by Cat Rambo
A boat, she thought, we’re on a boat.
She strained her ears but the bag’s material muffled sound. There was clumping, and then she was out of the colder air and someplace warmer.
Her legs almost buckled as she was set on her feet and the bag pulled away with a rasp of rough cloth. A knife flashed and the gag fell away. She licked her dry lips and swallowed.
She found herself in a small cabin lit by guttering gilt lanterns set in pairs beside the doorway and reflected in the rounded mirrors on the opposite wall. The plushy carpet’s color was peacock feather brilliant.
Space was at a premium here but every inch had been used. A desktop folded down from the wall on brass chains, its shelf rimmed to prevent objects from rolling off in rough seas and a bookcase had been set into one wall, jammed with worn volumes in motley assemblage beside a map holder whose round holes were filled with paper and parchment rolls. The only excess was the bed, which was wide enough for two and spilled with bead-bright, lozenge-shaped cushions. Like the desk and shelves, it had a railing edging it, presumably to keep the occupants contained during storms.
A carved wooden chair sat in the middle, a man perched on it. He leaned forward to glare at her, arms folded.
“This,” he said in dubious tones, “is the Pot King’s son, the College of Mages’ prize?”
“He’s in disguise, we thinks, Cap’n,” one man said. “At the taverns we asked at, they said he likes to disguise hisself.”
Lucy stole a glance over her shoulder. Her captors stood on either side of the door. Movement drew her eye downward: legs in unremarkable gray trousers and worn boots that twitched as though her stare had awakened them lay protruding from another burlap bag.
A cough returned her attention to the man before her.
“I am Captain Jusef Miryam, of the Emerald Queen,” he said.
He was small in stature, perhaps a shade shorter than Lucy, who was used to having everyone tower over her. His beard and hair were a bristling black, combed and well groomed. His skin was leathery and bronzed and his eyes were a perilous poet’s green. When he flexed his hands impatiently, she noted their well-kept nails and the bright red stone framed in gold on his left hand. His clothes were gaudy although wrinkled and not much washed.
“Well?”
“I don’t know why I’m here.”
He frowned. “Let me cut right to the bone, lad. I will not put up with prevarication and the tongue twisting that wizards are known for.” He nodded down at the bundle of burlap and legs. “What’s that then, my fine fellows?”
“Tried to stop us from nicking her…er, him,” one said. He jerked the sack away and a pale, freckle-faced boy blinked upwards from the floor. “Figgered we always needed canaries.”
There was a knock on the door. “Cap’n, ’at finger-wiggler ya wanted tah speak to is ’ere.”
“Throw them both in the hold for now,” Captain Miryam said. “Give him a taste of what no cooperation would be like.” He smiled faintly at Lucy. “Not that your present form isn’t charming enough, but you might consider releasing it.”
“Put them in cold iron chains,” he said to the men. “Keep the candles I gave you burning in there, that’ll keep him woozy enough to cast no spells. Check on them every turn of the glass.”
They were hauled away.
The hold, Lucy found, was deep in the ship’s belly, damp and cold. The timbers creaked and groaned around them and every time a wave slammed into the ship, Lucy felt the blow through the wall to which she had been chained. The older of the two sailors brought out a fat black candle and stooped to set it in a brass holder bolted to the floor. The younger stood staring at Lucy. He was a scrawny, scowling boy, his head shaved to gray-brown fuzz.
The other was old enough to be his grandfather. After setting the wick a-kindle, he took the boy by the shoulder with an admonitory shake and jerked him from the room.
The door slammed behind them and there was a clunk as it was barred. Lucy raised her head to look across at her companion.
He was pale and jug-eared in the flickering candle light, although a thatch of red hair hid part of the mushroom-white flaps set along his head. Freckles splattered across his cheekbones. His eyes were the color of Lucy’s, a watery blue.
In turn, he saw a small, blond girl, dressed in a neatly patched cloak. Her face was narrow and triangular, and her mouth was rosebud prim, though not as pretty as that phrase implies.
“Well,” he said. “Here we are, I guess.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Devon.”
“Lucy.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His tone was cordial and she wondered at the power of manners that could somehow provide a script for this dreadful, chaotic situation.
“What are we doing here?”
“As far as I can tell,” Devon said. “The pirates thought they were kidnapping someone from the College of Mages and got you instead. I was behind a ways and saw you getting grabbed, so I ran after you and was snatched in turn. I’m here to be a canary, whatever that is. There you have my knowledge’s sum and total.”
“Why did they think I’m a man, though?”
“Mages can go about in many disguises,” Devon said. “Some actually change their shapes, while others rely on glamourie, illusion-casting. Lots like to walk around town that way so they’re not spotted as mages. Everyone assumes mages can conjure gold and they jack up the prices like you wouldn’t believe.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“I’m also a student of the College of Mages.”
“Are you the person they were looking for?”
“Oh, no,” he said hurriedly. “No, I’m not. But listen, I’m thinking that if they think you’re him, that’s the only thing keeping you from being used as a canary. And while I don’t know what being a canary means, I’m willing to bet that since they have to kidnap people to be them, it’s not a great thing.”
