Stormcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Just when Evan thought she might capsize, the crew managed to douse the mains’l and the ship righted herself.

  Evan stared at his hands, working the fingers, feeling the texture of the air in his grip.

  Celestine pulled herself to a standing position, her lavender eyes wide with surprise, her face a mask of startlement. “Who knew?” she breathed. “We have another stormcaster.”

  Evan stared down at the crowd of upturned faces, his head a jumble of questions, his heart bruised by lies and betrayal. A stormcaster, was he? He’d give them a storm, then.

  Before, Evan had reached for air. This time, he reached for water. He dug a canyon beneath the Siren, building a wall of water between them as she sank out of sight. And then he let it go.

  He hadn’t anticipated the backwash. Cloud Spirit bucked and rolled, and he lost his grip on the rigging and fell, screaming, into the sea.

  3

  POLITICS IN PORT

  Evan leaned against the bollard, watching as the last of the cargo was unloaded from the New Moon and transferred to the dockside warehouse.

  New Moon was a sturdy, low-slung, single-masted craft built for the coastal trade—one that Evan could pilot with one foot, in his sleep. Each little realm along the coast had its tariffs and fees—costs that could be avoided by a pilot who knew these waters intimately. Evan did.

  It had been two years since he’d fallen into the sea off Tarvos. Two years he’d spent schooling himself while crewing for others.

  Kadar, the dock boss, strolled over, his thumbs tucked under his purple suspenders. “A good run, Faris,” he said, pulling out his pocket watch as if it counted days as well as hours. “You must’ve had the Breaker on your heels.”

  “The wind was with us several days running,” Evan said. Fair winds and following seas—the life of a stormlord mage.

  “Must be why they call you Lucky,” Kadar said. His broad smile exposed the gold slides on his teeth.

  “Lucky Faris” was the public name Evan had used since he’d left Cloud Spirit. It was a kind of personal joke. Not very funny.

  Evan had little memory of how he made it to shore after his long fall from Cloud Spirit’s foremast. It was lucky he’d hit the water instead of the deck. Lucky that they were close to shore when it happened. Lucky he’d been a strong swimmer for as long as he could remember.

  No. Lucky would be if none of this had happened. He wasn’t lucky, but he was a survivor, and so somehow he kept swimming, finding a place where the high cliffs gave way to a rocky beach. From there he’d continued south, following the coast back to Endru, where Captain Strangward had plucked him from the streets. He knew that neither Strangward nor the empress was likely to come there. The harbor wasn’t deep enough to handle blue-water ships.

  Evan had spent a year hiding in Endru, working odd jobs in the port, piloting shallow-draft vessels when he could get that work, struggling between the need to stay dead and the desire to find out his history. Dead was easy. Dead was safe. But it wasn’t enough.

  The empress had said that he carried Nazari blood. That should make him a princeling. Instead, it seemed to have made him a target. There weren’t many bloodsworn this far south, but now and then he’d see them in the taverns on the waterfront. Were they looking for him? Or had the empress moved on, assuming he was dead?

  A year ago, he’d risked returning to Tarvos, to find better work and the answers he’d craved. He’d been worried that someone might recognize him, but that wasn’t a problem. The compound where he’d lived was gone, replaced by dockside warehouses.

  Kadar and his crew had muscled into the port right after the empress destroyed it. He’d bought up all the prime real estate, rebuilt some of it, and gotten his fingers into all the local commerce. No deal was done, no crew was hired, no money came and went through the port without Kadar getting a piece of it.

  In Tarvos, people said that Captain Strangward was dead and Cloud Spirit sailed for the empress now, with Tully Samara at the helm.

  Evan’s heart twisted when he heard this. Strangward had been a tough master, but Evan had trusted the bond between them—the unspoken promise of honesty. He’d trusted the crew of Cloud Spirit—Brody and the others—and they had betrayed him. He was done with that. He would not give his trust again so readily. The problem was that not even a stormcaster could sail a blue-water ship on his own.

