The House of the Four Winds: Book One of One Dozen Daughters

by Mercedes Lackey

  “This is not what I expected,” Clarice said, lingering in front of a shop whose window display wouldn’t have been out of place in Lochrin or Vinarborg—or Heimlichstadt. The window displayed a full-rigged four-masted ship, completely made, so far as she could tell, from glistening spun and colored sugar—hull, deck, rigging, sails, and even the ocean it sailed over. In the shop’s interior, she could see rows of cabinets and display cases, just as in any other sweet shop.

  “I suppose buccaneers have a sweet tooth, too,” Dominick said. “Come on, let’s see what they have.”

  Before she could come up with a good reason why they shouldn’t, he’d taken her arm and walked into the shop. The bell over the door jingled.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. What can I get you?” The proprietor emerged from the back of the shop at the sound the bell. He wore the voluminous white apron of his profession and looked … perfectly ordinary. Clarice wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. This was a pirate haven after all. Shouldn’t it be more … dramatic?

  “Something sweet,” Dominick said. The proprietor smiled slightly at the small joke. “We’ve just made port, and my friend and I were seeing the sights. That ship in your window is certainly one of them.”

  Now the shop’s owner smiled widely. “Yes, indeed. My own work. A copy of one I did for a party at the House of the Four Winds—the original, of course, did not survive the evening. It is not for sale, I fear—but if you wish something similar? A copy of your own ship perhaps?”

  “Perhaps later,” Dominick said. “For now…”

  “Candied ginger?” the shopkeeper asked. “Or candied limes? Very popular those, and not sour at all. Rock candy, marchpane, sugarplums…”

  As he listed his wares—samples of which were on display in a small glass case on the counter—Clarice tried hard to keep her mouth from watering. Her family had always teased her about her sweet tooth, and all of it looked so good.

  “Candied ginger for me,” Dominick said. “And my friend will have a loaf of marchpane.” Clarice looked up at him, startled, and couldn’t help grinning back when Dominick winked. “At least if our money’s good here.” He drew out a gold coin—an Albionnaise double angel. It could probably buy the entire contents of the shop.

  “Well, gold spends anywhere,” the shopkeeper said. “So if you’ll give me a moment, young fellow, I’ll bring out my kit and see what she’s worth.”

  “What are you doing?” Clarice whispered as soon as the man had disappeared into the back of the shop.

  “Buying sweets,” Dominick whispered back. “I need to see what the rules are. If any.”

  A moment later the owner returned with a touchstone, a bottle of aqua fortis, and scales. “You’ll have to trust they’re honest,” he warned as he set Dominick’s coin in one of the pans. “But then,” he said, laughing, “you’d have to do that anywhere.”

  “Of course we trust you,” Clarice said mendaciously. “After all, you want us to come back.”

  “Just so, young master,” the proprietor said with a chuckle. He scraped the coin against his touchstone, then carefully added a couple of drops of aqua fortis to the golden scratch marks. The purity of the metal could be told by the color the acid left behind. The acid bubbled and foamed, but did not destroy the gold. “Ask anywhere in Dorado. They’ll tell you Peter Robinson is as honest as the day is long.”

  “Dorado?” Clarice asked. “Isn’t this the House of the Four Winds?”

  “Ah, young master, it is and it isn’t. This town, now, this is Dorado. And in a general way, this whole area of ocean is the House of the Four Winds. But if you mean to get particular, the House is up there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the mountaintop. “No doubt you’ll be seeing it soon enough, never fear.”

  Not if I can help it, Clarice thought firmly. But she had the uneasy feeling that her resolution and the reality of the situation were going to have little to do with one another.

  It took only a few minutes for Mr. Robinson to measure out their purchases and wrap them up in brown paper and string. It took slightly longer for him to make change for the purchase, and Dominick ended up with a pocketful of coins. A large pocketful.

  “Serves you right for paying for a bag of candy with a double angel,” Clarice said heartlessly as they stepped back into the street. After the dimness of the shop, the sunlight struck with the force of a blow; she reached up to tip her tricorne farther down over her eyes.

