Voyager of the Crown

by Melissa McShane

  “Where did Ransom go?” Arjan said.

  “He’s unloading his cargo. Come, I can smell food.”

  “I can’t look at her. It’s unseemly.” Theo had his head ducked so low his chin was trying to merge with his chest.

  “It’s their culture, Theo, it’s not unseemly,” Belinda said.

  “I mean it’s wrong for me to look. Mam says to respect all women.”

  “If this is how they dress all the time, it must not be disrespectful in their culture.” Belinda patted him on the shoulder and went inside, ducking under the blanket. Zara prodded Theo, and one at a time they all entered.

  The trunk of the tree filled the center of the room like a giant guest, its bark rosy and smooth. Walls to either side, both with blanket-covered doorways, made the huge room cozy. A brightly woven cloth was spread on the floor near the entrance, and the woman who’d held the blanket for them indicated they should sit around it. Zara sat cross-legged and rolled her shoulders to ease the tension. She could smell roasted meat somewhere nearby, and the sweeter scent of yams, and her stomach rumbled. If the villagers were going to feed them, they couldn’t be that antagonistic to northerners, could they?

  One of the blankets moved, and three people came through. Two of them bore steaming dishes; the third held a pile of large, fat leaves and a stack of wooden cups. He set a leaf and a cup in front of each of them, smiling and saying something in rapid Karitian. Zara picked her leaf up. It was mostly round, with a crease down the middle for the stem, and it was glossy dark green on the front, nearly black, and pale, almost white on the back.

  The man returned and gently took the leaf from Zara, set it back down flat in front of her, and one of his companions scooped out mashed orange yams, cooked soft, onto the leaf. The other had tongs with which he picked up a large helping of shredded white meat and dropped it next to the yams. The first man leaned past Zara to pour a thin stream of water into the cup. It smelled like minerals, but not in a nasty way. Zara looked from the leaf “plate” to the server, who was a woman about thirty with a pleasant smile. “How do I eat this?” she said, miming chewing.

  The woman’s smile grew broader. She reached down and pretended to pick up the meat, brought the imaginary morsel to her lips and chewed. Then she made a scooping motion near the yams with two fingers and put both into her mouth.

  Well. That was interesting. Zara nodded and said, “Thank you.” She picked up some of the meat and ate it, examining the room as she did so. The walls were hung with smaller squares of woven fabric she itched to examine. The weave was lumpier than that of her great loom, suggesting either that these were novice efforts or they were using unfamiliar techniques. Her eye passed over one of the Karitians, the older man who’d brought in the leaves, and her hand stilled before dipping into the mash. “Stop,” she told the others.

  “What is it? Is something wrong with the food?” Belinda asked. Theo was already sucking on his fingers.

  “Something’s wrong with them.” Zara looked at their servers more closely, then at the dishes they held. “They’re playing a game with us.”

  “I do not understand,” said Arjan. “What game?”

  “’Let’s see what we can get the stupid foreigners to do,’ that’s the game.” Zara pushed her leaf aside and stood. “Those are some very nice metal pots you have there,” she said to the woman, pointing at the pan containing the mash. “And you’ve got ladles that are just as nice. I think you have utensils somewhere, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you have plates, too.”

  The woman looked at her without comprehension. “You don’t speak Tremontanese, do you?” Zara said. “Well, I don’t speak your language either, so this will have to do.” She lifted the ladle and pretended to use it as a spoon, pointed at the ladle, pointed at herself and then the others, then repeated herself. The woman glanced down at the cloth, then smiled and said something to the man with the leaves. He replied in a cranky tone, and she shook her head and left the room, followed by the other two. Zara sat down. Now was when she’d find out if she’d been right.

  A minute later, the man reappeared. He held a fistful of cutlery, forks and spoons, which he distributed. “Plates?” Zara said, pointing at the leaf. He shook his head, looking confused.

  “They really do use rashedek leaves as plates,” Ransom said, taking a seat between Cantara and Theo. The man handed him a fork and spoon and disappeared into the back. “Saves a lot of effort. I take it you figured out their little game?”

  “You could have warned us,” Zara said. The yams were growing cold, but they were still delicious.

  “They judge visitors by their behavior. It’s not my place to interfere.” The server woman reappeared with her companion and smiled at Ransom. He said something that ended in a question, and she responded at length while Ransom nodded. Finally, when she wound down, he said one last thing that made her smile even more broadly before she left the room. Ransom started eating as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Zara spun her fork in her fingers; it was stainless steel, completely incongruous against the rashedek leaf.

  “What did you say?” Theo asked. He was still using his fingers to mop up the last of the yams on his leaf and kept his eyes firmly on his food, not looking at the women.

  “Doctor-patient issues. Not your business,” Ransom said.

  “I take it they’re going to let us stay tonight?” Zara said.

  “I told you Karitians aren’t as bigoted as northerners think.”

  “But they wouldn’t have been so friendly if you hadn’t been along.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I ready for sleep am,” Cantara said. Zara leaned back, stretching her thighs. She could use some sleep herself.

