By the end of her fifth watch, she was learning the names for the various cooking utensils and foods in Dock Talk. She whispered them to herself over and over, because every time the cook had to repeat himself, he thumped her on the skull with whatever utensil he had gripped in his mighty fist. So far, that had been various spoons and mixers. Wren did not want to find out what would happen if he happened to be holding one of the big carving knives.
By the sixth day, the constant scurry of tasks started to fall into patterns, divided always by the crew’s mealtimes. She not only knew most of the names of the things in the galley, she was beginning to understand some of the commands and threats the cook barked out.
At the end of her first week, she no longer fell into her hammock and into sleep, she stayed awake at least long enough to jump through the single cleaning frame the crew shared, self and clothes restored to freshness. She found enough energy to repair tears in her tunic left over from the day they were boom-roped, and to follow Patka to the deck and stand in the fresh wind blowing over the sea, practicing the names of the jumble of ropes-that-were-not-ropes crossing the ship in all directions.
Amazing. Shrouds, sheets, stays, braces, halyards—all these were specific ropes, but she learned fast what each one did. Thus, when she was required to stumble to the deck with the other half-asleep crew members, often in driving rain, with seawater washing over the rail, if she was sent to the ‘weather brace’ she knew to run to whichever side the wind was coming from.
At the end of the next week’s watch Wren waited impatiently for the ship’s bell to ring the changeover. She’d gotten all the supper cook pots dry and hung on their hooks, oversaw the refilling of the water barrel with the cleaning spell on it after all the crew members had dunked their dishes and spoons in. Watching the magic spark faintly over the square dishes called mess kids, with their raised lip—you didn’t want bowls on a ship, which was never still, or plates for the same reason—gave her one of the few pleasures she had during the long, tiring day.
The bell rang at last and she raced down to the crew berthing, hardly touching the ladder any more, though at first she’d clung tightly to it. This was the only time of day the crew berthing might be empty—and that only if the weather was good, for the night crew would have just reported for duty, and the day crew sometimes stayed on deck to enjoy space, air, and the last of the daylight.
The weather was fine on deck, so nearly everyone in the day watch was up there, mending ropes and gear, talking, and through the open hatchways—every hatch and scuttle open to get air down into the ship—drifted the faint strains of someone singing a ballad.
She wedged herself into between Thad’s and Lambin’s packs, partially curtained by the empty swinging hammocks. The light of the lantern aft was just enough for her to find her own pack and plunge her hand in, searching for her scry stone.
She was finally awake and strong enough to manage a spell to remove that tracer-ward and then to scry Tyron, though she didn’t know how long before the day watch tramped below to their hammocks. She needed to think out her message, get it ordered in her mind for quick communication.
“First: how is Teressa?” she whispered as she dug through her bag. She felt a pang of regret and hurt when she thought of Teressa.
I just hope that Hawk doesn’t hurt her
, she thought. “Second: I got boomed onto a ship by somebody who pointed out my stripey hair. Third: I don’t know where we’re going. Last: someone started listening in last time I scryed, which was why I cut it off.” There. That was a good, quick report, she thought as she dug deeper into her bag.
Voices approaching! She groaned with impatience. If anyone else came below she’d lose another entire day unless she were fast, so she upended her bag, and stared at the pile of belongings glowing, then in shadow, then glowing again in the light of the swinging lantern. She already knew her money had been filched—she noticed it that first day.
Far worse: her scry stone was gone.
More sounds of laughter floated from the top hatch. She was very good at scrying—she didn’t have to use a stone. Water, glass, or even fire were almost as good, if she concentrated hard enough.
She jumped up, leaving her belongings strewn under her hammock, and stood before the single lantern the captain permitted the crew, gazing into the flame . . . gazing . . . picturing in her mind Tyron’s face, the scry stone in Master Halfrid’s office—
And got nothing but a black wall.
She couldn’t scry.
She’d been warded.
Tyron leaned against his desk, staring at the neat stacks of papers as though he’d never seen any of them before.
“Tyron?”
He looked up. Orin stood in the doorway, the lamplight picking out highlights in her silver hair. But her face was in shadow.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
He raised his hands, about to rub them through his hair, thought of Wren’s laughing about that habit of his, and lowered them to the table. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Up came the hands again and he scratched his scalp vigorously, not caring if it made his hair into a bird nest. It looked like a bird nest anyway, no matter what he did. Not that he cared. If scratching would just make his brain work better . . . “Wren scryed me a week ago. Said everything was fine, but something she started to say has bothered me since.”
Orin opened her hand. “Yet you say she’s safe?”
“That’s what she said. She added something about Falin, our mage in Hroth Falls, but she didn’t finish it.”
Orin was always patient and careful and listened with all her attention. “What do you fear?” she asked.
“I wish I knew! She seemed to be accusing me of making a remark about Falin’s looks—but even Falin used to joke about all the ink stains on her hands and on her cheeks and ears and even in her hair when she’d accidentally put her pens or brushes behind her ear. I thought of that when I did my weekly check with the mages a couple nights ago, and there was Falin, just like usual. Ink-stains and all. And she told me just what I expected to hear, that Wren had been there, feasted right royally, next morning set off on her way to the harbor, just as she was supposed to.”
“So the problem isn’t there?”
Tyron sighed. “I wish I knew. Maybe it’s just—” He scratched his head again, almost defiantly. “Maybe it’s just left over from other worries.”
“Master Halfrid?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess I’m not worried about Master Halfrid, though I admit I don’t like not hearing from him. But he can take care of himself far better than I can take care of myself. I guess I am worried about why he’s gone so long.”
