The Mermaid, the Witch, and the Sea

by Maggie Tokuda-Hall

  Rake lay back in her bedding and allowed himself to enjoy the clean smell of it. Not much aboard the Dove was clean. And not much aboard the Dove was enjoyable. The Lady Ayer’s sheets smelled of lavender, and of something else. Something earthy. Women, Rake guessed. It’d been a long time since he’d smelled a woman. That must have been the smell he could not trace.

  He tried in vain to remember when last he’d been close enough to a woman to smell her. Years, easily. After drinking the mermaid’s blood, he’d rather lost the taste for intimacy.

  What good did it do to dwell? It was a useless pastime.

  It was as he measured the various gains and losses of sex that he started to notice his eyes closing. This of itself was not odd, except that Rake was not tired. So why was it he could not seem to keep his eyes open? Why was it that sleep overtook him, even as he struggled furiously against it?

  Rake woke with a blade pressed to his neck. It was pitch-black in the cabin, but he could still make out two female forms. One grown, one still a child. Ah. The smell had not just been the smell of woman. How stupid he’d been. It was the smell of Kiyohime powder, the favored poison of the Imperial elite. Rubbed into fabric and touched by bare skin, it caused a deep, immediate sleep. Inhaled or eaten: death.

  It was a coward’s weapon, but a clever one.

  She was no fool, this noblewoman. Rake bit back a smile of approval.

  “Where is she?” demanded the Lady Ayer.

  “Safe,” Rake croaked. Safer, anyway. The blade was pushed harder than was, he thought, strictly necessary. Still, he could understand the Lady’s enthusiasm.

  “Tell me or I’ll slit your throat.”

  “She and the boy, Florian. Escaped in the night.”

  The Lady Ayer made a sound that could have been a scoff or a laugh. She pushed the blade harder into his flesh, and Rake felt the warm slide of blood trickle down his neck.

  “Take me to them,” she ordered.

  “Would that I could.” Rake did his best to push his head back and away from the Lady’s blade. “But they are long gone. To the Floating Islands, if luck held fast. On one of the rowboats.”

  “There is one less abovedeck than when we boarded,” the girl chimed in. Her voice was not nearly so confident as the Lady’s, but still she held a pistol trained on Rake’s heart.

  “Them — and the mermaid, too.”

  “I told you she’s gone,” the girl said triumphantly. “We’ve looked everywhere, and —”

  “Quiet.” The Lady’s voice was hushed but held the undeniable assurance of command. So. The girl was trained, too. Or training.

  “They’re in love, you know,” Rake said. Florian had not admitted as much, but he could see it. He was different with Evelyn. But caring for these two young people — it was the only thing he and the Lady Ayer had in common. “The Hasegawa girl more assuredly than Florian, but only because she has known more love in her life.”

  The Lady Ayer held Rake’s gaze, and it seemed to him that she did not blink. It was not often that Rake felt anyone truly looked at him. He had the talent of slipping into the periphery. But the Lady Ayer regarded him with such intensity that he could not deny it. She saw him, all right.

  “Go on.” Her voice was ice.

  “Florian came to this crew along with his brother. And no matter how the boy suffers for his brother’s incompetence, he never leaves him — and he could have left a dozen times. Slipped off in the night. But then the Lady Hasegawa came aboard and everything changed.”

  “Anyone could have seen that. Him mooning about after her.”

  “He was assigned to her, milady. He wasn’t mooning. Not at first anyway. But he grew to love her, and when I offered him freedom, for him and for her, he took it.”

  The Lady laughed openly at Rake now. “And you’d have me believe it was you who offered them freedom? How very gallant of you. Though . . .” And here, she pressed the knife to his neck with more pressure. It was not the first time Rake had a blade held to his throat; however, it was one of the more effectively held ones. He could not move for fear of being cut. “You don’t seem the gallant type. Does he, Genevieve?”

  “I’m afraid not, my lady.” Rake felt a flash of hatred for the girl, this Genevieve. She was a traitor to Quark, one of those who chose Imperial rule over freedom. She disgusted him, just as much as he clearly disgusted her. She regarded her lady with simpering pride.

