by Liz Braswell
“Oh, there are other magics, my dear,” she said coyly. “And things besides magic when one must make do.”
Eric fumed, unable to think of a snappy retort. The dead Ibrian lay like an unspoken nightmare in the middle of their table.
“So while you’re keeping everyone’s best interests at heart,” she continued through clenched teeth, “perhaps it’s best if you stay out of my way. If I so much as suspect you’re helping the little redhead, Grimsby will be dead before the day is out. And if anything should suddenly happen to me, he is also dead. Along with a few others I have my eye on. Am I clear?”
“As seawater,” Eric said, through equally clenched teeth.
And that was how the chef found them, glaring silently at each other, when he came back in with the sorbet. He shifted from foot to foot for a full minute before fleeing back into the kitchens.
Of course her spells didn’t work on land.
Idiot.
She was a sea witch.
The cantrip she had cast over the prince remained because she had begun it in the sea, just like the one for her new body. So too the mass hypnosis she had blown across the sleeping citizens of the land like an ill fog—it had been created while she was in the ocean. Flotsam and Jetsam were transformed while they were still in the shallows. Ursula had also disguised her favorite polyps on her last trip down to the bottom of the ocean when she realized her future lay on land. She had waved a cheery goodbye to the prisoners who remained in her “garden,” selected a few to keep Triton company, cast a quick perceptual slanter on the rest, and never looked back.
Mostly she viewed her current situation as a minor inconvenience that could be handled, like all things and people. It didn’t bother her. Systems where there were prices and balances and choices were the world where she lived, and lived very nicely. It was never a question of what was fair; it was a question of how far you could push the rules.
Of course, then she had found that black-bound book from Carcosa, the one with the complicated circuex that would give her powers she could use on land. While this was still an option, it was a difficult and dangerous undertaking. Only the greatest magics could break the rules of the Dry World and the World Under the Sea.
Only the sacrifice of many, many people would be enough to propitiate the Elder Gods.
And only one very, very rare ingredient could complete the spell: blood that contained within it the might and heritage of an Old God.
Like the body she currently wore, she had kept Triton around for just such an unexpected emergency.
She played with the heavy golden chain she wore under her dress, thinking. Things were in fact getting a tiny bit out of hand in Tirulia. Although the stubborn Iase had been taken care of, his otherwise agreeable replacement wasn’t taken seriously by the king of Ibria. She was still three warships short of the fleet she had promised potential allies. The number of soldier recruits were down this week—the townspeople were growing uneasy about her military maneuvers. There was a mermaid amok in Tirulia, and Ursula’s power over Eric was effectively gone. All she had left were threats and promises.
Every piece of this mess could easily be cleared up with a bit of magic.
But things would be very different after the circuex. There would probably be a larger mess. There might not be much of Tirulia remaining afterward. And it would certainly mean an end to her current experiment with humans.
Plus she would lose Triton, whom she so loved to hold over Ariel. Actually, she loved just holding him in general: I have a king! Ursula the exiled has a king for a prisoner!
Bah. Speaking of Triton, if she was going to keep him around for much longer she would have to throw the dumb little redhead off the trail. Maybe she could kill two polyps with one hook: repair her relationship with the king of Ibria and get the King of the Sea someplace safe, far away from the ocean and meddling princesses. And maybe have some fun while I’m doing all this…
“She’sss here, Princess,” Flotsam whispered.
“Do send her in,” Ursula said, remembering to whisper at the last moment. She would wait a little longer for the big spell. Preparations had to be made, times and places—and sacrifices—prepared. In the meantime there was a country to lead into war and an empire to carve, for which she needed a voice.
A young woman stepped tentatively into the room. Yet it was obvious that this was a girl utterly unused to being tentative—or shy, or cowed. The strain on her face showed as she tried to wrest her feelings under control: excitement, eagerness, fear, a trace of anger that she felt any fear. All on a proud, beautiful countenance with clear sand-colored skin, bright brown eyes, and dark rosy lips. Put a few pounds on her, Ursula thought, and she’d be a very pretty mouthful indeed.
