Rowan glanced at Tyson and found him watching Bel with controlled amusement. He so carefully kept his gaze steady that it was obvious that he was avoiding looking at the correct box. Rowan guessed from the stance of his body that it was one of a pair off to the right.
Bel’s finger contacted the chest in question. She held the pose a moment, then slapped the box disdainfully with her palm. She turned to the others.
One in the center was unadorned, but bound about with iron chains and padlocks. It was perched rather sloppily across two others. Bel stepped up more confidently and rapped it with her knuckles. “Ha!” Nothing remarkable happened, but the action caused the chest to rock back slightly, then forward. Bel took a step back, caught her bare heel on an uneven plank, and threw out her right arm for balance. The back of her hand brushed one of the chests on the right.
With a very unwarriorlike squeak she yanked the hand back violently. The sudden change of motion caused her stance to unbalance completely, and she landed on the deck, narrowly missing a small puddle. She pressed the hand against her body with her left arm. “It bit me!”
Tyson laughed without mockery and strode over to the chest. He stepped into a space behind it and, keeping his eyes on Bel and Rowan, laid his hand flat upon its lid, fingers spread.
The women watched a moment. He showed no sign of discomfort. Rowan gave Bel a hand up, and they approached.
The chest was about half as long as Rowan was tall and would have come to her knee if stood on the deck; it was standing on a wooden framework that raised it as high as Tyson’s waist. It was covered with intricately tooled leather decorated with a swirling meshlike pattern of worked-in copper. Some of the copper lines came together to consolidate into clearly marked but unreadable runes and symbols. The whole chest was strapped about loosely by plain leather bands with loops on the side, and the wooden stand was padded with leather.
Bel studied Tyson, then touched the surface with one cautious finger. She snapped it back instantly, shaking it as if from a bee sting. Rowan thought that at the moment of contact there had been a brief, faint noise, like an insect buzz, and a thin odor that disappeared immediately.
Rowan stepped up, seeing amusement and challenge in Tyson’s eyes. She carefully laid her own hand next to his. The leather felt rich, the copper discernibly cool. Automatically she ran her hand across the lid, part of her appreciating the workmanship. She turned to Bel, speechless.
Tyson tilted his head. “Try to touch Rowan.”
Both threw him glances of surprise and suspicion. Unable to resist the opportunity to learn, Rowan reached out with her left hand. With vast reluctance, then forced bravery, Bel put her hand in Rowan’s.
Quickly they pulled away from each other, Bel cursing. This time Rowan had felt it, but not from the box. It had passed between Bel’s hand and hers, not painful, but strong and unpleasant— an eerie stinging vibration.
Rowan was suddenly reminded of the feeling one got from gripping a mainsail sheet under a stiff wind: how the wrist-thick rope would be rigid as iron, yet pass into one’s hand the massive tension of the fight between wind and canvas, between sea and wood. The ship was a live thing, and holding that rope was like holding a tensed muscle.
The magic of the chest’s guard-spell was sharper, violent but somehow similar. Something living had seemed to pass between the hands. Rowan had been like that rigid rope: whatever it was had passed into and through her to reach Bel. Appalled, she stepped back from the box.
There was no apparent reason for the sensations. The power was near-silent and invisible. For a moment her thoughts swirled, automatically sifting, searching for any information that might connect to give hints or theories about the effect. But when her mind came to rest, the only possibilities that remained involved spirits and spells.
Bel was delighted. “How did you load it on the ship?”
Tyson indicated the leather straps and loops. “We had to slip wooden poles into these, then carry it by the poles.”
“It’s not a bad spell. But even though I didn’t know which chest had the spell, I knew that one of them must. For a real test, we ought to try someone totally in ignorance.”
Rowan doubted that would make any difference. Although she was immune, after a fashion, she had felt something real. She was certain she would have felt nothing, if it had been at all possible to do so.
