Sandry's Book Page 3

  “It’s all right,” Daja whispered to Niko. “They just want to keep my bad luck from ruining anyone else. I understand.”

  Her rescuer glared at the judges and tucked Daja’s arm in his. “I’m taking her to Winding Circle Temple,” he told the Council, his dark eyes sparkling with anger. “They’ll appreciate her, with or without Trader luck!”

  In Sotat:

  On their first night outside the walls of Hajra, Niko and Briar slept on the ground at a Trader camp, the welcome guests of a southbound caravan. On the second night, they stopped at a wayside inn. Briar was inspecting the room that Niko had taken for him—and considering a raid on the kitchen—when Niko called, “Would you come here? I have some shirts I think will fit you.”

  Unsuspecting, the boy went into Niko’s room, to be brought up short by the sight of a large metal tub filled with hot water. Next to it was a stool with fresh clothes, a scrub-sponge, towels, and soap on top. “Hop in,” Niko said pleasantly. “The landlady says you don’t sleep in one of her beds until you’ve bathed. I have to admit, I would welcome the change myself.”

  Briar started to back up. “That stuff’s unhealthy,” he informed Niko. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so bony if you stopped doing this all the time.”

  Strong arms grabbed him; a hostler had been standing behind the half-open door.

  “My thinness has nothing to do with bathing,” Niko retorted. “Do you undress yourself, or must we do it for you?”

  In the end, it took him and three hostlers to give Briar a thorough scrubbing with hot water and soap. The boy’s curses, in five different languages, left Niko unmoved, though the hostlers were impressed.

  “I never thought a person could do all them things,” one of them said to another.

  “They can’t—leastways, not all at once,” replied his friend.

  Briar was silent all the way downstairs. Only the sight of the loaded supper table thawed him, and that just a bit. “Soon as we’re out of Sotat, me’n you part ways,” he told Niko. “Even the Street Guard only tortures folk when they’d done something.”

  “You’ll do as you wish, of course,” Niko replied, sitting. “Beef or chicken?”

  “Both. And some of that yellow cheese.”

  “It just seems a pity,” the man said, handing over the cheese plate. From a pocket in his over-robe, he drew out a handful of wilting plants and put them on the table. “These fell out of your clothes. This”—he tapped a leafy stem topped with a small lilac flower—”I believe is thyme. I don’t recognize the others.”

  Though he pretended not to see the plants he’d stolen over the past two days, Briar reddened. “What’s a pity?”

  “Magic Circle Temple has the finest gardens—and gardeners—north of the Pebbled Sea. People who know more than I about plants from all over the world.” Niko cut some fish for himself, put it in his mouth, and chewed it carefully, without looking at his companion. When he’d swallowed, he added, “It’s also one of the two great schools of magic north of the Pebbled Sea. I studied at Lightsbridge, the university for mages, but in some ways I find the mages at Winding Circle more … open-minded.”

  “Oh, magic, who cares?” Briar dug into his food, refusing to talk more until it was in his belly, where no one could take it from him. Plants from all over the world? What must that be like?

  “I believe there is a dedicate at Winding Circle who has been able to grow vegetables and fruit—even trees—inside a building,” Niko remarked. He wasn’t even looking at Briar, but at the view of the seashore from the inn’s window.

  Briar just couldn’t imagine it.

  “One thing that I really feel I must say.” Niko put greens on the boy’s plate. “If I’m forced to bribe hostlers at night to help you bathe, that means less money for food like this as we travel.”

  Briar glared at him. If Niko saw the dirty look, he chose to ignore it. Instead he returned to eating his dinner.

  I’ll stick as far as the border, thought the boy. Get a few more meals like this under my belt—so I’d better try this washing. After that, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll have a look at this Winding Circle place; maybe I won’t.

  The Pebbled Sea, off Capchen:

  Their first night out, the captain invited Tris and Niko to share the evening meal with the officers. The captain himself was delayed, which gave Tris a chance to examine an odd display on the wall near his map-table. It looked to be a collection of knots tied in thick cords, each hanging from a single nail. She counted two in green, one in yellow, one in blue, a fifth that was green with a thin yellow strand in it, and a sixth, green with a blue thread. About to touch them, she changed her mind. They seemed to shimmer, promising a scare to anyone rash enough to handle them.