“Julia, is it?” she said in a kindly whisper.
“Yes, Princess.” The girl dropped an elegant, if last-minute, curtsy. Her dress was tacky, all flounces and far too many underskirts and weird pastel colors that didn’t go with her complexion. Her hair was so brushed and oiled and coiled it shone more like eelskin than anything human. She was so not noble it was painful.
But her voice…
Ah, her voice. Real potential there. Musical and lilting but with far more substance than the dumb little mermaid’s. Now that’s a voice I could work with!
“I have heard so much about you,” Ursula whispered, “…in that I have heard anything at all, which is, you understand, unusual for someone in my position. And yours.”
“Yes, My Princess,” the girl breathed, not even reacting to what was probably an insult, too anxious to hear what was next.
“I hear you like a boy,” Ursula purred, giving her a twinkly, knowing look.
Julia gasped.
Ursula tried very hard not to roll her eyes. Even if the girl’s father hadn’t told her, the sea witch would of course have guessed. Silly girls were the same wherever they lived—the Dry World or the World Under the Sea. It didn’t matter. There was always a boy. Or a girl.
“Or, should I say, a family of boys,” she went on. “Handsome, adventurous, good boys from a good family.”
“Yes, My Princess,” the girl said, eyes wide with shock. “But how—”
Ursula shushed her, tsking. “You think I don’t understand? Of course I do. I of all people. You think I don’t hear the rumors—however faint—about my lineage? ‘Where did that girl come from’ and ‘Who is her family’ and ‘Is she truly a princess?’”
Julia said nothing but began to look thoughtful.
Not stupid, Ursula thought. Sometimes that made things harder, sometimes it made things easier. Intelligent people who knew what they wanted and thought they understood the consequences were the most fun. They were also the most impatient: they saw her shiny, barbed hook, and often grabbed it voluntarily, swallowing it themselves. No force or trickery needed.
“Look at me,” Ursula said, twisting her body, showing off her jewels and the room. “No one dares says those things aloud. I know what it’s like, girl. I utterly sympathize.”
“I’m sorry?” Julia said, terrified of saying it too loudly, leaning forward. “I didn’t quite hear you….Your throat…”
Ursula closed her eyes, beating back fury. Pretended she was working up her strength.
“I can help you.”
“I-I am grateful,” Julia stammered. “Your attention and hospitality are already more than I could ever imagine. But why…? Why me?”
“But my dear, sweet child, that’s what I do! It’s what I live for. To help unfortunate mer—uh, townsfolk like yourself: poor unfortunate souls with no one else to turn to.”
Ursula could see hope and doubt fighting one another in the girl’s eyes. True, when it came to charity, Vanessa hadn’t exactly been the poster queen. Or princess.
“I would be eternally thankful for any advice or aid you would give,” Julia said softly. She was as beautiful as a medieval maiden, chaste and penitent, praying on the beach.
Ursula had seen a num
ber of those in her time.
“Of course, my dear,” Vanessa whispered. “Of course. But we must keep it our little secret for it to work properly. You need my help, I need a little help from you. Meet me at the Grey Lagoon at midnight and we will discuss matters further. Trust me, and all shall be yours. I promise.”
And so that night Ursula struck a bargain with the beautiful, desperate girl: her voice in return for a title for her father, invitations to all the right social events, some wardrobe adjustments, three days to win a noble son, etc., etc. The usual terms. Ursula would have a new voice, a new polyp in her little collection, and she would go on ruling properly, and live happily ever after in her new kingdom by the sea, if not under it.
Only…not quite.
This is what actually happened.
The Grey Lagoon was an artificial folly on the north side of the castle, fed by the tides. Originally it was protected by a cavern wall decorated with shells and fake stalactites in the fashion of Etrulian bathing grottos. Over the years it had fallen out of use and now slowly decayed into that shabby grandeur Bretlandian tourists so liked to sketch. Locals avoided the place because it had become more or less a swamp, overgrown with tall grass, clinging vines, and sharp, scrubby trees. It fairly screamed cholera and malaria. Also haunted.
