by Sarah Zettel
Guttering lanterns hung from spars. The boats had been tied together in a cluster, and Eliisa knew there would be planks stretched between them to make walking from one to the other easier. The tiny fleet was, for the time being, a tiny village huddled in the shadows and hoping the Isavaltans would not take notice of it tonight.
Finon led them to one of the boats. By the lantern light, Eliisa could see that it was painted bright green all over. That meant this was the headman’s boat. Eliisa swallowed and hoped she could remember her manners. It would not do to anger these people. They knew knives and darkness. She could vanish so easily down here. Why had she agreed to come?
Because you had no choice, she reminded herself sharply as she tried to reassemble her nerve.
Eliisa had lost the trick of the boats along with most of her blood’s tongue, so she was forced to scramble clumsily over the side, even though Finon extended his hands to help her. The boat’s deck was wide and its gear tidily stowed. Voices drifted down from the bow. Up by the galley, a pair of lanterns showed a gathering of solemn men and women, their heads together as they conferred. Finon removed his round cap and stepped forward, not seeming to notice the rocking motion of the deck. The gathering parted to reveal a young man sitting on a carved bench. Eliisa sucked in a breath. There was only one reason so young a man would be sitting when so many elders were standing. He was not a headman. He was a sorcerer.
Her heart sank within her and Eliisa tried to hang back, but it was far too late. Ilta was already pulling her forward, and Finon had raised his hand in salute to the sorcerer.
“We’ve rescued this daughter of the Holy Island from the guard,” he said, speaking slowly for Eliisa’s benefit. “With your blessing, I’ll take her to my boat for sanctuary.”
Ilta pushed Eliisa forward. The sorcerer looked young, but he could have been any age. Sorcerers lived two and three times as long as a normal man. His thick black hair swept back from his high forehead, and his black eyes glittered in the lamplight. Here was one who knew his own power. As his gaze raked her from head to foot, Eliisa also knew that his power, at least here among these people, was considerable.
“Who taught you to tie your girdle in such a fashion, Little Sister?” the sorcerer asked. He had a smooth voice. It was easier to understand him than either Finon or Ilta.
Eliisa started to shrug, but caught herself. “My mother, I suppose, Honored Brother,” she said, remembering to speak softly and keep her eyes cast down. Looking too long upon a sorcerer was bad luck, they said. They could draw your soul out through your eyes.
“Did your mother have power then?”
“No, Honored Brother.”
“Strange she should know that knot to teach you. It is a spell knot. Much in favor among the Isavaltans.”
Reflexively, Eliisa covered the knot with her hand, shrinking back as she did. “I did not know, Honored Brother. Perhaps I learned it in the scullery. I was there a long time.”
“That could very well be,” said the sorcerer. “There’s many a scrap of knowledge in such a place.” He put his hand under her chin and tilted it up so she could see he smiled at her, and Eliisa felt herself relax a little.
A moment later, she heard fabric tearing, and her girdle thudded to the deck. Pain stabbed her heart and the whole world swam in front of her eyes as the spell snapped in two, and Eliisa vanished.
Medeoan stared at the knife in the sorcerer’s hand. All around her, the Tuukosov had gone completely silent. The sorcerer stepped back, but made no move to sheathe his knife.
“Or perhaps, that knowledge has been too well remembered.”
There were no shouts, only mutters in the language she could not understand now that Eliisa had left her. Ilta, the woman who had been just barely willing to give one of her own the benefit of the doubt, raised her hand and would have brought it down against Medeoan’s face, but the sorcerer stopped her with a sharp gesture.
“Who are you?” he asked in Isavaltan.
Medeoan lifted her chin. “I thank you for saving me from the guard. I wish no quarrel, or trouble. I want only to be on my way.”
“That was not a question I asked,” said the sorcerer. He still had the knife out, and yet he also held back his countrymen with his word. “Answer me truthfully, for you know that I can have the truth at any time.”
