Chapter Seventeen Ris
chapter seventeen
ris
The mainland is everything I expected: raucous, pungent, and barely room to swing an otter-cat. It starts to rain once we dock in Umasa, a kind of dreich mizzle that soaks through everything. The air is filled with the stench of blood mingled with salt water.
Our disembarkation is blocked by a Seaguardian stalking the dock. He eyes us coldly, gaze landing on our bags. ‘Name and origin.’
‘Ris, from Alev on the Spring Isle,’ I say, looking down. It’s impossible to make myself small and pretty, so I try meek.
‘And what’s this?’ he asks, pointing to the swelling and bruises on my face.
‘An accident,’ I say.
He laughs, deep from the belly. ‘Oh, aye. And I’m the queen’s priestess. And who’s this then, another accident?’ he asks, laughing harder as he points at Biba.
‘Something like that.’ I try to smile, to ride this camaraderie.
His expression changes like a mainland wind. ‘State your business.’
‘We’re visiting Umasa,’ I say, holding Biba’s hand more tightly.
‘I can see that,’ he says churlishly. ‘For how long?’
I blanch. Like a fool, I haven’t prepared thorough answers. He watches me struggle. ‘A week or so.’
‘We’re here to see the baby,’ Biba interjects.
We both stare down at her and I remember that stupid unfinished blanket.
‘Yes, we’re taking in the sights, hoping to witness the royal birth.’
He seems to soften at this. I can see it writ plain on his face: he thinks we’re country fools on a jolly. I slacken my face into overwhelmed bemusement.
‘Keep your wits about you. Umasa’s crawling with unscrupulous types. Especially since they opened the docks to foreigners and returners.’
I notice the town square and the empty gallows and dare a question. ‘What happened here?’
The Seaguardian follows my gaze. ‘Long drop and a short stop.’
The breeze picks up and I shudder.
‘On your way,’ he dismisses, and we squeeze past him, hurrying onto solid ground.
‘Are all mainlanders like that?’ Biba asks.
‘I certainly hope not,’ I answer, leading us down the seafront. I pause, looking at Biba. ‘That was very clever and brave of you to think of that. Hopefully you won’t have to do something like that again. Do you understand?’
She nods, her expression serious. ‘Only help a little.’
Windswept shopfronts line the boardwalk, and someone sweeps sand from their stoop.
Biba drags on me, slowing her pace to take in the stream of folk in the streets.
I struggle to focus as voices float past on the wind, accented Nishian and strange song-like tongues I don’t recognise.
At last, I hear Nishian proper, someone arguing with an outsider.
‘How can I best make myself understood—’ and then the voice shifts into another language, and the outsider laughs, responding in kind.
I stare, trying to find the source through the crowd.
Eventually I find them: a person tall and plainly dressed, but the quality of the material is obviously good even at this distance.
They are standing in their doorway, pointing to something in the shopfront to the outsider, a potential customer.
I can’t read the sign above the door, but as we pass by the smell of fresh baking overwhelms me.
It is at odds with the shape in the shopfront, square and under a thin silk cloth. By Paranish, do they sell books?
The shop owner can no longer ignore our idle stares. No doubt they think us outer isle folk too gormless to know better. I’m sure my black eye and busted lip don’t help.
‘May I help you?’ they ask.
Biba is looking past them to find the source of the smell.
The stranger softens when they see Biba.
‘After your breakfast, aye?’ And then adds: ‘Take a seat while I settle up here, would you?’
Their warmth and candour is disarming, and I can’t help but do what they say.
The front of the shop is lined with shelves, all stacked high with books.
The smell of wood mingles with the baking, and we linger, trying not to touch anything.
Biba seems reverent, her eyes drinking everything in.
She reaches out to a plant wilting in the front window.
The stems dance at her presence, as if her touch were water reviving them.
I grab her hand and urge her towards a corner near the back.
Here I’m on more familiar ground: a wooden table in a nook near a warm stove and display cabinets where rows of fresh cakes, pastries, and pies sit steaming in the morning sun.
‘Business concluded, on to breakfast.’ The shopkeeper claps their hands as they join us in the back. They smile kindly at Biba, who is stealing a glance at the cabinets. ‘Do you know what you’d like?’
‘She’s a bit tuckered out,’ I admit. ‘It’s been a long journey.’
‘Where did you come from?’
‘The Spring Isle.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard it’s lovely there,’ they say politely.
I’m not sure what is particularly lovely about the Spring Isle, perhaps simply the novelty of it.
‘Welcome to Umasa. I’m Morna.’ Morna makes the corresponding hand sign to indicate she.
She pushes her hair behind her ear, and I finally catch the small blue ribbon braided into her hair.
‘Ris and Biba,’ I respond.
‘How about I plate you up a few of my favourites?’ She smiles.
Biba nods and Morna disappears behind a counter, talking cheerfully as she gathers up an assortment from the display.
‘Careful, it’s hot,’ I say, as Biba takes a seeded bun from the plate as soon as it’s set down.
‘Open it like this to let out the steam,’ Morna says, putting her hands around Biba’s and gently tearing the bun in half. She licks the golden filling from her fingers as she waits. ‘Salt and sweet,’ she informs me.
