Chapter Nineteen Ris
chapter nineteen
ris
When I wake, I feel as though I could sleep for another year.
It takes me a moment to understand my surroundings.
Dark wooden beams and a lumpy bed. I throw open the curtains and window, letting the weak light into the dusty room.
Biba laughs high and bright, waking from her peaceful dreams. I smell the air, sharp and briny, and listen to the voices on the wind: Nishian, Lassren, and other urgent tongues.
Voices from below, shuffling of furniture, heavy footfall on the stairs. We follow our noses to the dining room and could almost cry at the sight of the breakfast spread. Bowls overflowing with rice, fried fish, eggs, wheels of cheese, and fresh greens.
Among the inn’s guests I recognise the eavesdroppers: the man and his daughter.
His awareness of his broad frame as he moves, trying not to knock his dining companions.
He proffers a plate of soft-boiled eggs at the kid.
They’re wiry, all limbs inside their loose-fitting overalls.
Three thin ribbons are clumsily tied into their fringe: blue, purple, and green.
She, they, any. They don’t look much like a merchant and daughter.
‘Hungry?’ Ligaya asks Biba and she nods enthusiastically. I hover awkwardly by the bench until the merchant moves down to make space.
We sit, and I surreptitiously eye him as I spoon some rice into my bowl. His face is handsome, a small scar on his right eyebrow, which enhances the dark, strong features. I can tell from his tan lines he recently got rid of a beard. There’s something reassuring in the heft of him.
‘I’m sorry you had to see that last night,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Not the most pleasant of introductions. I’m Ris, and this is Biba.’
‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘I’m sorry we were so rude. Larkin. And Isa.’
I stare at him and then Isa, remembering the names they gave last night. It wasn’t a common name; one I hadn’t heard in years. ‘I would appreciate if you kept what you saw to yourselves.’
The merchant Larkin winks.
‘And I’d be glad of some honesty too,’ I add and his expression shifts.
‘Excuse me?’ he asks.
‘Those aren’t your true names,’ I say.
The colour drains from his face, and he turns defensive. ‘Are you a Bastion spy?’ he asks through gritted teeth.
‘Of course not,’ I glower. ‘But I know you’re lying.’
‘I’m Isagani,’ they say, trying to ease the tension at the table. ‘So, not too far off.’
The man looks at me stubbornly. ‘Nothing personal, love. We’ve lied to a lot of folk.’
‘I’ll keep your cover,’ I say, trying to even my voice. ‘You’ve seen what my girl can do. We’re in the same boat, friend. A little honesty builds trust.’
‘Finlyr,’ the man mumbles, relenting.
‘Are you really father and daughter?’
‘They’re my kin,’ Finlyr says firmly, and I steal a glance at Isagani, who ducks their head to hide their blush.
A large, black otter-cat prowls into the dining room, and Biba stares at it. She grabs a fish from her plate and holds it out to the creature.
‘Biba, that’s impolite!’ I admonish, but the otter-cat grabs the proffered fish by the tail and lays it down on the rug. ‘My thanks, little one,’ he says, his voice low and guttural.
‘He can talk!’ Biba says, clapping her hands together.
‘That wee bastard is Sinigang,’ the merchant explains. ‘He comes with the inn. Unfortunately. Soon you’ll want to strangle him with his own tail.’
‘He’s an otter-cat,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ Finlyr replies. ‘You outer island folk never seen a hybrid before?’
‘They don’t usually talk, do they?’ I ask, observing Sinigang tearing into his breakfast, ripping the silver head off the fish and meticulously gnawing at the delicate bones.
‘You’ll have to ask him yourself,’ Finlyr says with a laugh.
I snort. ‘What sort of place have we come to?’
‘Narra seems to collect trouble.’
‘What about those two?’ I nod at Ligaya and Morna, who are bringing in plates of bread and pastries and more of those moreish buns.
‘Narra’s pretty apprentice and her culinary supplier? When they aren’t staring at books or plants they’re making eyes at each other.’
Some of the inn’s other guests are standing around the cauldron, which hangs above the fireplace.
They have wooden bowls in their hands and scoop ladlefuls from the pot, one person standing at the cauldron and serving while the others pass filled bowls back.
Eventually one makes its way to us and Isagani passes it to Biba.
‘Careful, it’s hot,’ they say, and she grabs it gently but firmly and sets it down on the bench in front of her.
‘What is that?’ I ask.
‘Perpetual stew,’ Finlyr says. ‘Surely you have that on the outer isles?’
‘Aye,’ I say indignantly, rootling in my mind for any such thing at Vullis’s tavern.
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘You’re suspicious of everything.’
‘If I don’t know it, how can I trust it?’ I counter.
‘Oh, for Paranish’s sake,’ he mutters under his breath. ‘It’s magic, that’s all.’
Biba looks up from her plate and stares at Finlyr, blinking. We’ve never heard anyone speak so openly of the touched and their powers. She’s never heard such free talk of her power. It must be a relief to find others like you, and to not be feared by those who aren’t.
He smiles at her. ‘I bet you haven’t seen many witches, eh?’
She colours. I look around until I’m satisfied none of the other guests have heard us over the hubbub of breakfast.
‘Ligaya told me about the emerald vine,’ Biba says slowly.
‘Oh, you’ve heard the love story too, eh?’ Finlyr asks.
‘She came from Lassair to find an emerald vine,’ Isagani adds, seeing my raised eyebrow.
‘It was her mama’s last wish,’ Biba chimes in.
I watch as the words come tumbling out. Is she afraid a pause for breath will have her story silenced?
‘It only blossoms ever so rarely. And it doesn’t grow on Lassair because that’s on the water.
Ligaya said when she sleeps, she still feels the boat rocking.
Makes her feel like her mama’s still holding her .
. .’ She trails off, twisting the hem of her pinafore.
She’s travel-worn, knees scraped and dirt under her fingernails.
She adds, in a whisper: ‘Sometimes I feel like that too.’
I blink back tears and try to smile at her. ‘I’m glad you’ve had a chance to talk with Ligaya and Narra,’ I tell Biba. ‘We don’t know many like-folk,’ I add for Finlyr and Isagani’s benefit.
Biba reaches for my hand, and I feel a jolt, like your heart in your mouth when you miss the final step.
Then the inquisitive chirrup of the otter-cat. He’s found his way back into Biba’s lap and has probably been observing for who knows how long, so silent he’s practically a shadow.
‘You’re the map-holder,’ Sinigang says quietly, just for us.
I nod. ‘And you’re magic-touched.’
‘Not so much touched, as simply . . . am,’ he says. ‘A strange concept to you, I think. But not to her.’ He purrs as Biba strokes his head.
‘He’s not a pet, Biba,’ I say, harsher than I mean to.
She looks at me. ‘He’s wild, not bad.’
‘I don’t think you’re talking about the same otter-cat,’ Isagani says under their breath.
‘Narra’s cauldron brings together many strange ingredients,’ Sinigang says, winking at me. ‘You’re already beginning to find what you’re looking for.’
Finlyr stands up, slapping his knees with those massive hands. ‘Right, time to get on.’
A shiver runs up my spine as he moves away, singing a work song I recognise from sailors in taverns. His deep voice is surprisingly warm, low and rumbling as he carries a tune:
‘Haul away from shore to shore
The lover of the ocean
Never could they love me more
Than sailing the horizon’
Not a merchant, but a sailor. An invisible golden thread pulling us along first from Morna’s to Narra’s . . . and now to this strange man with secrets I must unearth.