And what was her attitude now? She introspected and found that she still possessed no solid opinion. That surprised her, until she realized that she still had not enough facts to come to a conclusion. But, with the facts and new experience she did have—all the tentative ideas and half-formed theories had re-formed on the opposite side of the issue, pointing to exactly opposite possibilities. She felt a mild internal vertigo.
Tyson stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Wait, now.” He stepped into the main passage and looked down it both ways. Something caught his attention. He called down the passage. “You! Yes, you, come here a moment, you’ll do. Come on!” Reeder’s boy rounded the corner hesitantly, his face full of apprehension.
Tyson went back to the chest and beckoned to the boy. He patted the lid. “Put your hand on this, boy.”
The lad froze. His gaze flickered among them, from Rowan to Bel, to the chest, to Tyson. His eyes widened. He glanced at the exit, then back to the chest. He clearly had no idea what was planned and just as clearly knew that it meant nothing pleasant for him. He seemed unsure whether to attempt an escape, or to obey the order of the navigator, who was, after all, a very large man. His turmoil immobilized him. He paled. He began to pant.
The three watched his performance; then Rowan laughed despite herself. The others joined in, and Bel clapped him on the back. “Go on, boy.” He fled.
Bel turned to Rowan. “What do you think, now?”
“I think . . .” Rowan reviewed her thoughts again. “I think that there is a great deal that wizards know, that I don’t.”
When they reached the open air again, night had fallen. A jumble of clouds in the west were still faintly underlit by the departed sun, and were crowding toward the zenith. No land was visible, but with a glance toward the Eastern Guidestar, Rowan offhandedly located herself in her world with perfect precision. She automatically noted the westward progress they had made since morning.
When she looked at Tyson, he was doing the same, although she suspected that his accuracy would be less than hers. Then he scanned the horizons. “Wind’ll come up before dawn. Rain, as well.” She nodded.
Bel sighed. “The crew will be crowded tonight. Well, we’ll be warm and dry, at least.”
“Overhead leak somewhere down there,” Tyson commented. “I hope you’re not under it.”
“Damn.”
He spoke to Rowan. “Lady, does this upset your theories?”
“I had no theories. Only the possibilities of some theories. There are still possibilities, just somewhat different ones.”
The three stood by the rail for an hour, watching the progress of the clouds and enjoying inconsequential conversation. Presently the first mate scurried down into the aft cabin and emerged with Morgan in tow. The captain viewed the scene, then issued orders to adjust the sail positions, watching with affected disinterest as he slowly paced the poop deck.
Eventually Bel decided it was time to turn in and made a few good-natured insults about the cook’s particularity for early hours and promptness in assistants.
Rowan and Tyson remained, talking idly and companionably. Presently Tyson put forth an invitation, which Rowan considered carefully, then declined. Uninsulted, Tyson stayed with her for another hour; then he wished her good night and retired.
Rowan wandered the deck alone for a while, enjoying the feeling of the deck as it shifted beneath her feet, the subtle changes of wind strength and direction. Eventually her mood shifted a bit, and she found herself regretting her refusal of Tyson’s suggestion. This she remedied by knocking softly at his cabin door at midnight.
In the
morning Reeder’s boy was found dead, lying blue-faced in a puddle of water next to the wizard’s chest.
7
Stupid,” Morgan pronounced, shifting through the papers on his worktable. “Foolish. Stupid. He was looking for trouble, or he was too stupid to know when he’d found it. Damn!” He slammed down a fistful of notes and receipts. “Why bother a wizard’s chest? There was a warning spell on it; he must have noticed it.”
Rowan sat in a low chair across the cabin, legs stretched out in front of her. “It wasn’t particularly unpleasant. It can’t have killed him.”
“No, of course not.” He pointed a finger at her. “He tried to open it. He ignored the guard-spell and met the protecting spell. I can’t be held responsible for the idiocy of a boy.”
Her face was impassive. “He was curious. Intrigued.” To herself she added: Challenged.
