Authors: Isobelle Carmody
The soldierguards swung around in surprise to see a snarling dog worrying an apparently terrified horse, and while everyone was thus distracted, I slipped through the gate and down the nearest lane. It was empty, and I sped along it and turned into another intersecting lane. There were people
here, so I slowed to a walk, listening for the sound of pursuit.
Continuing on, I noticed that the houses were less dilapidated than those about the gate, but they still had an unkempt, neglected look. Crossing a square, I spied a public well and stopped to drink. Only then, as I refilled my water bladder, did I remember my midnight encounter with the other Misfit mind. Incredulous that I could have forgotten, I sat on a stone bench beside the well, closed my eyes, and sent out a probe. I searched for some time, concentrating hard, but to no avail. My spirits plummeted, since the probe had most likely failed to locate because the person it sought had left the city.
I shook my head and told myself that the sooner I could get out of the city the better, for it had an unlucky feel about it. Setting off again, I found myself in a street where an open gutter ran down the middle, streaming with privy water and all manner of refuse; it was all I could do not to vomit. The stench was vile, yet people passed along the street or stood by it talking to neighbors, and children screamed or fought or played next to it, all of them apparently oblivious to the noxious mess running by their feet.
I left the street with relief, only to find myself in another just the same, save that the people here all wore rags, and several gave me looks of sullen resentment that made the hair on my neck prickle. I was dressed so plainly that I had given no thought to being robbed, but now it occurred to me that the poverty here was advanced enough to make me a worthy mark. As if summoned up by the thought, a big dull-faced man and a squint-eyed woman stepped out to block my path. Before I could even begin to shape a coercive probe, the dog I had farsought at the city’s entrance came charging past me to snarl meaningfully at the pair.
“ ’Er’s got a doggie,” the big oaf said, beaming down.
“Shut yer neck, yer gollerin’ sheep,” hissed the woman, and dragged the big man back into the doorway from which they had emerged.
“Thank you, but I could have managed,” I beastspoke the dog when we had passed out of sight of the pair.
“Of course you could, ElspethInnle, but it is an honor to aid you,” he sent so amiably that some of my tension abated. I asked if he would lead me to the sea, and as we went on together, he shared, in the highest of good humor, what had happened at the gate. One of the soldierguards had tried to club him, but he had given the funaga-li a bite for his trouble, and instead of being whipped, the horse had been praised by her master for defending herself so bravely against the vicious mad dog. Best of all, he said that as far as he could smell, it was assumed that I had fled in terror, and no one had seemed to care if I had run in or out of the gate.
“Won’t your human be angry?” I asked, for a description would be circulated of a rabid dog.
“I call no funaga master,” he answered with cheerful contempt.
“A wild dog who lives in a city?”
“I am free, not wild,” he said, adding that a city offered good pickings for a smart, free beast. Then he told me that his name was Fever.
“Fever?” I repeated aloud. He barked assent so pertly that I laughed and shook my head. Then I sobered and sent, “I am surprised to hear that there are good pickings here, for this funaga settlement seems poor to me.”
“Pickings are not good for your kind,” the dog agreed. “But there is plenty of good rubbish for a dog to eat, and water and lots of fat rats as well.”
I shuddered, realizing that of course a dog’s notion of a
good place to live would differ greatly from that of a human. We came to another street running with filth, and, sickened, I asked Fever if we might go some other way.
“This is the quickest and the safest way to the waves,” he assured me, untroubled by the squalor.
I struggled on, batting flies away from my mouth and eyes with my free hand and wondering that this city had not sprouted its own plague. Thinking of plagues made me remember the frail teknoguilder Pavo, who had once told me that the Beforetimers had used sickness as a weapon. He had said that they harvested the seeds of sickness and preserved them, just as one would with fruit or maybe seed and grain, so that they could be planted long after and still germinate. Pavo would never have imagined that Ariel would unearth some of these dire seeds and try to unleash an ancient plague in the Land.
