Trapped

by James Alan Gardner

  She suddenly turned to Myoko and Annah. “Do you know what it’s like to have dropped out of life? To have had a hundred chances to be special, but you avoided them all? Or just botched them up because you were a horrible coward, afraid of letting yourself change. You clutch your comfortable excuses, saying, Someday I’ll be brave, it won’t take a lot, just give me one more chance and this time I’ll grab it. But chances come and go. It would be easy to do something, but you don’t. You just don’t. Do you know what that’s like?”

  Myoko and Annah nodded. Their faces were both so sad.

  Gretchen nodded too. “So here we are. Here I am. A woman of...a woman who’s no longer young...who got her feelings hurt by some stupid young earl and found herself looking in the mirror under bright, bright light...” She turned back and gave me a small rueful smile. “I suddenly thought, maybe it’s time. This time it’s time. To see if I’m somebody or just a middle-aged slut who lies to herself about being gifted. Next thing I know, my one true friend comes along...” She held out her hand to me; I took it, feeling awkward and guilty but fond. “...and he tells me there’s a way to meet a Sorcery-Lord.”

  She gave my hand a squeeze before letting it go. “So it’s really my chance. To talk to this Dreamsinger and find out once and for all. To find my place. That’s all I want: to find my place. You three have done that already. Right? You must be happy being teachers. I know Phil is. A font of inspiration, guiding young minds and spurring them on to heights of intellectual achievement. That’s what you say, darling, and it’s wonderful. You’ve found your place. All of you.”

  If she’d looked my way at that instant, I couldn’t have met her eye. Myoko and Annah couldn’t either. But Gretchen didn’t seem to notice. She moved back and plucked the crimson gown from Myoko’s hands. “I can dress myself,” Gretchen said. There might have been tears in her eyes. “We’ll be coming into port soon. Why don’t you all go watch the landing?”

  Annah looked at me, then asked Gretchen, “Are you sure you don’t want anyone to stay?”

  “No, no, all of you, go ahead.” Gretchen tried to smile. “I can’t have you learning the deep dark secrets of how I put on my makeup.”

  Annah gave Gretchen’s shoulder a pat before stepping down from the bed and moving toward the door. Myoko reached out to do the same, stopped herself for a split-second (probably a spasm of shyness, touching a near-naked woman), then continued on to press her fingers lightly against Gretchen’s cheek. “We’ll see you when you’re ready,” Myoko said.

  Annah, Myoko, and I left quietly, almost on tiptoe. We closed the door behind us and said nothing as we climbed up on deck.

  Dainty Dinghy didn’t try to put in at the docks: we dropped anchor well out from shore. When Pelinor asked why, Zunctweed said he didn’t know the depth of the harbor—he had no detailed charts of Crystal Bay and wouldn’t trust them if he did. Our frigate drew a lot more water than fishing boats; if we wanted to avoid running aground, we had to stay out a goodly distance.

  At least, so Zunctweed claimed. Quite possibly, the rotten Patata was just being spiteful: forcing us to row in by jolly-boat rather than giving us an easier option. But none of us had enough sailing experience to know if Zunctweed was lying. Impervia and Oberon both tried their best piercing stares, but Zunctweed wouldn’t back down. Eventually, they had to yield to our captain’s nautical “expertise.”

  As the NikNiks lowered the jolly-boat over the side, I examined Crystal Bay: both the harbor and the town. This close, I could see the fishing boats were aswarm with activity. Crew members toyed with ropes or dangled over the sides to examine the hulls; others banged away with hammers or swabbed hot pitch around holes that needed to be sealed; still more mended rips in fishing nets or dabbed bright red paint on the nipples of lurid figureheads. It was a furor of spring renovation, getting boats shipshape after winter’s long languishing.

  People lifted their heads to look at the Dinghy, but did so only briefly—this was the first sunny day after thaw, and no one had time to waste. Besides, our ship was the sort used by Feliss customs agents to track down smugglers; and while Dover-on-Sea was Lake Erie’s smuggling capital, Crystal Bay surely had its own share of midnight runners. When the locals saw what they thought was a customs ship docking in their harbor, people kept their heads down and looked industrious.

