10. Ten
Chapter 10
I grew up outside a village just like Missaniech. If I squinted I could be home at Zebitun, with the piles of nets by the cracked docks, the fish-wives with long daggers on their belts and husbands with babies on their hips. Just like home, the snaggle-toothed old grandmothers sat by the Etegen with their bitter wine, calling questions to the fish-craft as each came in or out, as if they themselves had been tasked to supervise the dance with the sea.
It was the sort of place that nobody ever moved to or from, unless, perhaps, you were marrying in from an identical town a few hours down the coast. Even my parents, whose pottery was good enough to be sold off-island, refused to leave the spit of land where they’d been born.
But now, finally, I was going to.
I walked straight through the village to the sea without greeting anybody. Three of the old women sat by the water, on rickety wooden stools that they probably brought down from their homes every day.
“When’s the next ship to Rovileis?” I asked. The Etegen beside us was covered in colorful boats, fishing-craft bobbing on the swells of the sea with nets and lines draped over the edges. The ships held sun-darkened women yelling and laughing at each other, some close enough for their calls to reach my ears, some far enough from shore that they were barely specks.
The old women craned their heads slowly to take me in: my dark tangled hair tied back with a blood-red scarf, the gray overskirt knotted on top of my sleeveless linen dress, the full leather bag over my shoulder.
“Eudoria’s girl?” one of them asked. Her skin was spotted with age and her knobby fingers clamped like claws around her wine-cup. “The Golden Hound won’t be in for a week.”
“Two weeks,” one of her companions said, a woman at least fifteen years younger with her hair shorn. One of her legs was propped awkwardly in front of her, the knee misshapen. This, I figured, was the reason she’d joined the ranks of old women already, despite still being of an age to ride the sea.
The first speaker waved her hand. “A week at least,” she said firmly.
“Fine. But who else sails to Rovileis?”
“There’s nobody sails from Rovileis here but the Hound. What’s the old seer need?”
She’s dead , I almost said. But instead I ground my heel against the pebbled shore with a frown.
“Is there someone who would sail there? I need to go.”
The eldest bowed her head, as if she were nodding off. Then: “Boreas might take you to Pilkonos. You could find a ship from there.”
“Good. Fine. Who’s Boreas?”
I had a bad feeling as the old woman lifted her thin arm and waved, then whistled sharply. I turned over my shoulder to look at who she was beckoning. There was a group of men and women a little way down the shore, sorting out a big catch and preparing it for salting. One of the men straightened, wiped his hands on his trousers, and shaded his eyes.
Even from a distance, I could recognize him as the man who’d shown up with the flowers. I turned with a groan in time to see the old grandmother beckon him over.
“Him?”
“My grandson,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at me. I wondered if it was a coincidence that she’d recommended Boreas or whether the old woman knew her grandchild had eyes for a half-rate witch.
Boreas trotted up, and then faltered when he saw me. He ducked his head, cheeks darkening as a blush stained them.
“I need to go to Rovileis,” I told him. “I’ll pay.”
“Boreas.” The old woman flapped her hand, training the boy’s attention. “Take her to Pilkonos. Yes?”
“Yes, grandmother,” he mumbled. Boreas frowned at me and then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Boat’s this way,” he said, and jerked his head towards the dock.
With a sigh, I followed him. The boat was small, with a single sail as well as oars stowed under the open bench. A half-inch of water sloshed at the bottom of the hull, and a wet lump of netting tangled in the corner next to a rusted box. I sat primly with my back to Boreas, trying not to invite conversation. He loosened the mooring ties and shoved away from the dock with one oar.
“Mistress?” He cleared his throat. “If you could catch the wind? We’d go faster.”
There was still power in the air, slowly fading but glimmering all around us. Wordlessly I did as he asked, carefully limiting the spell so no flood of magic would turn it into a hurricane. How odd it felt, to cast without thinking of going cold. To cast without worrying if the spell was too big.
I could not enjoy it.
I felt certain Boreas would try to strike up a conversation with me. He must have been wise enough to read the stiff lines of my shoulder and the way I sat with my back to him, bag on my lap. He didn’t say another word. It was a few hours, I think, before we reached Pilkonos. I was starving by then, and my head ached. I didn’t feel like crying but I did feel thoroughly miserable.
I paid him three argit.
“When you come back…” Boreas started to say. He’d tied the boat to the dock and was looking at me with big, hopeful eyes. I wondered if he’d spent the whole ride working up the courage to ask me something. It didn’t matter. I knew my answer.
I stood up, legs wide. The little boat swayed under my feet, restlessly bobbing at the end of its mooring. It was years since I had been out on the Etegen, but the gait of the waves was as familiar as breathing. My family might not have been fishers by trade, but we were still Nis-Illousian, home at sea as much as land.
Eudoria would want me to give him a chance, a treacherous part of me whispered. I could not do that.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not interested, nor will I be,” I said with a wince, not meeting his eyes. I took the broad step onto the more stable ground of the floating dock, which rose and fell but did not sway side to side.
Pilkonos was the size of three little fishing-villages put together. Perhaps that was pathetic for a capital city, but that was Nis-Illous for you. I didn’t even leave the harbor to go into town. I bought a slice of baked flat bread covered in herbs from a man who had a stack of them on a donkey cart, and then I started asking every sailor I saw if they knew a ship leaving for Rovileis. It only took a handful of tries before a woman with three braids and wide-cut trousers pointed me in the direction of the Sea-Sprint and told me I’d better hurry if I wanted a spot.
It was three days to Rovileis, and one argor for a private cabin and meals. The Sprint was leaving within the hour. If I wanted to ask for prices of other ships they wouldn’t hold my spot. That was well enough, because I was in no mood to run up and down the Pilkonos harbor bargaining. I handed over my money, locked the door to my narrow cabin—even smaller than my room at Eudoria’s—and did not emerge except for food and the latrine until the ship’s bell tolled to announce we had arrived.
By that time the last of the heavy outland magic had finally faded cold. The air was as devoid of power as it had always been. I had slept through, dull with grief, and made no use of the opportunity to work another casting.