So it was deserted, this weird landscape feature shielded from the castle by drippy, unhealthy trees, and most importantly: it was fed salt water by the sea.
Ursula arrived at ten to make preparations, and it was a bit of a pain because taking Flotsam and Jetsam along would have rendered the whole undertaking too obvious. That was the worst thing about the Dry World: how hard it was to lug things around. Things fell. Heavy things fell harder. Feet hurt. Sometimes after a day in the stacked-heel booties she wore it felt like knives were impaling her through her soles, like obscene torture out of some fairy tale.
She had to manhandle a smaller-than-she-liked cauldron out to the middle of the shallow water all by herself, along with all the other things necessary for the spell: ingredients and mordants that she managed to keep away from prying eyes.
Getting a little sweaty and trying to keep her tentacles under control—they burst free of their own volition upon touching the salt water—Ursula was ankle-deep in muck and agitated when Julia showed up. The girl was like a picture: her hooded, innocent-yet-arrogant face lit by the small lantern she held before her. She stepped carefully around the bracken, not wanting to snag her precious clothes on the sharp twigs.
“You came,” Ursula said, accidentally in her own voice.
The girl, already nervous, jumped at that.
“I don’t understand what we are doing, My Princess,” she admitted, trying to remain calm.
“My dear, we need to just alter a few things about you,” Vanessa said with a smile. “Not just your clothes and introductions. Fortunately, I know a little magic….”
“Magic? Like the devil?” Julia stepped back, pulling her cloak tighter.
“Not at all,” Vanessa said with a smile. “Like the kind you use to make love philters and predict who you will marry with the blow of a dandelion.”
It probably would have sounded a lot more carefree and girlish in the dumb mermaid’s voice….
Julia looked uncertain.
“Just step forward into the water,” Vanessa urged. “Not all the way, just your feet.”
“Into the water?”
“Yes, dear, like for…a baptism. Nothing more. A blessing of magic.”
Julia looked skeptical.
“And this will turn me into a princess, like you?”
“It will not turn you immediately into a princess, but remember, dear, I didn’t ‘become’ a princess until I married Eric. Everyone just went along with my insistence that I was a princess, to keep up appearances and the family line. I’m going to help you get to that point, too. Now, into the water, dear.”
“And you ask nothing in return?” Julia asked.
Ursula sighed. Clever girl. For a moment she regretted that she had neither time nor inclination to take on an apprentice, or daughter, or whatever you called a young version of what you were. Julia had flexible morals and a quick wit that was lacking in so many of the young mer the witch had often dealt with. It was a shame she had to simply eat her up and use her, rather than take her time….
“Yes, child, there is always a price. But it is not for me, it is for…the universe. You can’t get something without giving something. That would be unnatural, and against the good order of things.”
She almost couldn’t believe how easily this garbage came out of her mouth. Once she had a decent voice again, Vanessa would be unstoppable.
“What do you…I mean, the universe…want?”
“Nothing much, really…”
“My immortal soul?”
“No, no, child!” Ursula didn’t have to pretend too hard to be shocked. She was continually surprised by humans’ single-mindedness when it came to religion. “Nothing so precious. Just your voice.”
“My voice?” Julia touched her throat. Such an obvious gesture, so predictable. Once again Ursula had to work not to roll her eyes.
“Yes. But you get it back once you achieve your wishes, in three days.”
“Is three days how long I have to seduce and marry one of the lords?”
Damn, this girl catches on fast.
“Yes. And time is wasting….The…ah…clock is about to strike the quarter hour, and we must proceed before…the halfway point….”
Julia looked at Vanessa, standing in the water: the princess with the wet skirts, in the deserted lagoon filled with black flies and the smell of rot.
“I do not like the feel of this, My Princess.”