“I am taking myself away from my husband’s home,” said Medeoan. “He wants me back. Surely you do not need to know any more than that. You do not want to be able to give answers to the guard.”
The sorcerer nodded thoughtfully. “That is a reasonable thought, especially for an Isavaltan woman. It is still, however, not what I asked.”
Then, Finon, who had been standing very still, moved over to the sorcerer. He murmured something, and the sorcerer’s eyes widened. He touched Finon’s hand and whispered back in his own language. Medeoan felt her throat tighten. An attempt to run would be useless; she would just have to bargain for time, until she was left alone and could contrive some weaving to help her escape. They were on the water; that would help with any magic of motion and uncertainty.
“Ilta,” the sorcerer said. Then he added something in his own language. Ilta’s face went grim, and she grabbed Medeoan’s elbow, with no pretense at gentleness this time.
“Come,” she barked and dragged Medeoan toward the boat’s hatch. Medeoan saw the sorcerer watching her carefully while Finon murmured in his ear.
She had no opportunity to see anything else, for Ilta was stuffing her down into the boat’s dark, fish-scented hold. At least there was somewhat more air to breathe here than there had been under the canvas. She heard Ilta moving about and then saw the spark and soft glow as a tin lantern was lit.
“Sit,” growled Ilta, stationing herself at the ladder leading to the deck. “Make any other move and I will give you reason to regret it.”
Medeoan could not make out any benches or bunks in the shadows, so she picked a small cask and sat, folding her hands on her knees. Overhead she heard the sounds of many voices, rising and falling. They were all of them stern, and angry. That much she needed no language to understand. One glance at Ilta showed that she had no intention of leaving Medeoan alone. Probably that was on orders of the sorcerer. Medeoan bridled at her confinement. There were so many things in this hold she could use to free herself, if she had the chance. There were ropes, and cloths, there was fire and there was water. Nothing would be easy, but so much could be done.
Once again, she found herself missing Avanasy. Not that she believed he would have automatically known what to do in this bizarre situation, but because she did not wish to be alone here. It was to Avanasy she had always turned when she did not want to be alone. Until Kacha had come, of course. Until Kacha had filled her heart with his lies and driven her to this. She could die here tonight, her throat slit by a crowd of peasants and dark sorcerers, and no one would ever know, and Kacha would rule Isavalta, and she would have failed her parents and her land.
Anger shifted her weight and straightened her spine. Ilta straightened up instantly in warning. Medeoan forced herself to subside. Her fingers idly smoothed down her apron. Her apron, her headscarf. Medeoan swallowed. Her headscarf with its bands of embroidery. Ilta stood in the lantern light, and Medeoan was surely lost in shadow. The embroidered threads she wore were faded, and worn, and surely some of them were loosened. Anything she could make from such threads would only be a small weaving, but if she could make herself concentrate, it might be enough.
Sighing heavily, Medeoan pulled off her scarf and ran her hand through her hair.
Ilta made no move. Above her the voices continued on, now louder, now softer, debating her fate.
“I truly do not mean you any harm,” said Medeoan, drawing the scarf through her fingers. “I just want to be on my way.”
Ilta only glared at her. Under her searching thumb, Medeoan found the crinkled end of a knot that had come loose. Overhead, someone pounded the deck to emphasize their point.
“I have no family who would pay for my return.” Medeoan plucked the thread. It came blessedly loose from the fabric. She plucked at it again, and a little more unraveled from the patterns woven to keep Eliisa safe.
“You think we are bandits then?” sneered Ilta. “You think we have no pride? That shame is for your people, not mine.”
“Then what do you want from me?” A bit more thread unraveled under her restless fingers. “I’m worth nothing, I know nothing.”
“To begin with,” said the sorcerer’s voice, “we want to know what happened to the girl whose life you used.”
The sorcerer climbed down the ladder. He was tall and, for a Tuukosov, he was slender, but that was all Medeoan could see. She crumpled her scarf in both hands.
“She was returned to the home from which she came, with enough gold to keep her in comfort for many years.”