Tyron sighed, remembering Halfrid saying as he packed his books,
One
missing
ally
could
be
an
accident
,
but
two
is
suspicious
,
and
three
is
a
disaster
. Tyron had asked,
Why
go
?
Why
can’t
the
Council
send
someone
else
? And Master Halfrid replied,
There
is
no
one
else
,
don’t
you
see
?
We
are
spread
far
too
thin
,
thanks
to
the
troubles
down
in
the
south
.
These
mages
were
our
allies
in
the
war
,
and
we
did
promise
return
aid
if
they
had
problems
.
Their
kings
have
called
us
,
and
I
have
to
go
.
But none of this matter could be spoken aloud, except to other masters. So Tyron said, “Halfrid is not my main concern. Just one of them.”
Orin pursed her lips, then said in a soft voice, “The queen?”
Tyron sighed. “She won’t talk to me. For the first time. We always used to talk. Yes, and we argued. Yelled, even. But we talked. Now she just gives me that court laugh and invites me, ever so politely, to every court function. Every one, but as a challenge, more than because she wants to see me.” He added in a rush, “You’re a female, and her age. You couldn’t talk to her, could you?”
Orin looked down at her work-roughened hands. “I fear she doesn’t like me.”
Tyron stared. “What?”
“Maybe it’s my Lirwani village, our independent attitudes. We’re not like the Meldrithi. Or maybe it’s my lowly background—”
“No, no. Never think that. Teressa has never cared about rank. She will be the first to tell you she spent a lot of her childhood in an orphanage, learning to sweep rooms and sew her own clothes. That’s where she and Wren first met, and Wren hasn’t any noble blood, it turns out, but that never made the least bit of difference to Teressa.”
“Then maybe I remind her of someone else, but I really think the only person she would talk to would be Wren,” Orin said.
Tyron picked up his pen then threw it down again. “Yes. You’re right. And Wren’s gone—and I sent her away. I wonder if that’s going to be yet another mistake of mine?”
Orin said quickly, “You have not made mistakes.”
“Oh, haven’t I? I sure did about this Hawk business. I am beginning to feel that I should have pressured Teressa to invite him, just so she’d turn me down!” Tyron picked up his pen and tossed it down again. “Never mind. I shouldn’t talk on like this, except you’ve been there. You’ve seen it all.”
Orin bowed her head, hiding her expression. “The queen is very kind about inviting us students to the picnics and parties.” Then she looked up, her tone shifting to everyday practicality. “That reminds me. Master Kalig sent me up to tell you the second year students are ready to try their first shape-changes. Will you come, or should he postpone? It is quite late in the day, but he promised them.”
Tyron swung around and peered through his window at the twilit garden. The trees hid the grassy circle where the mage students would be gathered, with plenty of space and air. Halfrid had been very definite about the fact that Tyron must attend those first attempts. Transformation magic of any kind was complicated and dangerous. Orin’s own background made shape-changing easier than usual, which was why she was assisting in that class, but she was not advanced enough to help oversee the students’ first spells.
“I’ll come—”
“Master Tyron!” A first year student flung himself inside the door, gasping, his eyes round. “Master Kial. Sent me. Special visitor in the parlor. Wants to see you
at
once
. It’s a
duke
,” the boy added.
Tyron sighed, glancing up at Orin, who gave him a slight smile. “I know. Postpone,” she said.
“First thing in the morning. Promise. And a free evening from studies tonight,” Tyron said.
Orin vanished in one direction, and Tyron followed the first year student back down the hall to the front of the school. The boy flung open the door to the parlor where they received the rare non-magical visitors that came to the School.
There Kial stood uneasily, rolling his eyes in relief when Tyron stepped inside. “His grace insisted on an interview now,” Kial said, his voice carefully even.
“Go ahead and return to your class, Kial,” Tyron said. “Thanks.”
Kial signaled to the watching boy, who followed reluctantly, with many backward glances.
As soon as they were gone Tyron shut the door. He set his back against it and turned to his visitor, who had taken the single good chair in the room.
Garian Rhismordith had been Duke since the death of his father at the end of the war. He stood up, his long gold embroidered velvet court tunic glowing richly in the fading light from the window. He was taller than Tyron, thin but strong, his narrow features tight not with anger but some more complex expression.
“I know it’s an interruption,” he said without any polite preamble. “But I’ve got to talk to one of you. Halfrid is away, so you’re it.”
Once they’d been enemies, during childhood when they’d had the luxury of disliking people on their own side. Garian had been changed by his experiences in the war; Teressa relied on him now, having made him head of the Scarlet Guard in his father’s place. Not just because of his rank, but because he’d earned it.
“Teressa,” Garian said, “has seen fit to propose a midnight picnic on the lake, next Two Moons Night.”
“What?”
“Boats. Music across the water. Mage fireworks—I’m sure you’ll hear about that part soon enough.”
“And?” Tyron said.
“And Hawk Rhiscarlan is her partner in her boat. Alone. Just the two of them. He tricked her into it. Wager. Said she was afraid. She rose to the bait like a flying fish.”
Tyron sank down into the wooden chair with a sigh that was more like a groan.
“That’s about how I feel.” Garian gave him a bleak smile. “She won’t listen to me, so I thought I’d better come to you.”
Tyron grimaced.
Garian’s thin cheeks reddened. “Look,” Garian protested. “I know we’ve had our differences in the past—”
Tyron raised a hand. “Save it, Garian.” He spoke without thinking, and Garian, to his credit, did not bridle or even frown at the lack of courtesy title, as once he would have done. Tyron said, “Never mind the past. Here’s the truth—she won’t talk to me either. Not about him.”
“Do you trust him?”