  During his year in Tarvos, Evan had been given a few contracts to crew on blue-water ships, but Kadar mainly assigned him to New Moon, the one ship the dock boss owned outright. Kadar had learned that with Lucky Faris aboard, cargoes got delivered and goods got smuggled in record time, which put more money in the dock boss’s pocket.

  Evan still had the share that Strangward had given him. Since arriving in Tarvos, he’d taken all the work he could get, but at this rate, given Kadar’s stingy wages, he would be old and gray before he built a stake large enough to buy the kind of ship he wanted.

  There was also his addiction to books.

  “The packages you brought ashore for me?” Evan said. “Where are they?”

  Kadar tipped his head toward the warehouse. “They’re just inside the door.”

  “Thank you.” Evan turned back toward the warehouse, but Kadar dropped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Look, Faris. I’m having a little gathering at the Windfall later on. I hope you’ll join us.”

  Kadar owned the Windfall—a combined tavern/clicket-house/company store for sailors. He liked to run a tab for his crews so that he could part them from their pay before they found somewhere else to spend it.

  “Lucky Faris” might sound like a name a gambler would use, but Evan had no intention of leaving his earnings on the tables at the Windfall, or getting deep in his cups and deeper in debt and spilling secrets that were better kept close.

  Kadar owned everything in Tarvos worth having, but he didn’t own Evan—not yet—and that grieved the dock boss.

  “Thank you,” Evan said, “but I need to get home.”

  “C’mon,” Kadar said. “Be sociable for once. Don’t you want a night out after so long at sea?”

  It’s hardly at sea, Evan thought, when I could jump off the boat and swim to shore anywhere along the way.

  Evan shook his head. “Not tonight.”

  “First round’s on me.”

  And that would be watered-down piss. Or the full package—turtled belch, empty pockets, and a knife in the back.

  No. Kadar was making too much money off his sweat right now. Plus, Kadar never did anything without an agenda of his own.

  “No, thanks. I’ve got some reading to do.”

  Kadar cocked his head. “How old are you, anyway?”

  Evan had to think about it. Had it really been two years since he’d left Strangward’s service? That would make him fifteen. “Seventeen,” he said, adding two more years for good measure.

  “Seventeen?” Kadar said. “Then you ought to be making the acquaintance of the handsome lads and ladies upstairs. Surely there’s somebody to your liking.” When Evan shook his head, Kadar’s eyes narrowed. “You might as well be a monk. You didn’t catch the wetland religion, did you?”

  “No,” Evan said, an edge to his voice now. “I’m not a monk. I’m just careful with my money.” And my heart. The last thing he needed was to get entangled with one of Kadar’s courtesans. He stuck out his hand. “Speaking of money, if you’ll pay off the last of my contract, I’ll be on my way.”

  Kadar scowled. He really, really, really hated parting with money. “Suit yourself,” he said, plunking a bag of coin into Evan’s waiting hand. His expression grew even darker when Evan proceeded to count it. And count it again. When Evan looked up and opened his mouth to speak, Kadar said, “You might’ve noticed that it’s less than what you’re used to.”

  “It’s not that it’s less than what I’m used to, it’s less than we agreed on,” Evan said, looking the boss in the eye.

  “Times are hard,” Kadar said. �
�The empress in the north is making life miserable for all of us. A man never knows if his cargo’ll get to where it’s going these days.”

  Evan wasn’t buying. “So prices of goods are up,” he said. “I travel with a full hold and I get it where it’s going on time. You should be making more money than before. I should be making more money than before.”

  “I’ve got more expenses than ever before,” Kadar said. “Everyone’s taking a pay cut.”

  “Everyone?” Evan folded his arms.

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “If you’re going to change the agreement, you should do it before I sign and not after,” Evan said. He stuck out his hand again. “Now pay me the rest.”

  Kadar eyed him for a long moment, as if debating what move to make. Evan knew he was the best pilot sailing out of Tarvos, which was why Kadar routinely put him at the helm of the New Moon. Finally, grudgingly, Kadar paid him the balance. Evan counted it again, then put it away. He was turning to go when the dock boss called after him, “Just so you know, I won’t have any work for you for a while.”

