The Shores of Spain

by J. Kathleen Cheney

  Chill air came off the water, so Marina wrapped her arms about herself. João climbed up the front mast, his curly hair fluttering in the wind. He tinkered with something up on the top of the mast—a lantern. Joaquim called out something from his spot at the wheel, and the ship began to turn, slowly listing to one side. Not enough to alarm her, but Marina watched as the water came closer . . . and then the ship began to right itself again, the sails fluttering as João scrambled down the mast.

  Everyone knew exactly what to do, save her.

  Presently the ship was slipping forward again on the wind, and Joaquim called for her to come back and join him. She sidled along the cabin and slipped under the sail’s boom to step down into the small spot on the deck where he stood. Aga had spread out the wet canvas, and abandoned it to head toward the front of the ship.

  Once the girl was beyond hearing, Marina said, “I didn’t know a yacht would be this small.”

  Joaquim’s eyes danced, but he held in his laughter. “This isn’t a small yacht.”

  Marina wrapped her arms about herself. “I’ve only been on steamers, and they were all bigger than this.”

  “Hmm. What kind of steamers?”

  “Oh, the ferries between the islands, and the freighter I came to Portugal on.”

  His brows drew together. “How did you get from the islands to Portugal? I know there are trading ships, but can you buy passage on one of those?”

  “I think so, but taking the ferry to Amado used almost all the money I’d saved up.” She licked her upper lip. “I went to the ships that were heading to Portugal and begged them to take me in return for work. An English ship captain took pity on me and let me work in his ship’s kitchen on the way here. It was only two weeks, but it was . . .”

  It had been almost unbearable. The work was hot, endless, and confusing, since she’d never cooked before. She’d burned her delicate hands several times and was always relieved when the time came to wash the pans and dishes. Hot water was tolerable, at least. But the cook—a stout, older woman named Mrs. Davies who could grab a pot of boiling water with her leathery brown hands without flinching—spoke Portuguese. She’d spent the entire two weeks imparting her wisdom about preparing food. She protected Marina from the blandishments of the seamen who came down to eat. And when they reached the Golden City, Mrs. Davies had even told Marina that if she didn’t find her father, she was welcome to come back to the ship to work. After all, it was illegal then for a sereia even to enter the Golden City. Marina had been thankful when she found her father quickly. Going back to that hot kitchen hadn’t been an appealing option.

  “It was?” Joaquim prompted.

  She felt her cheeks flush. “It was difficult.”

  That was the wrong thing to say, because his attention focused on her, his brow furrowed with worry. “In what way?” he asked sharply.

  She gazed up at his face, perplexed by his tone, and then understood. He’s afraid they mistreated me. After all, Oriana had been told she’d been murdered by the crew of the ship she’d been taken up by. Such things probably did happen. But not to her. “The cook was kind to me,” she reassured him, “and watched over me like a mother hen. But I never want to go near a stove again.”

  The tension in his shoulders eased. “I wish it had been easier for you. That took bravery, boarding a ship full of people you didn’t know and coming to Portugal.”

  Marina shook her head. Oriana would never have gone begging to a ship full of humans. She would have stolen a ship and sailed to Portugal herself, or done something else brave and daring. “I just asked, and they helped me.”

  “Sometimes asking for help is harder than trying to find your own way.”

  As much as she would like to believe that, she knew better. She’d always been the cowardly one, hiding behind Oriana for protection from her cousins and the other girls at school. Even this—stowing away on Joaquim’s ship—while it seemed daring, had been Ana’s idea, not hers. And it hasn’t gone well so far.

  Marina let out a sigh and turned her eyes to the sparkling water. She didn’t know what she was doing on a ship like this, unlike Aga. She was only in the way.

  “Why did it take two weeks?” he asked then. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days to reach Portugal.”

  “We went to England first, then Portugal.”

  “Ah, now I understand. Will you know when we’ve reached the edge of sereia territory?” Joaquim asked then, changing the subject. “Will you hear it first?”