  “There’s my treasure, little girl.” The captain had come in. “A fortune in winds, that is.”

  Tris pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s the work of mimanders—Trader mages,” he explained. “For a small fortune they’ll take a cord and tie a bit of wind up into it for you. See, it’s green for north, yella for east, red for south, blue for west, just like they do it in the Living Circle temples. Them’s for blowin’ us all the way out of any tight spots. And I got one for northwest, and one for northeast. Those’ll blow me to safe harbor in Emelan, if ever we need it.” He ushered Tris to her chair.

  “People can tie up a wind with a knot?” she asked, eyeing him sharply. “You’re telling me a tale.”

  “It’s a tale I paid for in gold,” the man replied, forking slices of ham onto his plate. “Pass Master Niko the bread, there’s a good girl.”

  She ate quietly, paying little attention to the men’s talk. The knots occupied her mind. How could anyone tie up wind in a knotted cord? Was it an easy thing to learn, or hard? She’d never heard of it before—was it a thing only Traders knew?

  As the first mate filled their cups, she saw that Niko was watching her. Again, those large, black eyes gave no clue as to what he thought. Why did the man have to stare so? she wondered. Didn’t his mother teach him it was rude?

  “Why don’t you ask me anything?” she demanded abruptly. “If you’ve something on your mind, tell me!”

  Niko’s eyelids fluttered—was he laughing at her? “I can’t,” he told her, tearing a piece from a sheet of flat-bread. “Any questions I have might limit how you think, and the way you act on your thoughts. You see, Tris, just now your mind is unformed, without prejudices. If I present you with the wrong ideas, they might restrict what’s inside you.”

  She thought about that for a few moments, ignoring the smiles of the ship’s officers. “That makes no sense whatever,” she replied at last. “I’d like an answer that makes sense, if you please.”

  “Not yet. We have to get to know each other better.”

  “That’s just his way, youngster,” the captain explained, passing a dish of olives to Tris. She muttered her thanks and took some. “Master Niko, he’s as hard to understand sometimes as any oracle. When the fit’s on him, he can talk you so confused you’ll forget which bearing is north.”

  “It’s the university education,” Niko told them. “It teaches us to chase our tails for an hour before breakfast, just to get the exercise.”

  “University?” Tris inquired, interested in spite of herself. “Some of my cousins are at universities. Which one did you go to?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Niko answered, “Lightsbridge, in Karang.”

  Tris shoved an olive around her plate. “My cousin Aymery studies there. He’s to be a mage. Maybe you know him? Aymery Chandler?”

  “I haven’t been there in five years,” was the answer. “Chances are that I don’t.” He poured fresh pomegranate juice for her, then said, “Would you like to be a mage yourself?”

  How could he keep taunting her this way, suggesting she could have the one thing she knew that she didn’t? “No! I hate mages! They confuse people!” Jumping up, Tris ran out of the cabin.


  Alone on deck, she heard thunder growl in the distance. The storm that had threatened all day was breaking. Darting over to the rail, she turned up her face just as a tall wave slapped the ship. She was immediately soaked, and her anger washed away. Shaking water from her spectacles, she wondered how it was that she felt queasy in her cabin, but perfectly fine now, with the deck jumping under her feet. It must be the smell, she decided. The cabin smells like all the cargoes these people have ever carried, and maybe some extra.

  Here she felt wonderful. Nature roared and thrashed around her, making her rages and tears alike seem meaningless. It was grand to let them go, if only for the time spent out in the weather.

  Looking at the choppy seas before her, she noticed dim shadows cast on the white-capped water. Where did the light come from? Even the torches wouldn’t burn in this. Turning, she saw nothing at eye level, but something bright drew her attention up the length of the main mast. There, at the top, dim light balanced on the wood. It had to be Runog’s Fire, the ghostly flame that seamen believed was the lamp of the water-god, leading Runog to bless good ships or to sink bad ones.

  Shimmering, the light reached an arm along the topmost yard, until she could see a glowing cross high overhead. A globe of fire leaped to another mast, clinging to its top. Tris laughed gleefully at the wonder before her.

