by Liz Braswell
It was like her own personal prison. Or a medieval torture chamber.
The prince crouched down to get a better look at the feeble creatures. They turned to follow him with their eyes.
“All right,” he said, clearing his throat. Whatever they looked like, whatever they were, now or before, they were prisoners of an evil witch and he was a good prince. There was protocol. “I promise you, each and every one of you, I will help free you. I’m not sure how to go about doing that right now, I admit. I don’t suppose I could just put you all back…in the ocean?”
There was a flurry of slow but desperate head shakes that was sickening to watch. Some let off little clouds of what he hoped was like squid ink, darkening the water around them.
“All right, all right. Find the king, set him free, defeat the sea witch, then turn you back. Nothing until then,” Eric said with a sigh. “So which one of you is King Triton?”
The large eyes looked at him unblinkingly.
“Any of you? Raise a…flap? A fin? Anyone?” Eric asked.
The one he had first picked up shook its head dolefully and made what looked very much like a shrugging motion with its appendages.
Slowly the rest copied it, shrugging and shaking.
“Oh, boy,” Eric said with a grimace. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”
If a person had been watching, she wouldn’t have seen the obvious transformation of a human to a mermaid. She wouldn’t have been able to believe her eyes, or explain what had happened so quickly in the dusky half light of early evening. It could have been a trick of the light, a curious seal, a strangely shaped piece of driftwood; anything but what it actually was.
Ariel did a couple of rolls and then floated on her back, looking up at the mixed sky of clouds and stars. Everything was quiet. She felt her hair loosen from its braids, yearning to float free in the water as it once did. She took the comb out, and it was a trident once again in her hand—but the braids remained firmly wound.
Half in and half out, she thought, then rolled and submerged herself into the depths. It was slightly slower going this time, what with the burlap sack of apples she dragged along.
Flounder appeared surprisingly quickly; he must have had every undersea eye and electroreceptor keeping watch for her.
“Ariel! You’re back! Do you have him? Is that him—uh, in the sack?”
“No, I failed. Those are apples. But I am back, for a little while.”
Flounder bumped his head against her hand—a safe gesture because no one was around. He didn’t need the world to see that he still enjoyed being petted.
But he wasn’t young anymore, and didn’t miss the meaning below her words.
“You’re going back with the full moon, aren’t you? When the trident is back at its peak power?” he asked, full of disappointment.
“Flounder, I didn’t find him. I need to go back,” she said gently. “But I have a clear path now.”
“Clear path?” he said with a snort. “I can’t wait to hear you say that to Sebastian.”
Ariel smiled. Flounder was one of the very few people who could use that tone with her. He was dead right. Now that she could speak again, she was already using words like a trickster. Clear path. What did that even mean? She had allies, she had a goal. That was all. It wasn’t like a parrotfish had just chomped through a snarled lump of dead coral, revealing a beautiful cave of treasure beyond.
She needed a plan, a direction, in case Eric failed.
She ran a hand along the base of Flounder’s dorsal fin. “Nothing is easy. I can’t go back to the castle at all now, although Eric is looking, for me. And I assume Ursula knows I’m back, and has hidden my father someplace better.”
“All those things sound like the exact opposite of easy.”
“I know. Also, why is she keeping my father around at all? You’d think she’d at least want to use him as leverage for bargaining….Like, she would give him to me in return for our never bothering her and Tirulia again.”
“Would you take that trade?” Flounder asked curiously. “And abandon Eric?”
“Well…I think I’ve learned the hard way that there is no fair bargaining with a sea witch. Also, I wouldn’t just be abandoning Eric. I’d be leaving his kingdom to a terrible fate as well. Our worlds should never have collided, and the people of Tirulia are dealing with the results of…”—a rash decision by a lovesick mermaid—“choices I myself made years ago.”
“Fine, but,” her friend said with wry smile, “you still have to come down and check in with His Crustaceanness. And explain all of this to him, too.”
“Fine. Race you?” she asked, darting ahead.