  Finally an area where I know more than Aga. “Yes. I can warn you when we’re close.”

  “João and I will need to stop our ears.”

  She hoped the call wouldn’t have too much effect on Joaquim. He was hers, after all. “The navy’s not going to try to convince you to jump overboard. They just want you to sail elsewhere. To go around the islands.”

  His eyes focused inward as he calculated something. “So they’ll try to make me change course?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Then you and Aga can’t let us.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said. “And once we pass through the blockade, they’ll leave us alone.”

  At least she hoped that was true.

  CHAPTER 10

  ILHAS DAS SEREIAS

  After a luncheon of shrimp with garlic and herbs, Duilio and her grandmother discussed the implications of Joaquim’s imminent arrival. Judging by her grandmother’s expression and occasional gestures, she had doubts about Duilio’s gift. Oriana hadn’t believed in seers herself when she arrived in the Golden City, but Duilio’s talent had proven correct too many times to leave any question in her mind. And if she believed that one type of human witch existed, she had to keep an open mind about all of them. If Joaquim found the islands without help, perhaps that would convince her grandmother. Either way, a room had been set aside in the men’s hall for Joaquim, next to Costa’s empty room.

  A discussion that morning with the remaining Portuguese ship captain verified that the woman they were hunting had indeed sought passage off the islands. Wearing human clothing, she’d booked passage for herself and the boy on the Catalan steamer Confraria, headed for Barcelona. The captain apparently hadn’t realized she was a sereia; he’d been heard to speculate as to why a human woman would be on the islands at all. The woman had claimed she wanted to go back to her family in Spain. Since she spoke Spanish—a windfall discovery for Duilio—the captain accepted her claim even if he doubted its veracity. And since the woman wore gloves, that meant she’d had her webbing cut away in order to pass more easily as human.

  Now they knew where their thieves were headed, and that the woman spoke Spanish well enough to fool a Catalan captain. Despite the quibbling of Duilio’s gift, it seemed likely that the woman was a Canary, and two duties that the Canaries performed for Spain were serving on ships of the Spanish navy and controlling an Unnaturals prison—a prison for witches and nonhumans—in the city of Lleida. When their thief reached Barcelona, it would be a simple matter to take another ship to a naval port or to take a train to Lleida. Either was equally likely, Duilio held.

  “I don’t see why the Spanish would want my mother’s journal,” Oriana pointed out.

  “Leverage,” her grandmother suggested. “If the ministry wants the information in that journal kept secret, there’s value in possessing it. It gives the Spanish something they can negotiate with.”

  “Why not take it to the Spanish embassy, then?”

  Duilio just shook his head. “We don’t know that she didn’t.”

  “But your gift says she still has the journal with her.”

  “True,” he admitted, hands spread wide. “I don’t believe she took it to the embassy. I’m simply admitting that it’s a possibility.”

  Her grandmother snorted, and was about to reenter the conversation when one of the young servants came runn
ing into the dining room. The girl’s eyes were wide and her hands were knotted in her pareu. “Madam, I’m sorry to interrupt, but . . .”

  Oriana wasn’t certain whether the servant spoke to her or to her grandmother, so she waited until her grandmother gestured for the girl to continue.

  The girl swallowed. “The subminister of Intelligence is at the door. She told me to tell you that. With guards. Four of them.”

  Oriana rose, her stomach sinking as she did so. The four guards weren’t a good sign. It meant either that her aunt Jovita felt threatened coming here, or that she intended to take someone away by force. “She must be here to talk to me.”

  “You’ve been asking questions,” Grandmother said as Duilio helped her to her feet. “That gets around. But we have the upper hand here, so it’s better to deal with her now than after you’ve returned to the capital.”

  Oriana didn’t see how they had the upper hand, but she wasn’t going to argue. She took a deep breath, mentally organizing. “Will you stay with me?” she asked Duilio. “To take notes. I don’t want to miss anything she says.”