Lucy mulled this over. “You’re probably right.”
“You can at least find out what they want,” Devon said.
“What if he asks me to drop the disguise again?”
“Tell him it was a shape shifting spell that went awry and you were heading back to the College to have a Master Mage remove it. That happens all the time.”
“It does?”
“You’d be surprised how often.”
“I can’t do it,” she said, turning back to the question. “He’ll glare at me and I’ll start crying.”
He frowned over at her. “Just put your chin up,” he said. “Think about him naked.”
She blushed, even more frightened. She still couldn’t figure out how she, Lucy the Mouse, had ended up on a boat with pirates. It was like something from a ballad but much less glamorous somehow. She hadn’t realized how frightening adventures could be.
They heard footsteps and the door being unbarred. The younger pirate stuck his head in and looked between them, then at the candle. Before either could react, he withdrew his head with a rapid snakelike motion and slammed the door.
“Not much chance for conversation,” Devon said.
“How long do you think they’ll keep us here?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Look, Lucy, you’ve got to bluff your way through this. Pretend you’re someone else. Perhaps some character from a play you’ve seen?”
“I haven’t seen any plays since I was very little,” she said, dismayed.
“Well, what about one that you liked as a child?”
She thought. She remembered the stories that she loved listening to at night, all four children crouched around her mother’s skirts. Lucy had been so small she could barely remember the stories, but they came back to her now: The Rabbit that Stole the Moon, and Mary Silverhands and Sister Wind and the Golden Bridle, Whitepetal and Blackleaf, and the Princess with the Copper Scales.
There had been a street puppet theater, a cloth screen stretched over a wooden fr
amework, so different on one side from the other. In front, the puppets moved, but past the curtains had been the dancing puppeteers, pitching their voices upward, avoiding each other as they maneuvered the wooden sticks manipulating the forms above them.
She remembered Mary Silverhands, her glowing hands held before her, turning everything she touched to metal: the food on her plate, the drink in her glass. And the blonde-haired puppet’s dignity, its upright stance, the patient grace conveyed by its inanimate face.
She closed her eyes and envisioned herself something other than Lucy, the youngest, the clumsiest, the least listened to and the most overlooked. She was Mary, her life a constant struggle to look out for those around her, to avoid unleashing the deadly power that would, unless contained, turn the whole world to silver.
“All right,” she said. It was Mary’s voice, not a quaver, not a quiver.
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes,” Mary said.
The young pirate poked his head in twice more before she was bundled back into the Captain’s cabin. Another black candle guttered in the corner. She couldn’t tell much difference between the air outside and the candle smoke, but she was so weary by now that everything seemed unreal and brighter than life to her, like a hallucinatory fever-dream.
“Well?” the Captain demanded.
“What did you want with me?”
“Are you the Pot King’s son?”
“Maybe…” she stammered.
He leaned forward to stare into her eyes.
“Yes or no!” She flinched back from his shout. Her mouth worked noiselessly, terror taking her tongue.
“Bring the other in and cut his throat to show this one we mean business,” he said to the pirate holding her.
“Aye, sir.”
Mary, she thought, I’m Mary. If I reached out to touch this man, he would be dead in an instant. “No!” she managed to squeak. Her voice was barely audible.
He slouched back in his chair, looking pleased, but did not speak.
She gasped, fighting to shape the words. “Please, you mustn’t!”
The door opened again and the pirate stood there, holding Devon against his chest, a wicked silver line against the boy’s throat.
“I am, I’ll do it, please don’t!” she shrieked. The Captain held up a forefinger to the pirate holding Devon. The knife stayed where it was.
“I’m his son, I am, I’ll help you however you like,” she babbled.
“Clearly the canary is of more use here than stowed away elsewhere,” the Captain said. He stroked his beard, eying them. “Do you intend to take your true form, Prince Nikolai?”
She pulled herself up out of her panic, clinging to the thought of Mary. What was the story Devon had provided? “I can’t. The magic went awry. I need another mage to lift it. A Master Mage.”
His eyes narrowed. “I see. Pity we didn’t keep the sorcerer around longer. I congratulate you on your ingenuity. Who would think such a trifling form would mask a budding mage?”
“Trifling?”
“We have no use for you until we reach the Coral Tower. But I’m presuming you would rather see the sky and sun than spend the entire journey in the hold?”
Lucy frowned at him.
“All that I require,” he said. “is your word on your name. The vow that no wizard can break without losing his or her magic.”
The frown stayed on her face, knitting her translucent brows together.
“And you,” he said to Devon, who still dangled, his chin stretched upward to avoid the blade. “You’ll swear to make no attempts at escape either.”
“How could I escape?” Devon said. “Jump overboard and walk away on the water?”
“Just do it!”
They repeated the words after the Captain.
“When do we set sail?” Lucy asked. Perhaps there might be way to get word to her family if she was allowed on deck.
The Captain laughed.
“When?” he said. “Two hours ago, that’s when. We’re far out to sea by now.”
“Where are we headed?” Devon asked.
The Captain pointed at Lucy. “Her…I mean his father’s spawning grounds, the Lesser Southern Isles.”