The sorcerer looked frankly surprised. Medeoan was not sure he believed her.
“Ilta,” said the sorcerer, and added a string of words. The woman ducked her head in acquiescence, and made her way up the ladder while the sorcerer strode forward.
“Now, then,” he said, taking a seat on another cask. “Let us not mince words you and I. You are a sorceress. No other hand wove that girdle or bound it to you.”
Medeoan said nothing. The sorcerer reached out and took the scarf from her hands. It did not take him long to find the loosened thread and hold it up for inspection.
“Finon tells me the Isavaltan soldiers are all running about like rats looking for an insane sorceress who is claiming to be the Empress Medeoan, and that she is to be brought in for high treason and sowing dissent.”
He looked down his long nose at Medeoan, who felt herself go still as stone. Was that their plan? They had her own people, her own soldiers, sworn to her until death, planning to drag her in as a madwoman to be put to the question? How dare they!
Medeoan wanted to hang her head and cry, but she did not move. Of course, how could they dare leave her free? But what had they done to hide her absence? What lie had Kacha dreamed up for this one?
“You do not act like one who has lost their wits to the moon,” said the sorcerer, toying with the loosened thread. “But, so Finon tells me, you do look like the Empress Medeoan. Who is, as chance would have it, also a sorceress, and a powerful one at that.”
Medeoan turned her face to the darkness. She was out of lies. Her disguise was broken and her own people were in search of her. How could she convince soldiers, common soldiers who had never been to court, who she was? Could she take shelter with the Lord Master? Where did his loyalties lie? All this assumed she could even find a way to leave this tiny boat.
“But how could the Empress Medeoan be here?” went on the sorcerer, winding the loose thread around his finger. “When all know she is in her confinement waiting to give birth to an heir for the glory of Eternal Isavalta.”
Medeoan’s head snapped up. Confinement! That was their lie! Who assisted them? That treacherous crowd of hens Kacha had surrounded her with? Oh, she was a fool, a fool and she almost deserved to die for what she had allowed to happen.
“So.” The thread snapped abruptly in the sorcerer’s hand. “So,” he said again, and the soft whisper was like a laugh. “They say the world moves in patterns woven on fate’s own loom, but I had not truly believed that before this moment.” He stood up, and reverenced to her. “Majesty, you must forgive me if I take some time to decide what should be done now. There are many among my people who would like to see you dead, and would be only to glad to do the deed.” He looked down at the scarf he held. “No more of spells, Majesty, please. I will not be far away, and I will feel any such workings. I have no wish to bind your hands.”
He left her then, and she heard the hatch close. She stood at once, and in the dim lantern light, began to search the hold. It was packed with casks and crates, cages and nets, but there were no portals, and no other hatch. Medeoan looked around at all the lengths of cord, and thought that the boots she heard pacing the deck must be the sorcerer’s. He had not even told her his name, damn the arrogance of him. The Tuukosov were ever arrogant. It was their nature, Father said, and why they had to be watched so closely. Yet, when Kacha’s murderous plans had come to fruition, Father had been at work negotiating with the Tuukosov nobility, such as they were, with an eye to increasing the freedom of the island. Perhaps that had been a mistake. Medeoan sat back down and rested her head in her hand. Or perhaps not. That mercy might be what now kept her alive.
A swift spell could be finished before the sorcerer came down the hatch, which was surely battened down. But a swift spell would carry little power. A powerful spell would take time. There had to be a way. Whole nets were made of single knots. There had to be a way, a way to build on small bindings, windings and entanglements. There had to be a way …
In the darkness of the hold, alone and exhausted, Medeoan fell asleep.
“Empress.” A hand shook her roughly. Medeoan started awake, instantly ashamed and afraid. The face of the man Finon looked down at her.
“Come on. Hush.” He beckoned to her and began climbing the ladder.
Medeoan gathered up her skirts to follow. “What are you …”
“Getting you out of here, Empress.” He lifted the hatch and peered into the darkness. “Come, quietly.”