  On shore, the same attitude prevailed: folks were ostentatiously busy at various jobs, mostly refurbishing the docks. Like docks everywhere, these were lined with automobile tires serving as rubbery bumpers; and it says something about OldTech times that after four centuries, you could still find plenty such tires. You didn’t even have to visit a garbage dump—go to any crumbling subdivision and beside the collapsed townhouses you’d find the rusted hulks of cars. Generations of kids would have pried off the most interesting bits, the mirrors, chrome, and hood ornaments...yet the tires would still be in place, weathered but adequate for nailing to the side of a pier.

  Beyond the tire-strung piers were the usual dockside attractions—a ship-chandler’s shop, a salting house, and half a dozen shrines to whatever saints or spirits the local sailors appeased before setting out each morning. I didn’t see a tavern, but I wasn’t surprised; these fisherfolk weren’t itinerants who hung around the waterfront, they all had houses in the main part of the village. That’s where the taverns would be: in the center of town, where you could go after supper, drink a few liters, and have only a short distance to stumble home.

  Thoughts of taverns turned my mind to the previous night—The Buxom Bull and its aftermath. With a start, I remembered that Knife-Hand Liz had headed for this same area shortly before we did. Had she landed in Crystal Bay? I looked around once more, but saw only fishing boats. Perhaps the Ring of Knives chose some other harbor for their landing (Zunctweed had admitted there were several ports that were equally good for traveling to Niagara); perhaps the Ring’s boat had been slow enough for Dinghy to pass in the night; or perhaps a fast ship owned by smugglers looked the same as an ordinary fishing jack, especially to a landlubber like me. Tzekich and Xavier might be watching us, hidden among the other ships...and all of a sudden I felt dangerously exposed.

  I turned to say something to Annah beside me...but she was already scanning nearby boats with a wary eye. So was Myoko, a few steps away. And Impervia paced back and forth along the rail, like a guard dog who expects trouble. Oberon lifted his head high, sniffing for odd smells on the breeze. Pelinor had quit asking nautical questions and was simply watching the harbor. Even the Caryatid had stopped fussing with her pet flame; she’d gone still, holding a single unlit match.

  I gazed out on peaceful boats in a peaceful port. I saw no sign of danger; but that didn’t comfort me.

  The NikNiks released the jolly-boat. It dropped the last few centimeters into the water, splashing lightly. Pelinor had already tethered a rope ladder to the railing; now he slung the ladder over the side and clambered down. The jolly-boat scarcely rocked as he stepped into it—solid and seaworthy. It could hold eight people: three pairs of rowers, plus someone in the rear to hold the tiller and an authority figure in front to shout orders (the boat swain or coxswain or whatever one calls the tinpot tyrant of such a tiny craft). The boat would admirably hold our somber band...

  ...except Oberon. He’d barely fit in the boat on his own, let alone with us sharing the space. I had no idea how he’d get to shore—though he looked like a lobster, I didn’t know if he could swim like one. Nevertheless, one thing was certain: if Gretchen came with us, Oberon would never stay behind on the ship.

  Speaking of Gretchen, she still hadn’t shown up on deck. If I wanted to be cynical, I’d say she was just avoiding the sunlight...and perhaps making everyone else wait for her. But that was the old, manipulative Gretchen; the new, vulnerable Gretchen wasn’t so easy to characterize.

  “I’d better get our hostess,” I said.

  Beside me, Annah nodded and squeezed my hand.

  “I’ve been waiting for
you,” Gretchen said.

  She stood in the cabin doorway, dressed in her crimson gown: as stylish and form-fitting as all her other clothes, cut to keep a man’s eyes glued to her body. She had a matching jacket and cape, plus dyed suede boots and a broad-rimmed sunhat, all in crimson. I wondered how long ago she’d had the outfit made—how many years she’d kept it in her closet, having it catch her eye whenever she rummaged for something to wear.

  “So you’re really a sorceress?” I asked.

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  The only light came from above us, sun shining down the companionway. The cabin behind her was dark—all lamps blown out, all shine-stones put away. Her sunhat cast shadows that hid her face.

  “Do you know,” she asked, “what kind of spells I’m good at?”

