men stared, clueless, but Grayson understood him perfectly.

  “Don’t come any closer,” he’d said. “You attacked my ship, killed my crew, and locked me in this animal pen. What do you want from me?”

  “Well, he’s not mute,” Randmuir said. “But by that tone and the angry look on his face, I don’t think he was wishing us a happy day.”

  “What did they do to him, I wonder?” Meelo asked.

  “Who knows?” Randmuir said. “My mother could cast a spell to understand any language. Rogedoth is lying to us about not being able to communicate.”

  “Unless the man is pretending not to understand him,” Meelo said.

  “Why would he?” Randmuir asked. “He can’t enjoy being locked up.” He patted his chest. “Rand. I’m Rand.” He pointed at his son. “Meelo.” Then tapped his chest again. “Rand.” Back and forth he went. “Meelo. Rand. Meelo. Rand.” Then he pointed at the prisoner and raised his eyebrows in question.

  The man snarled.

  This went on for quite some time. Randmuir tried dozens of ways to talk and gesture to the prisoner. He withdrew a shard of charcoal from his pocket and drew pictures on the wall. This seemed to amuse the man, but when Randmuir handed him the charcoal, he dropped it in the privy bucket and laughed.

  Randmuir finally gave up and stormed back toward the stairs, his pirates following closely behind. Timmons closed and locked the door and set off after them.

  Grayson remained outside the cell until he could no longer hear the men. Then he walked through the wood door and made himself visible.

  The man jumped and yelled, “Away, you mage-gifted! Do not touch me with your magic.”

  “My magic cannot harm you,” Grayson said.

  “You walk through walls. That is great magic. Plus you speak Gallimayan yet have dark skin like the others. Go away!”

  “My magic is different than theirs,” Grayson said. “If the king knew about me, he would force me to help him. But I want to help you.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Then tell me what the king wants with me.”

  “He wants to know where your homeland is. The sea swallowed our land. We have no homes but these boats, and we are quickly running out of food and drinking water.”

  “They stole my ship, killed my crew, and want me to help them? Why should I?”

  Though Grayson hated to say it, he had to be honest. “You shouldn’t. You can’t trust these men. Their king is a fake. He is trying to steal the throne from the real king. The one called Randmui
r is a pirate.”

  “Jah, we have pirates in Gallimau. Can you let me out?”

  “The door is locked, and I don’t have the key. I’ll try to find a way, but I have to return to my ship soon or I’ll be stuck here.”

  “You don’t want to be here?” the pale man asked.

  Not with so many shadir on board, especially that great. “This ship is dangerous. My name is Grayson. What’s yours?”

  “Bahlay Nesos, captain of the Weema-ell. I named her after my wife. Was teaching our son to sail her.” He cleared his throat, which looked to Grayson like he was trying not to cry. “Are there any other prisoners like me?”

  “Not aboard this ship. The pirates sometimes leave people in the water. It could be that your son was picked up by another ship.”

  “How many ships do your people have?” Bahlay asked.

  “Hundreds, but they’re not all my people. There are five nations in the fleet. Some of them are good people. What is your home like?”

  “Gallimau is a chain of islands, much smaller than the others. They run the full length of the Land of Shards, from the northernmost tip of Lantvegard around the southern tip of the Conch.”

  More islands.

  “Is there room in the Land of Shards for more people?”

  “There are many uninhabited islands, but they are not very large. The biggest islands might welcome workers for their fields, flocks, or forests, but none will welcome a king.”

  “Several kings,” Grayson said.

  Bahlay shook his head. “They would not be welcomed.”

  “It would be a war?” Grayson asked.

  “Perhaps. I do not know the numbers of your soldiers. The mage-gifted are trained to end wars swiftly. How many mage-gifted are among your people?”

  “We don’t have any mage-gifted,” Grayson said, wondering what might happen when so many ships landed in such a place and tried to claim land for themselves.

  He feared it would not be good at all.

  “Ready a boarding party,” Randmuir told his son.

  Three days had passed since Grayson’s visit to King Barthel’s ship, where he had spoken with Bahlay the Gallimayan from the Land of Shards. Ultimately he’d been unable to free the man.