  “But now we know that we can spend what we have and have some idea of the prices”—he paused to hand Clarice her package of marchpane; she tucked it into the sleeve of her coat—“and we know that we are fine, upstanding freebooters in the eyes of the townspeople.”

  “But not, alas, in the eyes of the pirates.”

  Dominick tipped her an ironic bow.

  “How did you know I was partial to marchpane?” Clarice asked curiously.

  Dominick looked sheepish. “It is the first thing you reach for in the candy bowl. And the night we had almond custard, you ate two helpings. It is these small things, I think, that form the basis of true friendship, not the great secrets.”

  “But I would think it would be just the other way around.”

  Dominick smiled. “Why, you might tell anyone the great events of your life—a casual acquaintance, even an enemy. Or the information might be stolen from you. But matters like your favorite sweet, or how you take your tea … those are things only a friend would know. No one else would care.”

  “I suppose there is a certain wisdom in that.” I know you prefer coffee to tea, that you drink it unsweetened, that you prefer fiery flavors to mild ones—just as you bought candied ginger at the sugarbaker’s—that your favorite color is blue, that you once had a pet marmoset … “But I think it is a mark of friendship to not simply seek out the truth about someone, but to believe the best of them.”

  “To know the best,” Dominick corrected. “As I know you, my friend. You are far kinder than you want anyone to see. Far braver. And … far more reckless.” The glint in his eye belied the sobriety of his voice.

  “Reckless, am I?” Clarice demanded, swatting at him with her hat. “You’d dance a hornpipe on the mainsail yardarm if you took a notion.”

  Dominick danced backward, laughing, and Clarice pursued him, swatting at him with her hat until he threw up his hands and begged for mercy.

  “It is a formidable hat!” he cried. “A well-traveled hat! A hat that has fought off perils uncounted! Peace! Mercy!”

  “Idiot,” Clarice said fondly, settling her hat upon her head again. “Anyone would take you for our cabin boy and not our captain!”

  “Do you think so?” Dominick fell into step beside her once more. “Thus, my cunning plan of misdirection prospers,” he said cheerfully. “But on to the chandlery, where further adventure awaits! Once we find it, at least.”

  “I could help you with that—if I knew what it was.”

  Dominick laughed. “This way, I think.” He gestured at the largest building Clarice had seen here so far. “If that is not it, I don’t know what it is.”

  The building was a shopfront before and a warehouse behind, and two stories tall. What looked like the figurehead from a ship was mounted over the door: one of the heraldic spaniels from the Albion royal arms, its wings outstretched in flight. Its gilding gleamed against the gray-weathered wood.

  “But to continue your education, my fine young ’prentice, every proper established port has a chandlery. It’s a place where you can buy anything you could possibly need—or want—or use. From chisels to calico, from potatoes to pitch—and in one place.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Necessary,” Dominick corrected. “While you may dally as you like over the initial outfitting of a ship, a working ship must be reprovisioned as fast as possible, whether to keep to a schedule, or to go to the aid of another ship of the fleet. And now, we have arrived at our goal.”

  He opened the door an
d walked inside, where everything gleamed with cleaning and polishing. A wooden counter ran the length of the back wall. Behind it was a doorway leading to the warehouse—where larger items were stored in quantity—and along the walls were display cases and shelves. Clarice stopped to stare. It was as if someone had taken all the shops in every market town in all of Swansgaarde—or even all the Borogny Mountains—and somehow combined them all within one building. She could recognize less than half the items on display: a shelf full of lanterns, a wall-mounted display of saws and axes. Suspended from the high ceiling was an entire jolly boat.

  “Ahoy, the chandler!” Dominick shouted.

  “Prepare to come about!” a Caribe-accented voice responded.

