Troubled Waters

by Sharon Shinn

  Seven days after the party, the seasons changed, the year turned over, and the world prepared to celebrate Quinnelay changeday. Zoe couldn’t help thinking about the same holiday last year. Her father had been well enough to observe it with traditional songs and spoken remembrances, though his voice had been weak and his memories had focused on long-ago days. She was just as glad that, for this changeday, she would not have time for the conventional hours of contemplation and review. She would be too busy crewing down the Marisi in the king’s grand regatta.

  TWENTY

  The day of the race dawned very chilly but absolutely clear. Zoe joined the large group of palace residents who were transported to the launch site in a series of elaymotives. Over the last nineday, so she had been told, all the racing boats had been hauled to the river’s edge and set in the water. At the same time, pavilions had been constructed along the coast at the end of the course—the wide, turbulent pool where the river gathered its strength for its headlong leap down the face of the mountain. Here, spectators—like Elidon and Romelle and Mirti Serlast—would gather in comfort to cheer on their favorites and award prizes to the winners. As Zoe understood it, audience members outnumbered contestants by about three to one, and the racing field was by no means small. Last year’s event had included twenty-five boats, most of them crewed by three or four people.

  Once she arrived at the launch site, she picked her way through the chaos on the riverbank, searching for the boat she would share with Kurtis, Rhan, and Nelson. She was staring the whole time. On this relatively calm, relatively narrow stretch of the Marisi, an entire flotilla lined the southern bank. Most of the vessels were small, efficient, and unadorned, with narrow pointed bows designed to cut cleanly through the water. A few were larger and more elaborate, painted with bright colors and boasting short poles hung with snapping pennants. These, Zoe assumed, were the boats that would carry members of the royal family—as well as trained rivermen to guide the boats through the water.

  Despite the raw air and whipping wind, the atmosphere was one of carnival excitement as the participants shouted to each other, readied their craft for racing, and listened to the officials bawling out the final rules: No launching of any craft before the signal was given. No deliberately trying to ram or overturn a competitor’s boat. The winning crew must row past the queens’ pavilion. All boats must come to shore on the southern edge of the river, where the water was calmer and workers were in place to help contestants secure their craft. All crew members should know their designated number and be prepared to present it to the judges at the completion of the race.

  “There you are,” Rhan said when Zoe finally found the Ardelays, as they were doing a last-minute inspection of their boat. It was small and agile, little more than a metal hull and four benches bolted inside to accommodate passengers. He handed her a white silk vest with a huge numeral embroidered on it in black thread. “We’re lucky number eight. Slip this on so that everyone will be able to recognize us as we cross the finish line.”

  “Why do I have to be the one to wear it?” she said, though she quickly tied the strings around her waist.

  “Because you are the one who is least likely to have fallen into the water before the race is half over.”

  “When do we start?” she asked.

  Kurtis nodded toward the riverbank, where the king and four men who looked like professional athletes climbed into the largest of the painted boats. A dark-haired sailor wore a thin vest sporting the numeral one. “Very soon. The king is always the first to board, and then the rest of us follow. After everyone is in the water, we will be signaled to begin.”

  There was a short delay while the rest of the racers waited for Seterre, Alys, Josetta, and Corene to settle into their boats, accompanied by more hired men. Once the royal family members were aboard, all the other participants surged toward the riverbank. Zoe clambered aboard her own neat craft, squealing as Nelson’s weight rocked the boat so hard that she thought she would pitch into the water. But quickly enough they were all in place, Rhan in the front, Zoe behind him, and Nelson and Kurtis on the back two benches. The men paddled the boat into the middle of the river, lining up as best they could with the other contestants, using oars and oaths to try to keep in place against the insistent current.

  “All contestants not in place at this instant are hereby disqualified!” one of the officials bellowed from the shore. “On the word now, you may all begin the race! And I give you—that—word—now!”