Morgan grunted noncommittally. Shifting his papers into apparently arbitrary piles, he calmed visibly. “Have you gone over the charts with Tyson?”
“Yes.” The hiss of rain overhead grew louder. Someone walked on the deck above, steps slow and heavy.
“Were there many corrections?”
She shook her head. The steps above paused, apparently at the taffrail. “There was nothing incorrect on them, but you’ll find quite a few additions. Some areas where not much was known before.”
There was a creak as the person above shifted. Morgan nodded. “Good. I’d like to review them with you. Where’s Tyson, do you know?”
“On deck.”
“In this? Have someone find him. And bring the charts.” He caught himself. “Pardon me, lady. I’ll get them.”
Rowan rose. “No, Captain, I’ll go. Excuse me, please.” She exited, closing the door on his surprised expression. Wrapping her cloak around her, she climbed the short companionway to the deck.
The wind was strong but not storming. Rain fell in a solid pour, weighing down like a hand on Rowan’s head and shoulders. The deck was near-deserted. Through the shifting gray she could faintly make out the back of the helmsman, not far from her, placidly manning the wheel. She turned and went up the steps to the raised poop.
As she came to the top, the wind caught her borrowed cloak and whipped it about like a loose sail. She grabbed at the folds and pulled it close. Its protection closed about her like the walls of a room, water running off her hood in streams before her face. She had to move her whole body to direct the hood opening. She saw a lone gray-cloaked figure motionless at the taffrail, looking off astern, and she moved toward it.
She spoke, but the noise of water covered her voice. She touched his shoulder; he seemed not to notice. Using both hands, she turned him to face her.
It was Reeder. His face was pale with cold, slick with rain. Sparse hair lay wet against his forehead, like lines drawn in ink. He looked at her expressionlessly, eyes blank and bright. His eyes were a beautiful pale green color; she had never noticed that before.
Startled, she stepped back. She made to speak, but he turned away.
Rowan left him and searched every part of the deck for Tyson. The downpour limited her vision to the length of her reach, so that her scope was small, her search detailed. She began from the poop deck, where she left Reeder, and worked forward, and so at last found him up by the bowsprit.
He stood far forward at the angle in the railing. Where the rest of the ship was only dreary, here the violence of the elements showed itself. The seas were not very high, but the ship moved heavily, and the bow smashed each crest, with a noise like the absent thunder.
Tyson faced the seas. Each time the bow met a wave, the impact sent a stinging sheet of spray over the rail; he did not flinch, but only blinked against the water. His cloak was soaked through, and he wore his hood down. He was as wet as if he had been underwater. Rowan guessed he had been there since dawn.
She called out to him, but the hiss of rain, the whistle and rattle of rigging, and the jarring crash of waves covered her voice. She moved closer and shouted.
Some sound, if not words, reached him. He turned and she saw him recognize her—recognize and withdraw, his face a closed door.
A dash of spray slapped across his back and into Rowan’s face. She winced and wiped her eyes with her fingers. When she could see, his expression had changed, and he seemed surprised, as though he had thought himself alone despite her presence. It was the cold water on her own face, his realization of her pain and discomfort, that brought him back.
He grabbed her arm, put his face close, and shouted. The words came faintly. “Get out of the weather!” Beads of water hung in his beard like crystals. The cold he had absorbed drew the heat away from her face, out through her hood.
She tried to explain. “The Captain,” she began, but she could not make her voice loud enough. At last she put her hands on his arms and looked him full in the face, letting him see her utter refusal to leave him there.
Thoughts moved behind his eyes. He let her lead him away.
They went below, down to the galley. Bel was there, dealing with an immense kettle hung over the brick stove. She looked up in astonishment. “What happened to him?”
Rowan brought him into the warmth. Tyson muttered protests. “Don’t fuss, I’m all right.”
“You are soaked.” Rowan took his cloak. The shirt beneath was as wet as his face. “And frozen.” His face was white; he shivered. Bel ladled soup from the kettle into a mug and passed it to him. He wrapped his hands around it but did not drink. His eyes found the fire and rested there.