  A dark-skinned man came out of the back of the shop, smiling broadly in welcome and followed by two young assistants, a man and a woman. It was a dazzling smile indeed, as his teeth were gold. She remembered something Dominick had once said to her: The sea is its own nation. Certainly that must be the nation the chandler and his children claimed as their own, for their features were not Ifriqi, not Caribe, not Iberian or Hispalidean, but all of them, and none. Perhaps more to the point, the gentleman looked far more as if he belonged in a pirate haven than Peter Robinson had, as he was missing one arm from just below the elbow, and the scar that crossed his face and had taken his right eye seemed to have been made with a large ax. Despite these cosmetic modifications, his assistants were plainly his offspring. It was odd to imagine a pirate having a family. Perhaps he was an ex-pirate. Could someone be an ex-pirate?

  “Rollo Thompson, present and ready. And whose acquaintance is it I have the pleasure of making?”

  “I am Dominick Moryet, captain of Asesino, newly arrived. And this is my first mate, Clarence Swann.”

  Clarice took her place beside Dominick.

  “Well, here’s a pretty young gentleman,” Mr. Thompson exclaimed cheerfully. “A bit of dash never hurts, when one sails upon the account, does it? A pleasure to welcome the both of you to the House of the Four Winds, and the liberty of Dorado. My boy, Randolph, and my girl, Alumeda. There’s nothing we can’t provide to those with the gold to pay for it.”

  “We need a number of items,” Dominick said. “But our most pressing need is water barrels. Sound ones, and as soon as possible.”

  Mr. Thompson gestured back toward the warehouse. “Water barrels, cannon and shot—anything from eggs to anchors. Only tell me your list, and it will be on your deck quicker’n a fat merchant can cry for quarter!” He chuckled appreciatively at his own wit.

  “Mr. Swann will return tomorrow with a full list of the supplies we need, but I wished to be certain you would be able to supply the tuns,” Dominick said.

  “We’ll have the old ones off and the new ones on in two shakes,” Mr. Thompson said. “Filling them’s your lookout, but there’s a pump just outside, and I won’t charge you for the water, seeing as you’re buying your barrels here.”

  “Done,” Dominick said, sounding relieved. They shook hands. “I admit, the thought of just heaving them over the side wasn’t one I thought would go over well. Not in a harbor.”

  “Why, bless my soul, you’d be hanging in chains in the town square not an hour later,” Mr. Thompson said blithely. “No, you bring her on in and tie up at my dock. Good deep water—the Lady wouldn’t have it any other way. You can go from deck to land dry-shod—so long as we’re in the way of business together.”

  “Speaking of business, I wonder if you will know who I should see about my cargo? It’s nothing much, but I am a sailor, not a shopkeeper. I’d as soon have it off my hands.”

  “Why, my dear Captain Moryet, Rollo Thompson prides himself on providing every service a gentleman of the trade could need. Look no further, for you’ve come to the right port o’ call! What are you carrying?” Clarice noticed a sudden crafty gleam in Mr. Thompson’s eye.

  “As Captain Moryet says, it is merely what was in the hold when Asesino … came into our possession,” Clarice said blandly. “Some wines and brandies, a few crates of tea. Spices. Beads and trinkets to trade with natives. And a good many bales of good Albionnaise wool—though I doubt you have much of a cloth trade here.”

  Mr. Thompson smiled faintly at her small joke, and Clarice was glad she’d managed to imply that Asesino was a prize ship. It would explain their lack of … whatever pirates considered suitable plunder.

  “You’d have the right of that, Mr. Swann, but Rollo Thompson knows those who do, never fear! Randolph will be pleased to value your cargo for you while he’s aboard. That way, you’ll know what tithe to pay to the House of the Four Winds. And the credit might well pay for the whole of your supplies. Have we a fair bargain?”

  Dominick was about to agree. Clarice stepped on his foot. “We’re more than willing for you to value our cargo and to take charge of it. Pay the tithe to the House on our behalf, and we will be happy to take the balance in credit, here at your fine establishment.”

  She thought Mr. Thompson did not look quite as pleased by this plan as by his original one, but Clarice was wise enough in the ways of crooked innkeepers—and surely, a ship’s chandler was an innkeeper of a sort—to know that while he would probably have given them a reasonable assessment of the worth of the cargo to avoid trouble in calculating the amount that must be paid to Dorado’s masters, all their ready coin would have gone to pay that fee, while the credit he so generously offered would somehow vanish into the cost of their supplies.