  There was a muffled roar of enthusiasm, followed by dozens of tiny splashes as a hundred oars hit the water simultaneously. Zoe felt her heart hammer with excitement as the craft leapt forward. It was even colder on the river than it had been on land, and the oars kicked up a constant fine spray that had them all damp within five strokes. Rhan had lent her a pair of thick boots, for which she was immensely grateful, since about an inch of water already sloshed along the bottom of the boat. She was equally thankful for her own heavy overrobe, which provided some protection from the cold. But none of these discomforts really weighed with her. She clung to the sides of the boat and laughed with sheer delight.

  She could feel the river coiling and uncoiling below her, a joyous, eager, raw, and unpredictable presence. Like a horse that lived for the flat-out gallop, the Marisi loved a race; she could practically sense its own excitement reflecting and intensifying the emotions of all those riding on its back. It was almost as if the water ran even faster this morning than it did on an ordinary day, just to show off, just to thrill these creatures who had chosen to hurl themselves across its lashing surface. Zoe felt it lift and strain within its banks, flinging itself with a lunatic exuberance toward the crashing abandon of the falls. Behind her, before her, she could feel the Ardelay men plunging their oars into the swift water, powering the boat forward with strength and skill, but she knew it wasn’t their efforts that sent them skimming down the river. It was the Marisi itself, catching them up in its foaming arms and dancing madly down the channel.

  A whoop of victory jerked her attention from the water below her to the race all around her. “We’re in the lead!” Rhan shouted, his words ripped out of his mouth by the driving wind. “We just passed Broy Lalindar! No one else will be able to catch us!”

  “Don’t gloat too early!” Nelson shouted back a little breathlessly. “If anyone can beat us, it’s Broy!”

  “The king isn’t too far back, either,” Kurtis called out. “And his paid sailors know tricks we’ll never learn!”

  Zoe didn’t say anything, but she had the sense that the river wouldn’t allow anyone to outrace the boat carrying the Lalindar prime. She crouched down a little lower, partly to shield her face from the wet wind, and partly to make herself too small to create any kind of resistance. Faster, she thought, imagining the choppy waters smoothing out and plunging forward at her behest. Even faster.

  The landscape on either bank started to blur as their pace increased; she could see nothing but a streaming impression of bare trees, rocky banks, and crystalline blue sky. It felt as if they were skating along the top of a river grown glass-smooth and steeply canted—as if their speed increased again, and again, almost as if they were careening down a hill. The water broke against the sides of the boat with frantic energy, dousing Zoe’s icy fingers for the hundredth time. She was almost hypnotized by the sensation of dizzying speed. Faster, she thought, and felt the boat respond.

  She was scarcely aware of sudden shapes bulking up on the right edge of the river—colorful canvas structures swaying in the steady wind. She could hear, but paid no attention to, a rushing, roaring, cavernous sound that grew louder with ominous swiftness. There were other noises she ignored—shouts from the shoreline, a clanging bell, something that sounded like a cannon shot, loud and cautionary. All she could think about was the accelerating forward motion. Faster. Faster.

  Suddenly, someone was shaking her from behind and her uncle Nelson’s voice shouted urgently in her ear. “Zoe! Zoe! We
can’t slow the boat and we’re going to crash over the falls! Zoe! Let the boat go!”

  With a start, she came to, as if shocked out of a fevered, hallucinogenic dream. She could see Rhan in front of her, desperately rowing backward, trying to abort from their disastrous course toward the frothing waters of the falls. Behind her she could sense the terrific strain from Nelson and Kurtis as they did the same. All of them were shouting her name, and Nelson shook her once more by the shoulder. “Zoe! Stop the boat!”

  She flung her arms out over both sides with her fingers splayed, and cut her connection to the Marisi. Instantly, the little craft started spinning in the water, caught between the ordinary current and the strokes of the three men. She heard Kurtis’s nervous laugh as the Ardelays quickly got the boat back under their control, and in a few moments they were cutting across the water toward the southern shore where a harbor of sorts had been set up. No other vessels were docked there yet, though about a dozen rough-looking men were lined up with ropes and other gear, ready to secure them to shore. Three brightly draped pavilions stood on the land just up from the harbor, filled with spectators, and more people crowded on the shore, watching and waving.