  That — perhaps — he could understand.

  The placement of her blade. The confidence of her interrogation. This was indeed no normal Imperial lady. Too expert, too smooth. Rake would have to tread carefully with her.

  “I could ensure your freedom, too, milady,” Rake gasped. He wished she would not hold the blade just so. “I chose your berth in the hope that you might return. I see the bookcase has been moved slightly; you’ve been hiding behind it?” He paused, watched to see if her face betrayed anything. It did not. But her girl looked from the bookcase to him with worry. Rake smiled.

  “You’re most astute, madam,” he continued. “I am not, in fact, the least bit gallant. But I am also not a part of this crew — as you know it, anyway. And if you would join me, not only could I keep you safe for the remainder of our voyage, but I could also ensure your release once it is complete.”

  “I know what you are,” the Lady Ayer said at a whisper. “And if you think the word of a Pirate Supreme’s operative means anything to me, you’re wrong.” She reached around and held Rake by the back of his neck menacingly. “Why should I trust you?”

  How did she know? Rake’s mind whirred with fear. If this woman knew, what was known among the crew? A thousand questions screamed in his mind. If he turned her over to the captain to maintain his facade, she would spill his secrets.

  He would have to make an ally of her now. It was his only hope.

  “For one, do I seem surprised to find your blade at my throat? As I’ve said, I came here looking for you. Second, you could surely kill me now. But the slit neck of the first mate would certainly tip the crew off to a danger on board, and they would not stop looking until you were found, gutted, and strung up on the rigging for all the other passengers to see. Currently, they believe you escaped with the young miss and Florian. So, as it stands, you have no choice but to trust me.”

  “Is that so? I think that, should I be so inclined to tell him, your Nameless Captain would be very pleased to receive confirmation of the Pirate Supreme’s operative on board his ship.”

  “Here’s what I think. I think you can hide here, under my protection. No more skulking about the Dove, in constant risk of being caught. You may sleep during the day so you make as little noise as possible. I will bring you food with as much frequency as I can. At night, you and I shall plan. We will work together. Can we agree to these terms?”

  Genevieve looked to the Lady hopefully. Likely the offer of food would have been sufficient for her needs. Rake had some idea of what limited stores they’d been able to steal, and it certainly couldn’t have been filling.

  “We have an accord,” the Lady said. She pulled the blade from his throat, but not gently. The tip nicked the sensitive skin just above his collarbone. A drop of blood disappeared beneath his shirt.

  He’d have to be very careful with her.

  The Nameless Captain had become a grave nuisance. Whereas before he had focused his passenger-ship con upon small outpost towns, far from Imperial rule, he was now becoming brazen. He brushed liberally against the Imperial shores, which endangered all pirates. It was known, of course, that Imperial merchant ships could and should be robbed on the open seas. But only the Pirate Supreme sailed on Crandon.

  Even more grievously, the Nameless Captain not only allowed but encouraged his men to trap mermaids. The colonies had seen a boom of them, both in supply and, since more had tasted the blood, demand.

  Rake was more than happy to chase down a rumor on behalf of the Pirate Supreme.

  Word was, the captain had gone to an
artisan in Quark to weave ropes, invisible when wet, made especially for trapping mermaids. It was a rumor that Rake assumed to be true, since when he found the home of the purported artisan to verify the story, he discovered that the man had been murdered not long ago.

  Rake did not dally in Gia Dinh. It was the capital city of Quark, and also home for a childhood that was long since gone. Being there only served to make Rake’s skin crawl with recognition of past terrors. Here is the town square where they hanged the resistance fighters. Here it was they put Mother’s head on a pike.

  Since the Imperial Guard had taken Quark, nothing was the same. Everything that had made Quark Quark had been sacrificed at the altar of Imperial rule. It was an orderly place now. Orderly and dead inside, just like Crandon.

  So it was not long before he was back in the Pirate Supreme’s stronghold to report what he had found.

  For their part, the Supreme had bad news. Manuel was dead.