  Duilio’s lips twisted in a brief frown, but he nodded. “I’ll go fetch a notebook.”

  Grandmother Monteiro sent the servant to fetch their guest to the courtyard and turned back to Oriana. “You know her. Would it be easier if I went?”

  Oriana licked her lips. Of her three aunts, Jovita was her least favorite. The woman had despised her father’s human looks and had constantly chided Oriana’s mother for tolerating his unconventional political views. She was quite open in her abhorrence for the human blood so prevalent among the citizens of Amado. And while her mother’s other two sisters, Vitoria and Valeria, had worked to convince Oriana to join the Ministry of Intelligence, Jovita had been unsupportive. Oriana had long suspected that the reason she’d been given so little responsibility and so few opportunities in her short career could be explained by her powerful aunt’s dislike of her.

  Given that her grandmother was a representative of that despised impure populace of Amado, it wouldn’t help to have her present during this interview. And while the same might be said of Duilio, Jovita had to know he was human. Provided that he behaved with appropriate decorum, his presence might demonstrate that human males could be respectful of sereia ways. “Why don’t you let me handle her alone, Grandmother? That way she can’t say you said or did anything disrespectful of the government.”

  Her grandmother kissed her cheek and left. Oriana headed to the courtyard and entered via the back door, only seconds ahead of Jovita’s arrival through the other entrance.

  Oriana had seen the woman at a distance a couple of times in the past few months. Her aunt’s hair was almost completely gray now but hung down her back in neat curls. She wore a white vest embroidered with blue geometric designs, and her blue pareu was tied with a knot that proclaimed her mate dead. Oriana had liked her uncle Ronaldo. Despite being very conventional, he’d been intelligent and kind. Unfortunately, he and Jovita had lived in a separate house, so Oriana hadn’t seen him as often as she would have liked.

  Pausing on the threshold of the courtyard, Jovita spent a moment appraising Oriana, then stepped onto the carpet. “Ambassador,” she said in a cool tone.

  “Subminister,” Oriana replied, opting for her aunt’s professional title. Jovita wasn’t as tall as she remembered, a fact to store away.

  Jovita surveyed the plastered walls of the courtyard, the small fountain in the center of it, and the dark furnishings. “So you’ve run home to hide?”

  “Our visit here is a temporary retreat,” she said. “And a chance for me to speak with my country’s representatives here firsthand. The ship captains cannot, of course, come onto Quitos to speak with their ambassador. May I ask the reason for this visit?”

  Jovita’s eyes narrowed, hands remaining perfectly still. “You’re too young to be an ambassador.”

  Oriana’s hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. Where is Duilio? He was good at reminding her not to let her temper slip. “I agree, Subminister. My posting was based on my familiarity with the people of these islands rather than experience, and has always been intended to be a temporary one. I will step down as soon as the Foreign Office feels they have an adequately trained replacement. Will you sit?”

  Jovita contemplated that offer for a moment, then settled on the nearest chaise. It would put her back to the entry of the courtyard, hinting that she felt she had nothing to fear after all. Oriana settled across from her aunt.

  “And when you are replaced,” her aunt added, “you’ll return here and settle into the resistance, I suppose.”

  She already knows about the adoption, when the papers were filed in Porto Novo only yesterday morning. That adoption was the only thing that would allow Oriana to settle here. She laid her hands on her knees, careful not to make any gesture that might be misinterpreted. “The resistance?”

  “The separatists,” her aunt clarified. “I assume you’ll lobby for religious tolerance, male suffrage, and everything else that dilutes our people’s ways.”

  Oriana hadn’t thought that far ahead. The Foreign Office had promised they would have a replacement trained within two years, but the twenty-one months still left in that span seemed interminably long. “It would be inappropriate for me to take any stance on the government of these islands when my position here is as a representative of the two Portugals.”

  Her aunt snorted, a sound that came closer to amusement than disapproval. “Is it true, then, that the two countries are moving toward reunification?”