He looked to the other pirates. “Take them away for now.”
They were fed, although it was a dried fish, some hard biscuit and a half mug of sour watery beer apiece.
“The Lesser Southern Isles will take us two weeks to reach,” Devon said.
“How do you know? Are you from there?”
“They teach us geography—that’s maps and how to read them—in the College.” He stared forward, thinking. “Magic is unpredictable in the Lesser Southern Isles. There are artifacts there from other ages, like the Coral Tower and the Speaking Skull. They say anything can happen in the Lesser Southern Isles, that gods are born and remade there. I guess we’ll see.”
Lucy sighed. “Two weeks.”
“Will your family miss you?” Devon asked. Back in the echoing hold, Lucy wondered how she had not understood the departure sounds, the heavy timbers’ creak and sway and the distant shouts and clatter of footsteps.
“Two weeks,” she repeated. “No, they won’t. Well, yes, they’ll miss me, perhaps, but they’ll have no idea where to look.”
“I am sure that the College will set seeking spells after me,” he said. “It’s just a matter of holding out until this ship stops and the spells have a chance to catch up.”
“You’re a wizard—can you send word back about where we’re headed?”
“Not without violating my oath and jeopardizing my magic’s source.”
“What would happen if you broke your word?”
He looked away.
In the morning, they were allowed to stroll the deck. Lucy would have liked to lean on Devon’s arm but as the supposed Pot-King’s son she felt it necessary to exhibit a masculine swagger. She hoped it was more convincing than it felt.
They exchanged histories. Devon had grown up in the Old Islands, magic-wracked lands populated by scattered tribes. The Pot-King, he said, struggled to recruit as many as he could.
“Everyone says they know the secret of his power and everyone says something different,” he said. “But he’s a match for any three sorcerers on the Old Continent.”
“Then why isn’t his son a powerful wizard?” Lucy said.
“Mages don’t manifest power until they start to come of age,” he said. “You know, when they start getting beards.” He blushed and left the rest unsaid: his squeaky voice and downy cheek showed no trace of manhood.
Lucy told him about being the youngest, an unexpected and unwanted child trailing after her louder, bolder, braver siblings.
“Mouse,” she said. “And Meepling, and Slink, and Little Miss Silent, that’s what they call me.”
“I have no brothers and sisters to call me anything,” Devon said. “I envy you.”
As they approached to the Lesser Southern Isles, the days and nights grew balmier. The cook taught them how to fish and how to throw a weighted hand-net to catch the schools of small fish or shrimp swimming in the wave tops. Whatever they caught showed up in their evening bread and fish stew.
After dinner they were allowed to listen to the stories of the sailors, who sat passing tobacco pipes, telling tales of kraken and merfolk and great living islands that dove when unwary sailors went ashore and built fires to cook their meals.
Captain Miryam did not take part in the storytelling. Lucy saw him rarely—a glimpse now and again as he paced the front deck, green eyes gleaming in the evening shadows.
Two days later, the Captain sent for Lucy again. He unrolled a map and gestured at her to look.
What she presumed were the Lesser Southern Isles spread across the parchment in coin-shaped irregularities. One blob that aspired to hand-sized sat towards the map’s upper edge. The Captain tapped the space beside it.
“This,” he said, “is where we are now.”
He pointe
d to a circle halfway down the map. “And here is the Coral Tower.”
“Which is?” Lucy asked.
He snorted. “Your daddy keeps it all close, eh, son?” He stroked his moustache, eying Lucy. “Or are you playing it coy so I’ll underestimate you?” He smiled. “I presume you know the perils of a young girl caught on a pirate ship. They may be all charm and fishing lore while you’re under my wing, but should that…protection be withdrawn, you would find your form more disadvantageous.”
“I told you, I can’t lift the spell,” Lucy said.
He studied her. “Very well. The Coral Tower is an ancient artifact, discovered when these Isles were first settled. It sits in the water, surrounded by coral reefs. Inside, a staircase leads down. Some say to the Earth’s center, others to chambers filled with treasure.”
He shrugged. “What I know is that your father went down there and returned with immense power, and that he had to use his own blood to pay for that bargain. Now the tower is sealed to all but those of that blood—you’ll lead the way and take me down to where I can make my own deal.”
“Oh,” Lucy said blankly. “All right.”
He smiled tightly at her. This close in the cabin, she could smell him, sweat and the sweet amber fragrance that came from the clothes chest at the foot of the uncomfortably close and lavish bed. She felt hyper-aware of his presence, the smell of the anise seeds he chewed, the way his moustache curled, the fine wrinkles at the corners of his electric green eyes.
“All right,” he said. He sighed, staying where he was. “What use are you, little mage?” His hand took her shoulder; it was warm through her shirt’s worn linen. She shivered. Something coiled and uncoiled in her core.
“What are you like under this disguise?” Captain Miryam’s voice was husky and soft. “Is this the form you yearn for, the form of your soul itself? Are you a demure little maiden, eyelashes so blonde and fine I can barely see them in the lamplight?” His breath stirred the hairs on her neck. She gasped for breath, a sudden shocked sound that made him withdraw.
Her face burned as she was taken back to the hold.