  “They have guest quarters,” Ransom said, but he glanced at Zara as he did so, as if there were something he wasn’t saying.

  “And?” Zara said.

  “And nothing. If you’re done eating, they’ll take you to where you can sleep.” Ransom applied himself to his food and said nothing further. Zara regarded him narrowly. There probably wasn’t any point to pushing him into speaking again.

  There were two men waiting outside the eating house, both tall and thin, wearing woven belts dyed red over their leather skirts. They pointed off into the darkness, but didn’t move, and after a moment Zara decided there was no point in waiting for more from them and led the way in that direction. The platform ended in another swaying bridge, where Zara kept tight hold of the ropes and pretended it was an ordinary sidewalk. It had to be perfectly safe, because the villagers used them all the time. She kept her eyes fixed on the far side.

  At the other end of the bridge stood a man and a woman, both also wearing the red belts. Once everyone was off the bridge, they led the way across a platform to several small round huts with the unique drainpipes and rain barrels. The man pointed at Theo and Arjan and waved at one of the huts. Cantara made a noise of protest, and Arjan, who had his arm around her shoulders, drew her more closely to him. “No,” he said, shaking his head for emphasis. The man and the woman had a short, low-voiced conversation that ended with the man pointing at Arjan and Cantara and then at the hut. As the Zakharis entered it, the man pointed at Theo and Belinda and waved at another hut.

  “So it’s all right for me to share a hut with a man so long as it’s Theo?” Belinda exclaimed. “I don’t understand these people at all.”

  “Let’s just sleep,” Zara said, “and tomorrow we can go north again.” She moved to follow Belinda, but the man stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Look. I realize you can’t speak my language, but can you understand I just want to sleep?”

  The man shook his head again and pointed in the opposite direction, at a hut much larger than the others. “No,” Zara said. “With my friends.” The man shook his head more vehemently and pointed again. He and the woman looked worried, the kind of worry that said they thought they were going to be in trouble.
“Fine,” Zara said. “I’ll see you in the morning, Belinda.” She stomped across the platform, enjoying how the thuds of her angry footsteps echoed. So long as the hut had a bed of some kind, she didn’t care where she slept.

  There was no light inside the hut but what came from torches outside through the window holes, so she stood for a moment to let her eyes adjust. There was a bed, though it was more of a mattress on the floor; it was a big square sack stuffed with something that rustled when she sat on it. She took off her boots and her socks, which were damp, and rubbed her toes. Her feet smelled of jungle, but then, so did the rest of her.

  She freed her hair from its leather tie and tried to finger-comb the tangles, then gave up. Now that she was sitting, she realized she ached everywhere with exhaustion. Think how tired you’d be without your inherent magic fighting off all those little muscle strains, she thought, and lay down. There was no pillow, but she didn’t care.

  She was just drifting off when the blanket covering the door moved and a dark figure entered the room. Instantly she was on her feet, backing against the wall for whatever protection that might give. “Who are you?” she said. “Get out of here now.”

  “It’s me,” Ransom said. “Sorry. I thought you’d already be asleep.”

  That made no sense. “Can’t we talk in the morning?”

  “Yes. But this is my hut.”

  “Your—I’m sorry, they made a mistake. I’ll go sleep with Belinda.” She crossed the room to the door, and Ransom put a hand on her arm.

  “It’s not a mistake. It’s…complicated.”

  “Then uncomplicate it. Why did they put me in your hut?”

  Ransom sighed and released her. He sat on the edge of the mattress and began taking his boots off. “These villages have a precarious existence, living between the old tribal ways and the new civilization,” he said. “They take advantage of new technology, but they haven’t given up blood feuds and vendettas. This means there’s always a shortage of young men and most of the villages are barely at replacement level of reproduction. So the role of young women is primarily seen as childbearing and –rearing.”

  “That’s an interesting cultural lesson, but it doesn’t explain anything.”

  “I’m getting to it. The ruler of a village—there’s this custom that the chief has the right to, um, impregnate any unattached young woman, or at least try to—”

  “Sweet heaven, Ransom, that’s utterly barbaric!”

  “And he decided he wanted you.”

  Words choked her. “I’m not Karitian,” she managed, “I’m not part of his village, and I couldn’t—”

  “He knows that. I think he finds you attractive and was using custom to get what he wanted. So I had to tell him you belong to me. I’m sorry.”

  “You—”

  “I realize it’s awkward.”

  “Awkward?”

  “Look at it this way. There used to be a custom that a man and a woman had to consummate their love in front of witnesses to prove who the father of a child was.”

  “Ransom!”

  “That was centuries ago. I thought it would give you perspective.”

  Zara closed her eyes. “You couldn’t have told him to go to hell?”

  “I was hoping to avoid bloodshed.”

  “Would they really kill us just for denying their ruler his…rights?”

  “I was thinking more about his blood, when he told you what you had to submit to. He’s not a bad man, just a selfish one.”

  “He’s a rapist!”

  “Any of the young women in this village would go to him willingly. He meant his interest in you as a compliment. Don’t be too quick to judge.” He set his boots and socks near the door and began to stretch out on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Zara said.