  They sat, as the Supreme preferred, on the steps of the stronghold that led directly into the Sea. As was their way, the Supreme had picked up two chalices from the floor of the throne room, mismatched, and had bidden Rake to join them for some rum.

  When Rake heard of the death, he did not cry. But he and the Supreme did raise their chalices to Manuel, in silence and before the Sea. It was a blue day, but the Sea was alight with whitecaps from the wind that howled across the waters. It seemed a worthy tribute.

  “He was a good man,” said the Supreme after some silence.

  “Truly.” Rake turned his chalice in his hand. It was gold, encrusted with sapphires cut like teardrops. He’d never held anything so beautiful, or valuable, in his life. It was odd to drink from it, to see it in his own hand. Inappropriate, somehow. That he should be holding it. That Manuel should be dead.

  The Supreme stretched their hands to the sky and cracked their back. They seemed almost like a normal person in that moment, just another sailor enjoying the view of the Sea. “I am sad to lose him, but I am especially sad to lose him to the Nameless Captain.”

  “Ah.” Rake had wondered what Manuel’s mission was. He’d been gone for nearly two years already.

  “With the majority of our fleet fighting off the Imperial forces along the Red Shore, I hardly have the ships and men it would require to simply take the Dove by force.” The Supreme paused, took a long, thoughtful sip from their chalice. “So. Red-haired Rake.”

  “You want me to bring you the Nameless Captain.” Manuel had not been the first operative sent to take the man down. At least one other that Rake had heard of had gone and was presumed dead. Being assigned to the Nameless Captain was not something Rake took lightly. If Manuel had been caught — and Manuel was easily the most competent man he knew — then how was Rake to succeed where he had failed?

  He took a swig, somewhat larger than he’d meant to, and sputtered.

  The Supreme slapped him on the back and laughed. “And that is precisely what you shall do.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “You will. He will stand trial, of course, but we both know his blood must return to the Sea.”

  They raised their chalices once more.

  But she died. In a fire.”

  Flora had not been taking to her lessons easily, and Xenobia was clearly frustrated with her lack of progress, which was fair. Flora knew she wasn’t the smartest, knew that Evelyn had been overly patient with her. The memory of it now itched, humiliating for a variety of reasons, not least of which was the witch’s look of annoyance now. They sat across the table from each other, as they did every night, and discussed the stories Xenobia told.

  Flora, for her part, still did not understand the story of the First Witch.

  “It was the price she paid,” Xenobia said. Again. “All power comes at a price.”

  “Then why use spells at all?” Flora asked. She did not like the idea of making trades, the consequences of which she did not understand. She was no gambler, not like Alfie. She’d watched him lose at dice enough to know that gambling was a foolish endeavor. And if she understood Xenobia correctly, then all witchcraft was — at its core — a kind of high-stakes gambling.

  “That’s a simple way of looking at it,” she said.

  Flora glared at her. “Well, I’m simple.”

  Xenobia sighed. “Are you hungry?” she asked finally.

  “Always.”

  The witch chuckled. “Make me some soup, then.”

  Flora stood. Usually Xenobia cooked, and cooked well, but fair was fair. She was willing to earn her keep. She looked about the kitchen and at the empty shelves. “Should I go out and get something to cook with?”

  “Everything you need is here.”

  Flora looked around more carefully now. There was the hearth, with the empty cauldron. Fresh drinking water in a wooden barrel, lowered down from the flats by the pulleys only that afternoon. But nothing edible, nothing of substance.

  “Do you have stores elsewhere?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t make you soup.” Flora sat once more. Her mind was tired from the many lessons Xenobia had been trying — and failing — to teach her. And still, the fact that Evelyn had abandoned her at the first chance weighed on Flora’s heart, a burden too large to ignore. She did not have the strength for this newest riddle, did not have the patience for learning. Education, it seemed, led only to folly.

  Xenobia stood and pulled a stone down from her shelves. It was unremarkable, one of the lined black stones that made up the cliffs of the Floating Islands, of Barilacha’s streets.