  Common knowledge. “Yes. Although there is to be a vote on the subject, the outcome seems inevitable. Reunification would lessen the tax burden on the populace of supporting two bureaucracies, and lays out a path toward a new constitution at the same time.”

  “And it will combine their military forces.”

  Oriana didn’t flinch. Among the sereia, the continually smoldering fear of invasion by the Portuguese went back hundreds of years. It died off periodically, only to flare up again a handful of seasons later. The banishment of the sereia from the shores of Northern Portugal had stoked that ember into full flame. And while the ban had been terrible for those sereia living in the Golden City, there had never been any real threat to sereia beyond the shores of Northern Portugal. Oriana gave her aunt a level stare. “True, but that does not pose a threat to these islands.”

  “An ambassador would say that.”

  The bells at the edge of the courtyard rang, and Oriana glanced at the front archway. Duilio stood at the threshold, a tray in his hands. Her grandmother must have caught him and pressed him into service. She gestured for him to enter, and he walked to her side, head bowed, not a single dish clattering.

  Her aunt assessed Duilio, starting with his properly downcast eyes and ending up at his well-manicured feet. Given how closely they were being watched, Jovita had surely received thorough reports about him. She had to know he was educated. She would have heard that he wore the Paredes line tattoo rather than the Monteiro one. As such, he was part of the Paredes family and nominally under Jovita’s purview, as was Oriana herself. Oriana hoped he kept that fact in mind. She gestured for him to set the tray on the table. “Will you pour?”

  He did as bidden, wordlessly pouring out two cups of tea—a fortunate choice, since her aunt had little tolerance for coffee. He handed one to her aunt, who took it with a raised eyebrow, but said nothing. Then he handed a cup to Oriana and stepped back. She gestured for him to take one of the chairs on the side of the courtyard, out of Jovita’s line of sight.

  Duilio tamely went, tugging a slender notebook from the waist of his pareu. He settled facing Oriana, his expression carefully neutral.

  Oriana took a sip of her tea, wishing it was something stronger—she recognized the variety grown on Quitos. “So, may I ask the reason for this visit, Subminister?” />
  Jovita set aside her cup. She crossed her legs and tapped the nails of one hand on the arm of the chaise as if contemplating scratching Oriana’s eyes out with them. “You have set a handful of my agents into a furor. I would like to know why.”

  “A personal item was stolen from me, and we’ve been hunting for it. How can that be considered provoking your agents?”

  Jovita’s eyes narrowed. “What was stolen?”

  Oriana swallowed. “I assume you already know the answer to that question.”

  “Do you think I would spend my afternoon traveling out to this damned island if I knew?”

  Jovita had come here herself when it was clear she had spies on the island. Oriana wasn’t sure what that meant, but there wasn’t any point in lying about the theft. “My mother’s journal. It was stolen from our bedroom while we slept. Someone blew gornava pollen into the room—a large amount of it.”

  Her aunt’s brows rose. She recognized how expensive that much pollen would have been. “They slipped past your guards?”

  “We believe we brought the thief to the house with us,” Oriana admitted. “One of the pieces of luggage was tampered with in the hold of the ferry that brought us over. A small child was placed in the luggage, and once the luggage was carried into the household, the child slipped out and hid until nightfall.”

  “That seems like a desperate effort,” Jovita said. “What was in Lygia’s journal that would make them resort to such a plan?”

  This must be what she’s after. She wants to know how much I read, or how much Grandmother did. “I don’t know. It was stolen on our first night here, not long after my grandmother handed it over to me. Something inside was worth arranging that theft. What did my mother know?”

  Jovita regarded her silently, her face and still hands giving away nothing.

  “Was it worth murdering her for?” Oriana added.

  Jaw clenched, Jovita rose. “Watch what you say, girl. You may have some protection out here, but making unsubstantiated claims back on Quitos will get you killed. Do you understand me?”