  “You’re a right clever lad,” Mr. Thompson said. “Done and done. A drink on it? ’Meda! Go and get a bottle and some tankards!”

  The young woman smiled and went to do as she was bid and, a few moments later, returned with a silver tray containing five tankards and a squat, black bottle. Dominick watched her carefully as she filled all of them and did not raise his own tankard to his lips until Mr. Thompson and both his offspring had drunk theirs down.

  When Dominick drank, Clarice followed suit. It was a dark rum, so heavily spiced that she was hard put to swallow even a mouthful without coughing.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” Dominick said, placing his tankard back on the tray. “We’ll tie up at your dock and then my crew can get to work.”

  “And so can we,” Mr. Thompson said. “Fair wind and following sea, Captain Moryet.”

  “And to you as well,” Dominick said.

  * * *

  “You are excessively cautious,” Clarice said when they were outside again and walking toward the dock just beyond the end of the chandlery. She had not missed how carefully Dominick had watched to see that the Thompsons drank before he did.

  “Thus speaks the beardless youth. Were you not listening to Mr. Robinson—and to Mr. Thompson, with his merry talk of men being hung in chains for displeasing this island’s rulers? The talisman’s enchantment may have gotten us here safely, but this island and even the waters about it are enchanted. We cannot even sail free without satisfying some authority, for the harbor chain is enchanted as well. How can anything I do prevail against an enemy I cannot see, sense, or fight?” All the tension—the fear—that had been absent from his easy manner at the chandlery was in his voice.

  “Just as you would against any other natural force,” Clarice answered calmly, ignoring the gibe about “beardless youth.” She’d never mentioned her age, but a woman dressing as a man could not help but look young. He probably thought Clarence Swann was a few weeks shy of fifteen, instead of a man’s age of eighteen. “You deal with the wind all the time, for example.”

  “I can feel the wind,” Dominick growled in frustration.

  “And you can see thaumaturgy, even if you cannot feel it.”

  “I’m not a withered professor in an ivy-covered university tower.”

  “Nor am I. But I can teach you. Here, for example. Come with me.”

  A well-traveled footpath led inland past the chandlery. Clarice had no idea where it led, but beside the path stood an enormous tree. Someone had kindly circled it
s trunk with a wooden bench. It looked like a comfortable place to linger out of the day’s glare. The two of them walked toward it.

  “Sit down, and hold out your hands, palms up.”

  Dominick sat at Clarice’s command, and she seated herself beside him.

  “Here is my pocket watch.” She placed it in his hand. “It was a gift from my father, so pray do not drop it.” In fact, she’d purchased it from a pawnshop in Kalindagrad as she had journeyed west, and it could reveal nothing about her true identity no matter how closely Dominick inspected it.

  “I won’t.” Dominick closed his fingers lightly around the smooth heft of the silver case.

  “And here”—Clarice slipped the chain over her head and placed the talisman gently in Dominick’s other hand—“is an object that we know to be magical. The watch, by the way, is not. Now. Please regard them both carefully. When I was very young, my tutor, Dr.—well, let us just say my tutor—began with an exercise very much like this one.”

  * * *

  The castle schoolroom was warm and sunny. Clarice felt a thrill of pleasure at the start of this new lesson. Normally she and her sisters took their lessons either all together (geography, mathematics, history, drawing, and languages) or entirely separately (fencing and riding, for example). But only she, Anise, and Talitha—the three oldest princesses—were to undertake this course of study just now. Clarice was twelve, and Talitha was barely ten. The others were too young.

  “Pay close attention, Your Highnesses. As you will know from reading the third book of Kings, Solomon was beloved of God and possessed of a clever mind. And in the nine hundredth year of his reign, his studies at last bore fruit. He discovered magic. And what is magic, pray tell?”

  “It is the after-echo of the Divine Word which created the world,” Princess Anise said promptly. Anise had been fascinated by thaumaturgy for as long as Clarice could remember. “And as it retains certain characteristics of its genesis, magic—or more properly, thaumaturgy—can be used to alter the created world.”