  “This stone,” Xenobia said, “was once a part of the mountain in which this house is built.” She held it to her ear, as though listening to it. “It was knocked loose by an elevator that rocked in the wind, carrying a heavy load. And so it fell, down and down, until it hit the soft sand of the beach. And then it was alone, a small thing that had once been part of something great. Until a young boy picked it up and chucked it at a stubborn goat who would not move. He missed the goat — the rock was too big for him — but the rock shattered into two pieces from his efforts. Then the rock was trodden under the feet and hooves of people and goats until it was small enough for me to pick up and tuck into my skirts.”

  “Uh-huh . . .” Flora said. It was, she could tell, another riddle. Another story. It did her no good, did not ease the ache of her hunger, nor the ache of her heart.

  “Then I found it. And I held it to my chest, and I listened to its story. I let that story into my heart and I kept it there, safe and sound, and honored. And now” — Xenobia dropped the stone into the cauldron with a loud clunk —“I will help it tell the next chapter of its story.”

  Flora laughed. “I’ve heard this story before. A traveler asks for food in a village and everyone says no. So the traveler says they will make soup with only a stone, and, entranced, everyone gathers to watch this miracle. As he cooks, he calls out for the ingredients he needs — onion, garlic, carrots, meat — and the villagers, so invested in seeing stone soup become real, contribute each ingredient in turn. Right?”

  “A nice story, but not a likely one. People are stupid, but not that stupid. No, that is not the story I’ll tell today.” Xenobia lifted the barrel and splashed some of the water into the cauldron, over the stone, then lit a fire underneath it. “Today, I will tell this stone: Once you were a part of something great. Once you were part of a mountain, and you were happy, and you were important. When you fell, you thought that you would never be happy, not ever again, never be important, not ever again. But you were wrong, sweet stone, for now you are a part of a great pot of nourishing stew. Like the mountain, you will give life. Like the mountain, you will be great. Like the mountain, you will have purpose. You will give sustenance to those who had none, and that will make you great again.”

  Xenobia’s voice was almost like a song, the way the words rolled from her tongue, soft and melodious. At first, Flora thought she only imagined it. That it was simply an olfactory hall
ucination caused by her hunger. For as the witch spoke, the smells of a rich stew — of lime and cilantro, of onion, of fatty meat — began to fill the kitchen.

  Flora’s mouth watered.

  Xenobia took a ladle, spooned out a great steaming serving of meat stew into one of her wooden bowls, and pushed it before Flora. It looked as delicious as it smelled, and Flora could hardly contain her wonder.

  “If you would listen,” Xenobia said. “If you would let these stories into your heart, you could guard yourself against hunger. Forever.”

  Flora took a bite of the stew. It tasted, if possible, even better than it looked, even better than it smelled. Delicious. Delectable. Like a warm, dry blanket on a cold, wet night. Like relief, not only for her hunger, but for her worry, for every day that she’d had to fear for her life. As though in one bite, the stew had cured her of a lifetime of hunger. As though she would never be hungry ever again.

  What price would she have paid, in those days of stolen moldy bread, to know she could be free of that fear? To be free of that constant, terrible worry?

  Anything.

  She would have paid anything.

  “Do you see?” Xenobia asked. “Do you hear me now?”

  “Yes,” Flora said solemnly. “I do.”

  She finished the bowl of stew, then another. Then another. She let it fill her belly until she felt slow and sleepy from it. Had she ever felt so relaxed in her whole life? Had she ever felt so full?

  This is what wealth must feel like, she thought. Like a warm belly full of food, and knowing that still there is more should you desire it.

  Likely, this was how Evelyn had lived her whole life. And if Flora wanted her back, that was the life she needed to be prepared to provide. Of course this was the life Evelyn wanted. Flora wanted it, too. Xenobia could teach her how to take it. Maybe. Maybe if I can do this, then . . .

  It was as she sat back in the small wooden chair that she realized she’d been eating alone. Xenobia had only been watching. When she saw Flora looking at her quizzically, she smiled a thin, papery smile.