“Hey, wait, no fair!” Flounder squealed, shaking his tail as fast as he could.
“OH, ARIEL, THANK THE THOUSAND SEAS OF THE WORLD YOU ARE BACK. IT HAS BEEN A TERRIBLE NIGHTMARE OF BUREARCRACY SINCE YOU LEFT!”
Ariel, Sebastian, and Flounder were alone in the deserted throne room. Ariel had her audience very much to herself.
She opened her mouth.
“YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE THINGS I HAVE HAD TO BEAR.” Sebastian clacked a claw against his foreshell dramatically, turning away from her. His eight walking feet clicked tinnily on the armrest of the throne.
Ariel took a breath and opened her mouth again.
“The constant fighting,” Sebastian continued, “the interminable discussion of rituals. Taxes. The stupid sharks and their stupid sea-grabs. Distributing parts for the Sevarene Rites. And no one knows where the Horn of the Hyperboreans went!”
The little crab collapsed in a heap, more like a molt than a living creature, burying his eyes under his claws.
Ariel and Flounder exchanged an exasperated look.
“Not a moment for me. Not a moment for my music. Not a moment to compose, or prepare a chorus for the Rites,” Sebastian continued feebly. He poked his eyes piteously up through the crack in his claw. “What is a musician to do?”
“Maybe stop whining and be grateful for a chance to serve his kingdom,” Ariel suggested dryly.
Sebastian’s eyes twitched in a crab version of blinking.
“ARIEL! You can TALK!”
Using quick scooting motions, Sebastian swam sideways to plant himself on her chest, pressing his face against her skin. A crab hug.
“Oh, my dear, dear girl. I am so happy for you. I want to shed!”
“Ugh. Please don’t,” Flounder said.
Ariel picked the little crab off her and held him, cupped in her hands, before her face.
“But how did this happen?” he asked, looking around. “And where is your father?”
“It’s…complicated,” Ariel said.
“Ariel!”
Attina was frozen in surprise behind them, staring at her sister. Then with a snap of her tail she was next to and around her, holding her shoulders and looking her all over, as if she would be able to see a physical reason for her change.
“Ariel! I’m so happy for you! How did you…? Where’s Daddy? Is everything back to normal now?”
“Not…precisely.” Ariel wished she could stay there, basking in her big sister’s good humor and attention. But there were truths to be told.
“Oh,” Attina said, her facing falling. “So…does this means you’re back to assume your responsibilities again? For good this time?”
Ariel thought about the twin meanings of that word: good.
“Why don’t you listen?” she suggested, making her voice lilting, not quite begging, but the sort of come on sound a younger sister would use to wheedle sense out of an older sibling. “I was just about to tell the story.”
“I’m all ears.” Attina crossed her arms and drifted away from her.
Ariel decided to ignore her sister’s tone and just leapt into the tale, starting with Jona and Scuttle’s furious attack on the guards and ending with a slightly censored and greatly abbreviated retelling of the conversation she had with Eric.
It was hard to tell that pa
rt. Her lips moved as she recounted their official discussion, but her heart wandered away from the conversation. She could still hear echoes of their duet lingering in her mind.
“Help from the human prince,” Attina drawled. “I’m so surprised.”
“All right,” Ariel said mildly. “Do you have a better idea to get our father back? Because if you do, I’m all ears.”
“Now, girls,” Sebastian said, holding up his claws. “It’s good that he’s searching the castle, but…Ariel…he’s the reason you lost your head to begin with.”
“I’m not going to lose my head again,” the queen said with a steely look. No, really. Despite the flutters her heart felt when she thought of him. “I’m older and wiser, and I have a mission. I’m not going to be distracted from rescuing my father by a human boy. Even Eric.”
“Even Eric,” Attina said with a sigh, throwing her hands up. “There are millions of ‘human boys’ up there. You’re the queen of the merfolk. Don’t you ever think about that? Are any of them worth one of you?”