Medeoan closed her mouth and followed him up the ladder, setting her boots lightly on the rungs. Out in the moonlight and the fresh wind, she could see the deck cluttered with sleeping bodies. Finon stepped nimbly between them, moving toward the bow. Medeoan followed as best she could. Fortunately, the sleepers seemed used to people walking among them, and none woke.
Finon slipped over the rail, down into a dinghy with its broad oars neatly shipped. He reached up for Medeoan and she allowed him to help her down onto the bench beside him. She knew enough to scramble out of Finon’s way so that he could grasp the oars and push off from the sorcerer’s boat, dipping one oar and then the other silently into the gentle waves, steering them deftly through the larger craft.
“I’ve seen the master of the Gull’s Wing,” Finon whispered as they pulled away from the docks. “He’s willing to take you aboard and quietly, provided you’ve money to pay. Have you money, Empress?”
Medeoan nodded.
“Good.”
Finon said nothing else. The oars clacked and splashed as he worked them, and their boat pulled past the end of the dock. Finon turned them parallel to the shore and pulled harder, heading for the berth of the Gull’s Wing.
“Why …” she began.
“Do not ask that question, Empress,” said Finon through his teeth. “You might not want the answer.”
Medeoan held her peace. She did not wish for this man to change his mind. After another moment’s silence, however, Finon said, “I have seen my cousins, my blood kin, beaten in the streets for failing to bow to the imperial flag. I have seen friends burned out of their houses under suspicion of harboring rebels.” He did not look at her, he kept his gaze on the water past her shoulder. “What will be done to us if it is found we murdered the empress of Isavalta?” He sucked on his teeth for a moment as he worked the oars in steady strokes. “Though there are those who say it would be justice.”
“Such as your sorcerer?”
Finon chuckled. “Do you really believe I could have taken you out of there with such ease without Valin Kalami’s permission?” He shook his head. “Kalami knows the reality of our place in the world. He knows that we must bow before we break.”
Medeoan was silent for a moment. Who was the Lord Master of Tuukosov? Direshk, wasn’t it? When had she last seen a letter from him? Had she ever? She had never asked the secretaries for any such thing, she was sure of that. How well did he carry out her father’s new policies?
Medeoan suppressed a laugh. Here she was, a peasant in a peasant’s boat, wondering about matters of high policy. She didn’t even know if she’d live to reach the next shore
, let alone to take her place under the imperial canopy again.
Nonetheless, she said, “I will not forget this.”
“See that you don’t, Empress.”
There was nothing she could say to that. Finon steered the boat to the end of a dock and shipped the oars again. “This is as far as I go. The Gull’s Wing has the third berth. The night watch knows to listen for your hail. They know you by the name Eliisa.”
Medeoan hesitated for a moment and then reached into her waistband, bringing out a silver coin. “Take this coin to the fortress of Dalemar,” she said. “Ask for Captain Peshek. Tell him what has passed. He will see you safe in some new position. Tell him it is my order.”
But Finon just waved the coin away. “Save your favors, Empress. But do not forget them.”
“But those others …”
“Are my people. I’ll deal with them. I just ask you remember what happened here today.” He sucked on his teeth again. “It may be one day I turn up at your high palace, and it may be I have someone with me who needs a place as badly as you needed shelter. Then I’ll take my empress’s boon, and be glad of it.”
Medeoan nodded. “Tell me your full name then, so I can remember.”
“Finon Pasi,” he replied, staring intently at her with his dark eyes. “I will hold your promise, Empress.”
Of all the things that had happened in the long, hard day, that one stung her pride. “You will not have to,” she said, drawing herself up. “For I hold it myself, and Vyshko and Vyshemir have heard me speak.”
Finon made no answer, he only bowed where he sat. Medeoan accepted the gesture with a nod. Then, she turned and clambered up the ladder to the dock, hurrying toward the ship that would take her to Hung Tse and the Heart of the World.