  “Going to sleep. I’m exhausted and I’ve got a full day ahead of me tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

  “I’m certainly not going to let you do it.”

  He picked the strangest times to become chivalrous. “There’s enough room for both of us,” she said. “Unless you’re afraid I’m going to attack you in your sleep.”

  Ransom sat up. “At least you’re not a restless sleeper. I’d hate for your snoring to keep me up all night.”

  Zara lay on the bed. “You’re hilarious. Sleep where you want, but I think it’s stupid of you not to take advantage of this bed.”

  “You’re right.” Ransom lay down on his side of the mattress. “I imagine this isn’t what you thought you’d be doing when you left Tremontane.”

  “Not even a little bit. I was going to Goudge’s Folly for work.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m going to oversee inventory for an importer based on the island.”

  “That can’t be what you’ve done for…what is it, seventy-two years since you became an adult?”

  “I was a weaver for a long time. This was meant to be the start of something new.”

  “I can see that. It’s certainly a difference.”

  His tone of voice, carefully neutral, made her realize she’d told him far more than she’d intended to share. It irritated her that she’d been so easily drawn, and she said, “How long have you been a doctor?”

  “Six years. I was in training for nine years before that.” He didn’t sound disturbed at the sudden change of subject.

  “And what brought you here? Never mind, I forgot. A question with a complicated answer.”

  Ransom laughed quietly. “I was trying to get away from my family. They wanted things for me I didn’t want for myself.”

  “That’s not a complicated answer.”

  “It is if you know my family. They’re…have you heard of the Resurgence?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a growing movement centered in Aurilien that wants to remove the stigma of inherent magic, make it something people don’t have to be afraid of. My parents—my whole family, really—became involved about eight years ago. Heavily involved. Donations, fundraisers…it became their whole lives. I graduated, received my medical degree, and came home to a hero’s welcome. Except it wasn’t that they were proud of what I’d achieved, they were eager for what I could do for the Resurgence.”

  “Was that why they got involved? Because of your magic?”

  “I think it was a sense of moral superiority. Helping the downtrodden, et cetera. Which I suppose makes them not quite so opportunistic, if they only thought of using me afterward. But they definitely wanted to use me. And I had other plans.”

  “And you couldn’t have stayed in Tremontane without clashing with them constantly.”

  “You see the problem. It wasn’t good enough for them that I was using my talent openly; they wanted me to be a devoted supporter of the cause. So I left.”

  “Why Dineh-Karit? Surely there are places closer to home where you could do what you do.”

  “Because I’m needed here.” He shifted beside her. “There are a lot of healers in Dineh-Karit. It’s got as much source as Tremontane, maybe more, and there’s no hatred or fear of inherent magic. But people with useful inherent magic, like healers—the city dwellers look down on the people who live in the jungle, and mostly leave them to fend for themselves. The unspoken corollary being no one’s going to weep great tears if they die. And if they do take it on themselves to help, they try to change their customs ‘in their best interests.’ The villagers need people who’ll help them without trying to force change on them.”

  “I’m not sure that custom about impregnating single women is something that needs preserving.”

  “No. But it’s down to them to make that choice. It’s already disappearing as some of these villages learn to overcome the pride that makes them go to war over any slight. But telling them they need to build houses on the jungle floor? Or to put on more clothes in this climate? It’s wrong.”

  “Well, why don’t they build on the ground?”

&nbs
p; “Predators. Najabedhi. And a lot of food is only available near the canopy. Plus, they have some amazing views.” He yawned widely enough that she could hear it.

  “I’m sorry, I’m keeping you up,” she said.

  “Well, you’d want me to answer these questions eventually. Might as well do it now as when we’re going down river.”

  “So you’re staying with us.”

  “I told you I would, didn’t I? Besides, why would I deprive myself of the joys of your interrogations?”

  “You don’t have to answer.”

  “I’m hoping to build up debt so you’ll have to answer mine.”

  “You have questions for me?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. You’ve lived a long life. I can only imagine the things you’ve seen and done.”

  “That really is a conversation for another time. It’s far too late for me to tell you any of that.”

  “That sounds like a promise.”

  “It’s a maybe.” It might just be the weariness, but suddenly the idea of telling someone was compelling. Not her identity, naturally, but other things, like the history she’d lived, or how it felt to leave people behind. “Go to sleep, Ransom.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, amused, and to her surprise the “ma’am” was unsettling, as if he were taunting her about her age. It made no sense, so she pushed the feeling to one side and let herself drift into sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  A heart-chilling scream propelled Zara out of bed and across the room—what room? She’d been dreaming of the palace, which had become a maze of endless passages, and it took her a moment to remember this was Ransom’s hut. Another scream pressed her into the wall, which caught at her hair. She looked around wildly and saw in one of the windows a monkey, black-furred with its head thrust forward, that pursed its thick black lips at her. It screamed once more, then pulled itself up onto the roof; its footsteps pattered away and then were gone. Zara closed her eyes and waited for her heart rate and breathing to return to normal. That would not go at the top of her list of favorite ways to wake up.