  Evan swung back around. “Is that so?” He struggled to control the storm of anger rising inside him. “Why? Are you taking the season off?”

  “New Moon’s going to be in dry dock for a while,” Kadar said. “We’re reconfiguring her belowdecks, expanding her hold, making room for more cargo.” He clapped Evan on the back. “Don’t worry, soon as she’s up and running, I’ll call on you.”

  The wind came up, setting New Moon’s rigging to flapping, sending a miniature squall line across the water in the harbor. The air thickened, picking up moisture and energy from the sea.

  No, Evan thought. The last thing I need is for people to be talking about a sailor who can make weather. He breathed in, then released the air slowly, feeling the tingle in his fingers diminish.

  “You know I’m happy to crew on any ship, in any role,” Evan said. “Rupert Fry said he’d be glad to have me back soon as—”

  “If Rupert Fry wants to hire you on permanent, then let him,” Kadar said. “I’ve got men who’ve been with me for years that I need to go to first. You’ll get your turn, just not right away.” He waved at Evan’s packages by the door. “Cheer up. You can get all those books read.”

  The dockmaster strutted away like the cock of the yard, which was exactly what he was, here in Tarvos.

  Evan knew he was being taught a lesson. It didn’t matter to the dock boss if somebody else’s cargo took a little longer to get where it was going—it wasn’t money out of his pocket. So he’d put Evan back to work when his own ship was back in business. But if Evan spent all his time crewing on New Moon, he wouldn’t have the chance to show other ship’s masters what he could do.

  He was damned by his own success.

  By now, the sun was low in the sky, burning a bloody path from the harbor mouth to the dockside as it sank into the sea. Evan scooped up his books and shoved them into his carry bag.

  The traditional path to ownership by a Desert Coast pirate was to take a ship from someone else. But he couldn’t manage that all by himself, and certainly not with New Moon.

  One thought kept surfacing, like a bloated corpse. If you want to sail the blue waters, you’ll need a crew you can trust.

  Good luck with that.

  Shouldering his carry bag, Evan walked away from the waterfront, following a roundabout path to the stable, careful not to be followed.

  Djillaba lifted his head and snorted when he heard Evan come in. The stallion was his only other indulgence, beyond books, and this one he kept secret from Kadar and his crew. Celestine might have claimed that Evan had royal blood in his veins, but Djillaba’s bloodlines were older and no doubt finer.

  “Hello, there,” he murmured, stroking the horse’s velvety nose. He eyed the bedding in the stall, checked the feed box, and examined Djillaba’s hooves and coat to make sure the stable man had kept up with his grooming. Working methodically, he draped the blanket over the stallion’s back and followed with the lightweight saddle.

  Evan didn’t have a ship—not yet—but he could have this, at least.

  For a while. But he needed work, and that was going to be hard to find in Tarvos.

  4

  AN INFESTATION OF FARMERS

  When Evan had arrived in Tarvos a year ago, horse rich and money poor, he’d taken to exploring the countryside whenever he was in port. A short ride south of town, he’d come across an abandoned farm. The cottage was in a pretty spot, next to a river fed by snowmelt from the Dragonback Mountains, and close enough to the sea to suit him. After watching it for several days and seeing no sign of activity, he’d simply moved in. It was dilapidated, falling down in places, but it kept the rain off, saved him paying swiving Kadar palace prices for a room in town, and kept him out of sight when he wasn’t crewing somewhere.

  It also gave him some space and privacy in which to practice weathermaking. Not that it had helped much. His power came and went, all but impossible to control. He was never sure how much he had on board until he used it, with unpredictable, sometimes disastrous results. He thought of what the empress had said.

  Come serve me, and I’ll teach you all about how to use your magic.

  No doubt there would be a price he was unwilling to pay.

  Once he had a stake, he’d inquired into the ownership of the property, but it led to a dead end. After the attack on the port, the few survivors had abandoned homes and businesses and moved to safer places. So he’d stayed, leaving everything pretty much as it was. It allowed him to put his money to other uses. He wasn’t a farmer. He was too restless to stay still for long ashore.