  “Besides shine-stones?”

  “Besides them. What would I specialize in, Phil? You can probably guess.”

  “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “I don’t suppose you do.” She gave a humorless laugh. “Love and beauty, darling. I specialize in love and beauty.”

  “They say there’s no such thing as a true love spell.”

  “Of course they say that.” This time her laugh was a bit more real. “It depends how choosy you are. The purest truest love may be impossible to impose artificially, but there are some truly diverting facsimiles. Ways to make a cold night hot.”

  She waited for me to speak. I refused to ask the obvious—if she’d ever cast a spell on me. Never ask a question when you don’t want to hear the answer.

  “Anyway,” she said after a moment, “there’s more to love spells than just making some pretty man pant for you. There are spells to find out if a pretty man loves you—or someone else.” She paused. “I wasn’t sleepy when the rest of you went to bed last night...so silly, silly me, I thought I’d start my renewed career as a sorceress by casting a few spells. Ones I’d avoided before.”

  She tilted her head back slightly; her eyes glimmered wetly in the shadows beneath her hat brim. “How long have you loved Annah, Phil?”

  I considered denying it. Something must have shown on my face, because Gretchen said, “Hush,” and put her hand to my lips. “Don’t you dare cast aspersions on the awesome insights of my witchcraft.”

  “Gretchen—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Just don’t. It’s not like I thought we’d grow old together. Although I have, a bit. Grown old. With you.” She forced her voice brighter. “But I’m starting a new life as a sorceress, aren’t I? It’s good not to have entanglements. Or illusions. Or—”

  I bent forward and kissed her. Her arms came up to pull me nearer; for the briefest instant, I thought she would squeeze me with all the lonely desperation of a middle-aged woman afraid to let go. But she returned the kiss with nothing but tenderness: soft and gentle...almost motherly.

  When our lips parted, she whispered, “The last kiss should always be sweet.” She reached up to her head; her crimson hat had a veil attached, thrown back all this while. Now she lowered it to cover her face...so the brightest sun could never reveal her wrinkles, her age, or her tears.

  “These things happen, darling,” she said. “They happen all the time. I of all people know that.” Then she took my arm and let me help her ascend into sunlight.

  Most of our group had already climbed down to the jolly-boat; only Myoko and Oberon were still on deck. Oberon bowed low to Gretchen. “Are you ready to go, sweet mistress?”

  “Absolutely. What a bright delightful day!” She went to the railing and waved gaily to the people below her. Pelinor waved back just as enthusiastically; Annah and the Caryatid returned the wave with more restraint, while Impervia just glared.

  “But Oberon,” Gretchen said, “there’s no room for you in the boat.”

  “Don’t worry, sweet mistress. I shall swim.”

  “You can swim? Well, of course you can, you’re a lobster.” She studied him a moment. “Do you have gills?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, mistress...but thank you for asking. I can swim quite adequately, however—I’ve done so many times in the lake near Kinnderboom Cottage. On a hot day, the experience is most refreshing.”

  “It’ll be more than refreshing today,” I told him. “The water is only a few degrees away from ice.”

  “My species is less susceptible to cold than yours,” Oberon answered. Despite his “perfect butler” demeanor, his voice had an edge of smugness—I’d never seen him wear clothes, even on the coldest days of winter. His armored carapace obviously provided abundant insulation, but I still decided to keep an eye on him as we boated to shore. Oberon was just the type to keep plugging away without complaint until he passed out from hypothermia.

  While Oberon and I were talking, Gretchen had been eyeing the rope ladder to the jolly-boat. Climbing down in her long crimson gown would be difficult enough...but before she could even try, she had to find some way up and over the rail. I could see she had no clue how to manage it—she’d led such a pampered life that when faced with the problem of climbing over a barrier slightly higher than her waist, her mind simply drew a blank. I was ready to volunteer my help, when Myoko murmured, “My treat.”