For a dizzying moment Ariel saw things from her sister’s—and her father’s—perspective: countless humans swarming everywhere on the Dry World; only a tiny kingdom of mer below in the World Under the Sea. Losing a daughter to a human wasn’t just tragic on a personal level; it also meant the loss of one of the dwindling mer to the ever-growing mass of humans. Triton had already lost a wife to them—and Ariel, a mother.
“Just…forget about Eric for a moment,” she finally said. “You’ll just have to take my word that my father and my kingdom come first. That’s all I have to offer.”
“I guess,” Attina said uncomfortably. “It’s strange to hear you talking like this, now that you can talk. ‘Take my word’ and everything. Like a queen.”
“I was talking like that before I could speak again,” Ariel reminded her sharply, signing the words as she spoke. “Were you listening?”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Attina said, unsettled and chastised. “I just meant, in general. The last time you could speak—aloud—you were all…‘Guess what I found, Attina!’ And ‘Listen to this song, Attina’…and all those silly stories about what you saw or thought you saw.”
“And then I lost my father, and my voice, and the boy I loved, and then you made me queen. I guess that will change a person.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
The two sisters regarded each other silently. Ariel had no idea what was going on in Attina’s head, and that was strange. Some secret part of her hoped it was jealousy, that Attina was regretting her decision to make her littlest sister the queen, that she felt she should have taken the crown herself. Jealousy would have been simple—though sad—and easily dealt with.
Not so this quiet reassessment, this weighing and evaluating from her oldest and closest sister.
Ariel swished her tail.
I’m going to rest for a bit and then give an update to the council before I have to leave again. Sebastian, Flounder, I hope you join me. Her hands wanted to sign these things.
“I brought you these apples,” she said aloud, holding out the bag.
Attina’s eyes widened as she peeped inside.
“When did you…how did you…?”
The king’s daughter greedily grabbed one in both her hands, holding it before her face like she was afraid it would disappear.
“There’s enough for all of you. Us,” Ariel corrected quickly.
Attina shot her a look, but it softened almost immediately.
“Thanks. This is—thanks.”
“I’m going to rest for a bit and then update the Queen’s Council on what has happened before I have to leave again. Besides the usual agenda, I plan on opening discussion to possible strategies for rescuing our father, since currently I am at a bit of a loss—maybe heads older and wiser than mine can think of something. Sebastian, Flounder, please work with Klios and Threll to come up with an official announcement about the return of my voice. It’s best if everyone else learns it at the same time. Cuts down on gossip and chatter. After it has gone out, join me in the council.”
She swam away, trailed by her friends, resisting the urge to look back at her sister.
I guess that will change a person.
Something inside of her tore a little.
But there were sharks to manage and taxes to go over.
Grimsby and Carlotta sat in the butler’s private office having tea together. Carlotta was wedged in; it would have been even harder for her to fit if the door hadn’t been left open “for modesty and propriety.” Carlotta had tried not to laugh at that; the dear old Bretlandian gent was never going to change his ways, not at this age.
As chiefs of their respective staffs they often worked late together, revising lists for parties, making sure the right number of footmen were there to serve, and coordinating what they needed to order. The chef usually came as well.
But this time it was just the two of them, and instead of beer or soup or tankards of wine—what most of the lower staff drank—they were having tea. Grimsby had invited her specifically for tea, prepared the Bretland way: in a proper tiny cup, with no more than two lumps of sugar for ladies.
Carlotta sipped it as slowly as she could, since there was actually very little of the hot beverage in its adorably minuscule vessel. Not her thing, really, but as far as tea went it wasn’t bitter and even a little floral. Delicate, like the rose-patterned teacup. Funny how formal and fussy the old gent was!
But once the ceremony of pouring and serving was over, they sat in awkward silence.
“A bit…a bit surprising, isn’t it,” Grimsby eventually ventured.
“With the…” Carlotta moved her hand like a mermaid, back and forth through the water.
“Yes—precisely—”
“And the…” She waved her hand, indicating everything else.
“Yes, quite.” Grimsby leaned forward eagerly.