  Now, as he approached the cottage, he was surprised to see smoke curling from the chimney and light leaking from behind the shutters. Djillaba balked, calling a challenge to unseen horses. Inside the cottage, a dog began barking furiously.

  “Scummer!” Evan retreated a few hundred yards down the shore, where a rocky promontory extended nearly all the way to the water. He walked the stallion around to the other side and hid him out of sight. Then he walked back on foot, his knife in his hand, while possibilities slid through his mind. Had the owners returned? Or were the intruders squatters like him? Was it an ambush? Had the empress’s bloodsworn somehow found him? If so, why would they advertise their presence by building a fire? Then again, he’d been gone for months. It would be easy to lower your guard after so long a time.

  What if Kadar had found out about the farm? What if he had confiscated it in Evan’s absence, meaning to force him into renting a room in town? Kadar was accustomed to taking whatever he wanted in and around the port of Tarvos. Was this just one more lesson he had to teach him?

  In this situation, the gift of weathermaking seemed a poor weapon unless the newcomers were afraid of a little rain pouring in through the many holes in the roof. Though, given his limited skills, he might just blow the whole place down.

  Blessedly, by now the dog had quit barking. Evan circled around the rear of the house, heading for the barn. As he got closer, he stopped in his tracks, gaping. In the months that he’d been gone, the holes in the cottage roof had been repaired, the broken roof tiles replaced, and the mud-brick walls had been replastered. The tumbledown fencing around the paddock had been straightened and lashed to new posts. The ground inside the fence had been beaten down by hooves and was now littered with the leavings of horses. So whoever was living there had been there for a while.

  Someone had even diverted part of the river into an ingenious millrace that drove a waterwheel before it drained into a stock pond. It was hard to imagine Kadar going to all this trouble for a tenant. Unless the tenant had done it on his own.

  At the barn door, Evan stood, listening, hearing nothing but the sounds sleepy animals make. After one more look back at the house, he slipped inside, to be met by the scents of hay, manure, and fresh-sawn wood. The newcomers had been busy in here, as well. To the left, there were three stalls now, inst
ead of two, and he could see that the tack room wall had been repaired. Djillaba’s stall was occupied by a sturdy pony, and another stall by a dun-colored wetland gelding. To the right of the door, the squatters had built a large pen and two smaller ones. From the larger pen, he heard a bleating sound. Goats?

  It appeared that he was dealing with an infestation of farmers. Or engineers.

  Moving was a job he didn’t need, but he’d have to find another bolt-hole. He had no legal claim to the cottage, after all, and spent little time there. These tenants had done more work on the place in a matter of months than he’d done in a year.

  He couldn’t simply walk away, not yet. His savings, including his shares from his last voyage with Strangward, were hidden in a niche behind the fireplace in the cottage. He’d left his growing collection of books on the shelves to either side.

  If Kadar was responsible for this, Evan would find a way to make him pay. Anger and frustration rose in him like a full-moon tide, and lightning flickered around his fingertips. Not a good thing inside a barn filled with hay.

  “If you set this place on fire, I’ll kill you,” someone behind him said in a cold, flat voice that raised gooseflesh on the back of Evan’s neck.

  He spun around. The boy was tall—taller than Evan—and, though he was slender, he looked to be all muscle. His sun-streaked brown hair was mussed, like he’d just climbed out of bed. He still wore his linen sleep shirt, but he’d pulled on breeches underneath, and fastened a sword belt over top.

  Though he couldn’t have been much older than Evan, he carried himself like someone who’d been shaped by a lifetime of discipline—chin up, shoulders back. His left hand gripped a pendant that hung from a chain around his neck, his right rested on the hilt of a wicked-looking sword. Light leaked from between his fingers as the pendant reacted to his touch.

  He looked like neither a farmer nor an engineer, nor anyone from Kadar’s crew. He was a soldier, and he was gilded with magic—not the purple bruise worn by the empress’s crew, but a clear blue-white blaze much like Evan’s own. Like the empress’s.