Bel watched him silently, then turned to Rowan for answers. Rowan told her about Reeder’s boy, and Bel listened, eyes wide.
“People should be careful with magic,” the Outskirter said. “He ignored the warning. It was a stupid thing for him to do.”
“Boys are stupid,” Tyson said bitterly. “It’s in them to be stupid, and to do stupid things. That’s how they learn. Adults should know better.”
“It’s not your fault.” Rowan put a hand on his shoulder and studied his face. “He was down there already. He was looking for mischief. It’s horrible, but he found it himself.”
He turned to her. “He would have left it alone, after the guard-spell warned him. But he saw us. And I—I dared him.”
She had no answer. It was true.
“Perhaps he thought he’d be immune,” Bel said. “Perhaps he fancied himself a sailor.” The idea set off in Tyson some chain of thought that forced his eyes closed in pain.
The room was thick with dampness and cooking scents. The air was dark and close. The fire painted their faces with warm light.
Rowan remembered such a light, such air, such faces.
She had been a very young girl, perhaps five years old. The harvest was in, and it was very late at night. There was still much to do, and the family had brought their work by the firelight.
Her mother and father were husking fist-sized ears of maize. A morning rain had soaked the ears, and they gave off a visible steam in the heat. Her aunt, a narrow, fragile-looking woman, was sorting beans, and her uncle sat close to the firelight, squinting as he carefully repaired a wicker basket.
Young Rowan was shelling peas, very bored. She absently counted the number of peas in each pod, wondering if they would go past ten. Ten was all she knew.
The adults’ conversation seemed not to pertain to her, and she accepted it as a dull background to a dull job. Presently there was a lull, and her aunt began to sing a little song in a high thin voice. Rowan became more interested and stopped counting to listen.
The song was about a bird. Rowan liked that, as she was fond of birds, and there were so few around. The bird, a swallow, flew alone in an empty sky. In the morning it came close to earth and flew very fast, skimming the fields. Later it began to rain, and the swallow passed a barn. Looking inside, it saw that all the animals were in their stalls, warm and safe. At night, it flew high above an empty castle and looked down on the towers, circling around. At last it found a
nest and slept, while the mysterious moon crossed the skies. Rowan thought it was a fine song.
But when it was finished she happened to look over at her uncle and saw that he was silently crying. He had stopped his work and closed his eyes. Tears ran down his weathered cheeks.
Rowan was surprised. There was nothing to cry about. The only thing that had happened was that her aunt had sung a song. The other adults ignored her uncle. That upset Rowan; someone was unhappy, no one was paying attention, and it was not right.
Then it came to her that somehow the song was not about a bird but about sorrow. She was confused. There was nothing in the song except the bird, and what it had done. Still, she knew it was so.
Later, after she had been put to bed, she crept outside and stood alone in the back yard. With her back to the house, she could see out to the edge of the cultivated land, past the funeral groves, where the desert began. The sky above was wide and empty; she thought of a tiny bird high up in that sky, looking down on her. She tried to remember the song and sang it to herself. As she sang it, her own eyes filled with tears, although she could not see why they should.
It came to her that there were reasons behind events, reasons she did not know, and that the world contained many things that were other than what they seemed. She thought that perhaps if she could fly very high, she might see a great deal.
Rowan still knew the song and sometimes sang it to herself.
She took off the cloak she was wearing and wrapped it around Tyson’s shivering shoulders. He did not look at her, but he leaned back slightly, accepting its warmth.
With a glance toward Bel, Rowan stepped out of the galley into the passageway. She wound her way among the passages, back to Tyson’s cabin. Inside, she went into his sea chest and found a warm shirt of white wool. With that, and her arms full of his charts, she emerged to encounter a very surprised purser’s mate, his hand raised to knock. Offering no explanation, she told the man about Reeder, doubtless still at the taffrail in the rain. He hurried off, and she went back to join her friends.
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