I wondered where the Beforetimers had discovered seeds of sickness in the first place. It was hard to imagine plague in the Beforetimes of my past dreams, where everything seemed so smooth and clean and shining. But maybe there had been places like Halfmoon Bay in the Beforetime, where the squalor and poverty had produced a crop of sickness for the taking. It was a strangely horrible thought.
A breath of fresh air blew into my face, redolent with the sweet, clean smell of the sea. Moments later, we came out onto a boardwalk. The dog turned to follow it, and I noticed a scattering of small fishing vessels anchored in the water ahead, but no greatship. On the shore, a large sea market thronged with traders and buyers despite the early hour, and Fever sent that he had a funaga friend who worked on the far side of the market. He offered me a mental picture of a big, powerful-looking man with springy black hair, a direct searching gaze, and a ready smile.
I was startled to hear Fever describe a human as a friend, for it was seldom that unTalents cared for beasts that they did not regard as their possessions. Perhaps this man could tell me whether the
Black Ship
had recently called at Halfmoon Bay. If I failed to learn what I needed to know before I reached the other side of the market, I decided I would find and speak to Fever’s friend. I would buy provisions and a tinderbox, and with luck, I might even manage to sell Rawen’s bridle, all as I sought information.
Pushing my way into the crowd, I was struck by the festive attire and jewels worn by many market-goers. Half of them looked as if they were going to a ball, which was strange, because under normal circumstances, the wealthy did not shop for themselves; they sent servants to do it for them. Yet here they were, shopping in a sea market and showing every sign of enjoying it.
“What is going on in this city?” I muttered under my breath.
Fever must have smelled my confusion, for he said, “It is not always like this.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he spotted another dog that bristled and offered an immediate challenge. “My friend is on the other side of the market where the trees are,” the dog sent, and abandoned me unashamedly to take up the other dog’s challenge.
I edged and elbowed my way laboriously toward the end of the market, where two trees grew close together. I tried probing a couple of passersby to find out if the
Black Ship
had put in recently, but none were thinking about the ship. I did learn in my probing attempt that the city was preparing for its moon fair.
I was in the process of exchanging some more transformed copper coins to buy a tinderbox, a pack to carry it in, some
food, and fodder for Rawen when I spotted Fever’s friend. He looked exactly as Fever had shown him to me, save that his cheeks were smeared with soot. He was sitting at a stall set up between two trees, wearing a leather blacksmith’s apron and stoking a small brazier. Not until I was right in front of the stall did I notice that he had one leg thrust out stiffly, showing a wooden knob instead of a foot.
“Do you want something mended?” he asked in a pleasant, rasping voice.
“Will you buy a driftwood bundle if I gather it?” I asked, saying the first thing that came into my mind, since I could hardly say that Fever had sent me.
“Driftwood is not the right sort of wood for my fire, lass,” he told me. “It burns too swift and bright. Metalworking wants a fire that will burn very hot and show little flame. There is an art in the making of fire for metalwork.”
“Where do you get wood for such a fire?” I asked.
The man gave me a speculative look that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. “You are not from the west coast,” he said softly.
“I was born in Rangorn,” I said, letting myself sound slightly defiant. I could imagine people might not be too willing to admit they had come from the other part of the Land, but there must be many on the west coast who had not been born there.
“Don’t be afraid,” he told me. “I am not one of those who thinks every person born the wrong side of the Suggredoon ought to be reported to the Council as a spy. But for your own sake, I would not tell anyone else here where you hail from. You ought to get some bootblack or hoof polish and rub it over your skin to darken it a bit. It is your pallor that gave you away as much as your accent.”
“Thank you,” I said. I hesitated and then forced myself to smile a little. “To tell the truth, I am more afraid of Herders than soldierguards.”
“There are stories enough about Herder doings to freeze the blood of any maid or man,” the metalworker said soberly.
“I came here to buy medicine for my grandfather,” I said. “I have a bridle to sell, but it is a family treasure, and I fear that I will be charged as a thief if I go to the wrong buyer.”
“A wise apprehension,” the man said gravely. “I can recommend a good buyer, but he will not do if the bridle is stolen.”
I felt my cheeks redden, and he continued expressionlessly. “There is also a man in a closed tent farther along the boardwalk. He will cheat you but less than other such men, and he is discreet.”