‘What brings you to the mainland?’ Morna asks conversationally, tidying the kitchen area.
‘To celebrate the royal birth,’ I say, feigning excitement.
‘You’re a bit early.’ Morna laughs. ‘Although I suppose babes come when they like. But not before Magliyab, I imagine.’
Biba is tugging on my sleeve, and I see half the plate of treats is little more than crumbs and sauce. ‘Mama, is this who you’re looking for?’
I shush Biba and take a flat cake and nibble at the edges.
Morna busies herself and I can tell she’s trying not to eavesdrop, but my cheeks burn. I look at the books in the other alcove of the shop. ‘That person you were speaking with, I hope we weren’t disturbing?’
Morna takes the opening. ‘No, it’s a pleasure to have more folk interested in the book trade now our docks are open.’
‘You seemed to know their language.’
‘Only a smattering,’ they demur. ‘My partner is Lassairian.’
Morna speaks freely, warmly. I look at her face, pinched with concentration as she moves towards the book alcove, straightening stacks.
As I suspected, her clothes are finer than they first suggested.
Books are not commonplace in Paranish, but the docks haven’t been open so long that trade would be flourishing so soon.
I wonder if she has other more established clientèle.
‘Are these all stories, these books?’
‘Not at all,’ Morna says. ‘See here.’ She takes a volume down from a shelf and beckons us over, lowering the book so Biba can see the pages.
‘Look, but don’t touch,’ she says, not unkindly.
She shows us an illustration, which goes across both pages, diagrams of plants with arrows and scribbles.
‘Herb lore,’ she explains, pointing to various elements.
‘See, this is the stamen and these are the petals,’ she points at the diagram and shows Biba.
‘Ah, and see here, we have a living example.’
Morna takes down a shrivelled rosemary plant, its leaves curling and brown.
‘Look, but don’t touch,’ I remind Biba sternly.
The plant undulates towards Biba, its leaves stretching out as if reaching for her.
Morna glances between the book and the empty gap on the shelf. ‘What was this doing on that shelf? Oh no, this is completely miscategorised.’
I can’t risk Morna seeing the plant moving.
‘Do you ever see maps?’ I ask suddenly.
‘Of course,’ she says, closing the book and putting it back on the shelf. The rosemary plant is forgotten.
Biba tugs on Morna’s arm. ‘We have one.’
Morna looks at me, expectantly. We’re here now, and we’ve had the good fortune to stumble upon someone who knows letters. Understanding the map is just the first step.
‘Yes, we do,’ I say, deciding to show my hand. There will be questions, but I have no choice. ‘A fair exchange, of course. Is your advice for sale?’
The bell above the shop door chimes and I turn to see two women enter.
The first is drowning in soft light colours, more fabric than woman.
She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear and deftly sidesteps all obstacles as she enters the shop and makes her way over to us.
She’s followed by an older woman, short and stout with a lined round face.
‘Who are they?’ I ask, standing.
Biba is staring at the women, who smile and approach slowly.
‘These are friends of mine,’ Morna reassures us, pulling up chairs for the newcomers.
‘I’m Ligaya, Morna’s partner,’ the younger woman says, her voice heavily accented.
‘And I’m Narra,’ the older woman adds. ‘I own an inn not far from here.’
Morna sets about brewing a pot of tea and Ligaya begins to make polite conversation in stilted Nishian. Meanwhile, Narra is staring at Biba, who is beaming back at her.
‘Lookit,’ she says, uncurling her fist. Inside are some tiny seeds from the breakfast bun she was eating, retrieved from the plate still on the table.
I struggle to divide my attention between Ligaya’s chatter and Biba, half standing in my chair to grab her. She cries out, startled by my interruption.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, holding her to me and moving to an alcove to soothe her. I hide between the shelves as I hear them murmuring.
‘Did we do something?’ Ligaya asks.
‘What happened?’ asks Morna, over the whistling of the kettle.
Eventually I hear slow and steady footsteps and see Narra at the edge of the nook.
‘I saw what your girl can do,’ she begins, her voice gentle. I flinch but she continues. ‘She’s not the first gifted one we’ve encountered. In fact, I myself am a hedge witch and Ligaya is my apprentice – a kitchen witch.’
I tentatively come back to the table, staring at Ligaya and Narra in turn.
‘We mean you no harm,’ Ligaya says, giving Biba a smile.
‘You’re both – touched?’ I ask, setting Biba down on my lap.
‘We prefer gifted, but yes,’ Narra confirms.
‘Like me?’ Biba turns to the others, her tears mostly over.
‘Can we see what you have?’ Morna asks, coaxing Biba to open her hand.
Biba looks to me for approval and I nod. She opens her palm and the seeds are there, sprouted, the little seedlings squashed but alive.
‘Now that’s lovely,’ Ligaya says.
There’s something in the gentle wonder of Ligaya’s voice that sets me off. I start crying, despite the fact it hurts like something unholy with my injuries.
Narra pats my back, making circles with her hand. ‘Oh, bless you. It’s been a lot to carry, hasn’t it?’
I nod, sobbing and heaving, almost unable to breathe, only to let everything out.
‘Mama, maybe they can help us,’ Biba says, trying to reassure me.
I bring her into my chest and hold her until the tears cease.