  Myoko’s hair didn’t lift a millimeter, but suddenly Gretchen soared into the air. She gave a shriek of terror. It wasn’t that Myoko was handling her roughly—I think Myoko intended this as a friendly joke, showing Gretchen she’d been accepted as “one of the gang” by subjecting her to impromptu rowdiness. But Gretchen wasn’t ready for such antics; she might be a worldly woman in the bedroom, but otherwise she’d led a sheltered existence. In genteel circles, well-bred persons did not get slung around by unseen forces: darling, it just wasn’t done.

  By the time Gretchen landed (feather-light) in the jolly-boat, her body was rigid with shock. Utterly frozen. It was an open question whether she was still breathing.

  Myoko still had a half-smile on her face...as if she realized she’d gone too far, but apologizing would make it all right. Oberon, however, was not smiling in the least. His whiskers had splayed wide like a cat with its hackles up, and his waist-pincers twitched ominously. Even more alarming, a thick smell of wood smoke poured off him—so heady it made my eyes burn.

  The only scent I’d ever smelled from Oberon was his perennial tang of vinegar. This new aroma caught me off guard, but I knew enough biology to realize it was likely a chemical signal: a pheromone communicating to others of Oberon’s kind that he was on the warpath. Something had grabbed his sweet mistress, thrown her into the air, and paralyzed her with panic. Such an insult must be avenged. The only thing preventing Oberon from snipping Myoko into fish-food was that he hadn’t figured out she was responsible.

  Any moment now, he’d realize the truth—he’d seen Myoko use her powers the previous night when she’d lifted Impervia and Pelinor onto the Dinghy. I had to divert him before he put two and two together.

  “Quick,” I said, “someone’s used sorcery on Gretchen. Maybe the Ring of Knives. We’re sitting ducks out here on the water—we have to get to shore fast. You go secure the beach.”

  He didn’t hesitate a nanosecond: Oberon might have spent his life as a butler, but deep in his genes, he was one hundred percent warrior. He’d been longing for the day he could secure a beach for his queen. With a roar he charged forward, not even breaking stride as he struck the ship’s rail; the wood snapped like tinder under his weight, and he continued in an airborne parabola till he struck the lake like thunder.

  A perfect cannonball belly-flop: the slap of his bulk on the surface splashed spray in all directions. Those in the jolly-boat got drenched head to foot with water nearly as cold as ice. Even Impervia gasped; the Caryatid sputtered curses in some language I didn’t understand, Pelinor did the same in a language I understood all too well, and Annah...Annah’s jaw dropped and her eyes opened wide but she never made a sound. As if she’d trained herself to keep silent when taken by surprise. For a long moment, she
remained unmoving, water streaming off her hair and down her dark face; then she began laughing, covering her mouth but unable to stop the giggles that bubbled between her fingers.

  The others stared dumbly for a count of three; then Gretchen began laughing too. The frigid splash must have roused her from shock...and I suppose she’d seen everyone else soaked to the bone, and felt immensely better at the sight. A bonding experience: covered in dripping wet clothes and watching lake water stream from your hems. Pelinor joined the laughter as he wrung out his doublet. The Caryatid, who’d been holding another unlit match, now made a mock-tragic show of tossing the soggy match-stick over the side of the boat. Even Impervia couldn’t help cracking a smile: it was a startling look for her but rather becoming, as she good-naturedly brushed her hand across her close-cut hair and swept water onto the boat’s decking.

  As for Oberon, he never looked back. He had to secure the beachhead: swimming slowly with powerful sweeps of his tail. His red body lumbered through blue waves dappled with sunlight...and for a moment, it was a glorious, bright, simple day in spring.

  The Caryatid took the rudder while Gretchen took the bow—just like the buxom figurehead on a fishing boat, except Gretchen was clothed and had a damp crimson veil plastered against her face. The rest of us grabbed the oars: Annah paired with me at the front, Pelinor paired with Myoko amidships, and Impervia (ever the overachiever) handled the rear oars by herself.

  Zunctweed remained aboard the Dinghy. He’d mumbled, “If I must,” when Gretchen ordered him to stay in Crystal Bay till she returned, but after that he hadn’t deigned to recognize our existence. No good-byes or salutes. As our boat pulled away from the ship, I couldn’t see Zunctweed at all. Perhaps he’d gone to his cabin to air out every vestige of Gretchen’s perfume.