“Don’t be silly, dear girl,” Vanessa spoke softly, wheedling. “It will be no problem for you. Three days is nothing. You will come to the banquet tomorrow night and sit by me, as my special guest. They have to pay attention to you then. Lords will be falling over themselves for you.”
“But why does the universe need my voice?” Julia demanded. “What am I getting in return that you couldn’t give me for free, without magic? The invites and the dresses and the introductions?”
“Oh, all right,” Ursula swore, giving up. “The universe doesn’t need your voice. I do. I want a young pretty voice to match my young pretty body. And if you don’t pay up, you will be nothing, nothing at all, for the rest of your life. Just a stupid, worthless, want-to-be member of the nouveau riche, never quite making it into the exclusive club of nobility. So make your decision, girl. Are you going to stay Julia, the gold-digging flirt whose father builds ships with callused hands, or become Princess Julia?”
“I am going to keep my voice,” Julia said, backing away.
“Come here!” Ursula ordered, wading through the water toward her.
Julia turned and fled.
Ursula lunged.
She missed entirely, flopping forward into the fetid, murky water. Slime ran down her borrowed, beautiful hair. Tentacles scrumped and played in the mud, happy to be free for a moment.
Julia didn’t even have the decency to drop the lantern and cause a big, gothic fire on the marsh. She just ran on, the lantern bouncing and growing smaller like the glow from a fading anglerfish.
The King of the Sea remained stubbornly hidden.
So the prince continued to stubbornly look for him.
Sometimes Eric wondered if he was still under a spell or suffering dementia. If the Mad Prince was rummaging around the castle in the middle of the night and stolen hours for imaginary friends and other things he had made up.
Well, if so, it was a pleasant way to devolve into insanity.
“Prince Eric, I’m afraid it’s time for the memorial service with the families of the deceased soldiers.”
Eric was just jotting down a tune for the knickknacks and bric-a-brac that decorated the public drawing room when Grimsby caught him. The prince was especially diligent around the orchids and assorted
tropical plants in glass jars—they seemed like the perfect sneaky place to camouflage a polyped king.
“O-oh, yes. Of course. Immediately. I’ll go change,” he stuttered. “I’m just looking for…I just…misplaced…my…composition book. Again.” It was hard to lie to his old friend.
“Surely not the one you’re holding,” the old butler said dryly.
“What? This? Oh, no. This is…uh…another composition book…that I need. I’m redoing a bit for the encore performance of La Sirenetta. Fixing some things…can’t remember which page, you know? ‘Mad Prince Eric’ and all that. Maybe I’ve an early form of dementia.”
Grimsby sighed.
“Eric, you trust me with your clothes, your thoughts, your ideas, your Max….Perhaps you would be willing to trust me on other things as well.”
The prince looked at him for a long moment, weighing his old friend’s words. How much did he really know?
No, he couldn’t risk it. Vanessa had been quite clear with her threat.
“Grims, you can’t help me here. I won’t let you,” he finally said, putting a hand on the butler’s shoulder. “The best thing you can do right now is be there for me. A lot of this mess is my fault, and I don’t want anyone in the cross fire while I clean it up.”
He winced: terrible metaphor. Embarrassing for a poet. Mixed and meaningless.
“I understand, Eric. But sometimes…helping people isn’t about you at all. Or even the help. Sometimes it’s about the people who want to help.”
“Grimsby, I…” Eric wilted. He hated how this hurt his old friend. He hated how he couldn’t say what he wanted to say.
What he actually said was, “Just don’t ever find yourself alone in the castle. And don’t hang out near balconies. And don’t eat anything I don’t send to your study myself.”
“I am currently subsisting on a diet of biscuits directly from the homeland, thank you. In sealed tins. They are a tad dry but nutritionally sufficient. Here.” The butler pointedly handed him a folded piece of paper. “A receipt for the postage on a private package to be delivered to Ibria. Very expensive—I believe you stated a desire to approve all unusual expenditures above a certain amount?”