“Yes, it is,” Carlotta agreed.
They lapsed into silence again, falling back disappointedly into their seats.
“What do we do about it, Mr. Grimsby?” the maid finally asked.
“I really don’t have the foggiest idea. It’s not our place. I have sworn to protect and serve the royal couple; it is an oath I cannot break….”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Carlotta almost used the cup to gesture with, scattering scalding hot tea everywhere. The fine bone china weighed so little in her hand that she had almost forgotten it was there. “But I never signed on to serve an undersea hag, if that’s what, you know…”
Grimsby turned white at the term hag, as if she had mentioned something as terrible as her own unmentionables.
“No, neither did I,” he haltingly allowed. “And she’s certainly not acting like a proper princess….”
“Oh, hush on that. There’s been plenty of warrior princesses in both of our lands, Mr. Grimsby. But she’s not even acting like a proper warrior—or any sort of normal human being—because she isn’t one. She’s like a rabid dog—er, shark—biting everyone and everywhere. Mr. Grimsby, we—all of Tirulia—are in thrall to an evil supernatural being, oaths or no!”
“I think I could forgive whatever she was, if Eric truly loved her.”
Carlotta almost dropped her teacup at this heartfelt admission from the old gentleman’s gentleman. It was only shocking because the very Bretlandian Grimsby was usually as sealed up as a clam when it came to what he felt or believed.
“You’ve been with the prince a long time, haven’t you?” she said softly.
“Well…you know, our careers don’t often give one much time for things like family,” the old butler said mildly. “I care for him very deeply. Like a son.”
Carlotta looked stern. “Then we should let our hearts and souls dictate our actions, Mr. Grimsby, not contracts. There are others who can judge us, maybe, for what we swore and didn’t swear. But they aren’t on Earth, if you see what I’m saying, Mr. Grimsby.”
“I don’t like talk of mutiny
, Miss Carlotta—it’s not our place—”
“Oh, heavens forfend, Mr. Grimsby. But if you meant what you said about Eric, I believe there is another…girl…thing…whom the prince might indeed have feelings for.”
“I always thought he did, I always wished that he had…” Grimsby trailed off wistfully, thinking back to earlier times. Then he redirected his attention on the maid. “All right, then. Perhaps if you have something in mind for an…acceptably subtle and appropriate course of action that might benefit our original employer, given the circumstances, well, I might be persuaded to go along.”
“First thing we do is find all the downstairs folks we can trust and put them to work looking for the sea king. As for other ideas…I’m sure an opportunity will present itself, Mr. Grimsby,” Carlotta said, eyes twinkling over her teacup. “It is a very small castle, after all.”
In the world of operas, when a hero is searching for something, be it the identity of a woman who rescued him or the letter that will free his daughter from being unjustly imprisoned, the tenor sings heartbreakingly about his quest, wanders around on stage, picks up a few props, and looks under them. He finds the thing! Voilà. Done.
Real life was a lot more tense and a lot less satisfying.
And, unlike in opera, Eric’s search for the King of the Sea was often interrupted by real-life stuff: sudden appearances of Vanessa or her manservants, meetings, rehearsals for the opera’s end-of-summer encore, formal events he had to attend, or princely duties—such as hearing a coroner’s report on the death of the Ibrian.
(No foul play discovered, although why such a healthy youngish man had keeled over would remain a mystery for the ages. Vanessa had no trouble getting along with his replacement, who was much more amenable to collusion anyway.)
Often when interrupted Eric would forget which was the last object he had looked at and have to start a room from the beginning.
Then he hit upon a brilliant idea to keep track, inspired by his life as a musician. He would carefully mark the first thing that he looked at in a room, observing its precise placement, and the last thing he looked at before leaving—and then he would write it all down in his musical notebook. The altitude of the item was indicated by a note: high G over C, for instance, for the top shelf of a bookcase, middle C for the floor. A portion of a room was a measure of music; each room was a refrain. He filled in the details with what could very easily have been mistaken for lyrics.