I entered his mind to see that he took me for a woman who had fled an abusive bondmate or possibly a brother or father, because he had noticed faint bruises on my face and arms. He thought the stolen bridle belonged to whoever had hurt me and that I had courage to have stolen it and fled. Far from despising me for the theft, he was trying to think of a way to help me without frightening me. He had thought of his sister, who sent him off each morning with a cheerful smile and “Have a pleasant day, Rolf.” He grimaced at the thought of someone mistreating her. As always when I had steeled myself to face darkness and hatred, the unexpected sweetness of compassion undid me. I withdrew from his mind, determined not to enter again, for he was no foe.
He said, very casually, “As you might have noticed, I am crippled. If you will take a coin and buy me a bannock or two for my firstmeal from that stall yonder, there will be enough remaining for you to buy one for yourself. You can leave
whatever it is that you are carrying so I know you will return.” I did not have to read his mind to know that he had added this last sentence because he felt I would fear his intentions if he seemed too generous. I laid down the cloak and saddlebag and took his coin, wondering what this man’s spirit would look like, were I to see it through spirit eyes.
I made for the stand he had pointed out where the smells made my mouth water, though the woman behind it had a sour expression. I ordered the bannocks and watched her take them hot from the little oven on wheels beside her. She wrapped them and named a steep price. I told her the man at the metalworking stall had given me the coin and that I would have to go back and tell him it was too little. I was backing away when I noticed a wry smile twisting her thin lips. She glanced toward the metalworker and shook her head.
“Aro sent you, then. And I suppose you’re to keep one of my bannocks for yourself, for fetching them for a crippled man, even though I always take them over to him?” Dry amusement tinged her voice.
“I … He is very kind,” I stammered, more taken aback by her transformation than her words. I also found myself confused by her calling the man Aro. His sister had called him Rolf.
“He is that, the dear fool. There is not a stallholder in this wretched place for whom Aro has not done some kindness. Indeed, if gratitude were coin, he would be a rich man. Well, have the bannocks, then, and give me the coin.” Her voice had gone back to being cool, but there was now humor in her eyes.
“You are kind, too, I think,” I said on impulse. She had not the metalworker’s natural generosity of spirit, but his sweetness had seeped into her.
“Get along,” she scoffed.
Strangely heartened, I returned to the metalworker, who bade me sit awhile if I liked. As he ate his bannock with dirty hands and evident relish, I thanked him between bites, and then I told him the same tale I had told the soldierguards at the gate. I asked casually if he had noticed the
Black Ship
pass by recently.
“It anchored nightfall the day before yesterday,” Rolf said.
I stared at him, frozen midbite. I choked down the mouthful and stammered, “Y-you mean Salamander the slaver brought his ship here?”
He gave me a warning look. “In Halfmoon Bay, we call him the Raider. Both him and his ship. But you need not fear his collectors, for this time he did not empty out the cells, and he stayed only long enough to deliver Councilman Kana’s spiceweed. It seems he had not the time to empty out the cells, but he did hand out coin enough to pay for all who are in them, else the soldierguards might not have let him go.”
“He pays the
soldierguards
for the prisoners he takes?” I asked.
“Let us say he pays bonuses to show he is pleased with the number of prisoners available when he comes to fill his hold. The bonuses have made him a favorite with the soldierguards.”
Trying not to sound too anxious, though my heart hammered so loudly I thought he must hear it, I asked if he had seen the
Black Ship
anchor with his own eyes.
“I was finishing off a late job,” he said. He stopped abruptly and glanced about. Then he said, “Listen, I have an idea. You need coin for medicine, and there is a better way to earn it than gathering driftwood. A laundry down the way belongs to a friend of mine named Metta. She might have
something for you if one of her regular women is off sick. Or maybe she will get you delivering. She has a couple boys, but they are shiftless. Tell her the metalworker from the market sent you. Even if she has no work, she will know where else you might try. And she will also know a good herbalist who can prepare something more useful to your grandfather than patent medicines, and at a reasonable cost. You might as well find out how much you have to earn.”