  “Are we the first?” she asked, glancing up the river to locate their nearest competitors. She could make out dozens of shapes skipping along the water; none of them seemed too close.

  Rhan laughed, though the sound was shaky. “The first? By a good twenty minutes, I’d guess! No one will ever beat our time. It was impossible that we covered the distance so fast! What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” she said a little nervously. What had happened back on open water? “At least, not on purpose. I was just thinking that I wanted us to go fast. Really fast. I didn’t—I mean, it wasn’t like I thought I could do anything to make that happen.”

  “You seemed to be in some kind of trance,” Rhan said, “and the waterfall kept getting closer and closer.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to do—whatever I did. I don’t think I can explain it.”

  Nelson patted her on the back. “I understand it, but I can’t explain it, either,” he said. “Fire takes me that way, too, sometimes, and I’ve more than one burn scar to prove it. You can’t let it master you, though—that’s the trick.”

  “Especially when your cousins are about to be swept away with you,” Kurtis added.

  “I am truly sorry.”

  Rhan laughed. “I’m not! We won the purse. And what a ride!”

  By this time, they had made it to the bank, and a few of the dockmen splashed out into the shallows to haul them up to the makeshift piers. Zoe took off her embroidered vest and handed it to the official-looking man who was clearly acting on the judges’ behalf. But the instant she clambered out of the boat, she staggered. She felt so heavy; she could not accustom herself to the stubborn, unmoving solidity of land. She was also freezing and wet and sore all over from bracing herself against the tumultuous journey downriver.

  Nelson seemed to have anticipated her reaction, though Zoe had not. He caught her arm and guided her toward the smallest of the pavilions, which was invitingly lit and filled with a handful of people. While it had a sturdy wooden floor, and a roof and three walls constructed of heavy canvas, one whole side was open to give spectators a clear view of the Marisi. Inside, Zoe could see braziers for heat and heaps of pillows and blankets for comfort.

  “You’ll be welcome inside the queens’ pavilion,” Nelson said softly as he led her there. “That’s where the winners traditionally watch the end of the race.”

  “You, too,” she said, “and Kurtis and Rhan.”

  “We’ll see.”

  But as they stepped off the dock and toward the tentlike structure, Elidon herself came forward, hands outstretched, a smile on her face. Mirti Serlast hovered behind her, grinning. “Zoe!” Elidon exclaimed, briefly taking Zoe’s hand and letting it fall. “Once I heard you were in the race, I was sure you would win it, but by such a margin! How in the world did you manage such a feat?”

  “Ask my cousins and my uncle,” she said.

  Elidon turned to Nelson, that smile still in place, and touched him on the shoulder, a mark of high favor. “Nelson Ardelay,” she said. “How clever of you to make the Lalindar prime one of your crew.”

  He smiled back, all sweela warmth, holding no grudges for past slights. “No, no, I brought her aboard only because she is my brother’s daughter,” he replied. “The Lalindar heritage was an unexpected benefit.”

  Mirti snorted and clapped him heartily on the back. “I’ll believe that when the soil itself shoots up out of the ground and smothers the river in its channel,” she said. “Well, come inside, you and your sons, too! We have brought all sorts of food and drink to sustain the winners as we watch the end of the race.”

  “I’m concerned about Zoe,” Nelson said. “She’s starting to shiver, and I don’t think she realized how much energy the whole event took out of her.”

  “I’m fine,” Zoe said, though that was a lie.

  Mirti gave her one quick assessment, and nodded. Another prime; someone else who understood how deeply and foolishly a person could be absorbed by the elements. “Here. Sit by the fire,” she said, leading Zoe to a pile of pillows arrayed before one of the braziers. “I’ll bring you something warm to drink. Are you hungry?”

  “I don’t think so,” Zoe replied.

  “Hmm. You’d better have something to eat.”

  A few moments later, Zoe was sitting as close to the brazier as possible, sipping some sweet and steaming drink and munching on toasted bread. Mirti turned out to be right; Zoe was starving. Her Ardelay relatives were standing with Mirti and the king’s wives, holding their own refreshments and recounting, with a great deal of animation, their race down the river. Rhan was flirting with Romelle, who seemed to have left Natalie back at the palace, while Mirti and Elidon appeared to be holding a more businesslike conversation with Nelson and Kurtis. Servants glided noiselessly among them, replenishing drinks and offering more food. Zoe accepted a bowl of some kind of thick soup and practically gulped it down. Her toes and fingers were starting to regain some feeling, but she couldn’t say she actually felt warm. And she hated to think how her hair must look—a hank of wet, tangled disaster, she supposed. As soon as she was done eating she might see if there was a private corner of the pavilion where she could put herself back together.

  Cheers and light applause drew her attention to the open wall of the pavilion, and she gazed out in time to see three boats cross the boundary in quick succession. The smallest, most agile craft belonged to Broy, Zoe thought, while the larger, brighter one was crewed by the king’s paid sailors. From this distance, she couldn’t tell who was in the third boat, which had clearly attempted to beat the king to the finish line. While she watched, several more vessels drifted past at an appreciably slower pace. No need to strain against the oars any longer now that the top three winners were determined.

  Nelson turned to Kurtis. “Have any of the children’s boats showed up yet?” he asked. “I wonder who’s in the lead.”

  Which was when Zoe remembered that there was a separate race for younger contestants. “Do you have someone in that race?” Mirti asked him.

  “My wife’s nephew is participating for the first time this year,” Nelson replied. “He spent several ninedays practicing his rowing skills over the summer, so I hope he acquits himself well.”

  “How old is he?” Elidon asked.

  “Thirteen. Skinny and awkward.” He smiled in Elidon’s direction. “All elay, I’m afraid. I don’t think he’ll have much chance to win a coru event, but I have high hopes of him in many other fields. He’s much smarter and far more charming than he realizes.”

  She smiled back. “Adolescence does not tend to be kind to elay boys, but I am certain better days await him.”

  “Well, I hope he doesn’t have his heart set on winning this race,” Mirti said in her astringent way. “Josetta and Coren
e each have their own boats, with professional crews, and I doubt any amateurs will beat them.” She glanced in Zoe’s direction. “Even coru amateurs.”

  “I think what he hopes for is to not drown,” Kurtis said. “And, if he could be said to have a higher aspiration, it would be to not fall into the water at all.”

  Romelle had wandered closer to the open wall, leaning over a little to look out. The makeshift harbor had grown crowded with boats, though no more contestants had come laughing and shivering into the queens’ pavilion. Zoe supposed most of the other participants had headed to the larger, public tents, though she thought the king would join Elidon and Romelle—and so would Darien Serlast, if he had docked by now. Perhaps both of them were waiting on the pier for the king’s other wives to arrive.

  “About fifteen boats are already in,” Romelle reported. “And I can see two—three—four boats up the river, coming pretty fast.” She glanced back at Nelson with a grin. “The one in the lead is flying royal colors. Mirti’s right. Either Josetta or Corene is going to win.”

  “As they should,” he replied gallantly. “Who would want to outrace a princess?”

  But he had lost Romelle’s attention. She had straightened up and started waving; Zoe could see only the profile of her face, but she appeared to be suddenly lit with happiness. “Well-done!” she called. “A very good race!”

  Darien Serlast stepped into the tent.

  Zoe felt her stomach contract as if absorbing a heavy blow. Darien Serlast? Her smile is for Darien Serlast? But Romelle was looking past him, still waving, as Darien came deeper into the pavilion and started wiping river mist off his overrobe.

  “Fourth place,” his aunt Mirti said to him with a grin.