  As if it were a living thing drawn to the sound, the light trickled down both masts in glowing streaks, abandoning the upper reaches of the masts. Once it was close to the deck, it turned into balls the size of her head and jumped free. Unthinkingly Tris held out both hands, palms up, and caught the globes.

  Her skin prickled. Each hair on her head rose. Her wool shawl gave off sparks. Then Runog’s Fire went out, leaving her to be just plain Tris again, with hair that frizzed even worse now, standing on end. She pawed at it in vain, trying to brush it flat before anyone came and saw.

  A hand thrust a comb in front of her nose. Turning, she glared at Niko. “I suppose you were watching.”

  “You told me yourself that’s what I always do,” he reminded her. “And in a sense you are right—I am always watching—though not for the reasons that you appear to expect.”

  “Do you see a monster, like everyone else does?” she demanded, struggling to yank the comb through her bristling hair. “Am I someone who ought to be locked away?”

  Coming over, he put a hand on her shoulder. “I see a young girl who has been very badly treated.” Try as she might, Tris could hear no pity in his voice. If she had, she might have struck him. “Anything that Winding Circle has to offer will be an improvement on what you’ve had so far.”

  She thrust the comb into his hands and broke out of his light hold. “I need my brush,” she informed him, and went below. Inside her cabin, she sank down on the pile of her luggage, trembling. She knew it was stupid to hope that he was right—her hopes always got destroyed—but she couldn’t help it. Maybe Runog’s Fire was a sign that she was right to hope.

  3

  At Winding Circle Temple, in Emelan:

  Sandry toyed with her fork, bored almost to tears. She wished that the servers would serve. If they did, the other well-born maidens at her table would refuse to chatter with full mouths, and her aching ears would get a rest. It wasn’t as if they ever said much that was of interest; all they spoke of were fashions and marriages. By now, after nearly eight weeks of their companionship, Sandry was sure that she was interested in neither.

  All around her, the dining hall thundered; meals here were booming chaos punctuated by food. When quiet fell, starting near the door and spreading out, it came slowly.

  “Oh, no—they let just anyone in here, don’t they?” Liesa fa Nadlen whispered to a friend. Sandry looked in the direction of Liesa’s well-bred glare.

  A girl stood near the door, cup, platter, and eating utensils clutched to her chest. In her thigh-length tunic and leggings, both an eye-smarting shade of red, she could only be a Trader. She was big for a young girl, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted. Her skin was the color of the new, fashionable drink called chocolate; she wore her black hair in a number of short braids. Her lips were locked tight, as if to keep them from trembling.

  “Hey, Trader,” a boy demanded, “who’d you rob today?”

  “Whose baby did you kill to magic a wind for your sails?” called someone else.

  “Find a seat,” ordered the dedicate who ran the dining hall, her voice sharp. “No one can serve until you have a place.”

  Everywhere people spread their legs, or moved apart on benches, or placed books and packs beside them. They didn’t want a despised Trader at their table.

  Sandry got to her feet. Liesa’s voice cut through her burning anger: “Lady Sandrilene! What are you doing?”

  Sandry ignored the other girl and walked briskly across the room. The Trader was glaring at everyone, her chin up, the dark skin of her cheeks burning red. Only when the smaller girl halted before her did she look down.

  “My name’s Sandry. Please join me at my table.” Seeing the other girl blink, guessing that she hadn’t understood, Sandry tucked a hand under the newcomer’s elbow and tugged her in the right direction.

  For a moment, she thought that the Trader might refuse—she didn’t budge. Then she relaxed. “All right, kaq,” she muttered in Tradertalk. “But nobody will thank you for this.” She let Sandry pull her between rows of tables.

  “If thanks was what I wanted,” Sandry replied in the same language, “I would be sad indeed. Since I don’t want it, I won’t miss it.”

  The black girl stiffened. Finally she said, “Your accent is terrible.”

  Sandry beamed up at her. “Yes—I know.”

  “We don’t want her with us,” protested Liesa when they reached the nobles’ table.

  Sandry looked down her button nose at the other girl. “She is my guest,” she said flatly. “She—what’s your name?” she asked in Tradertalk.

  Daja nearly refused. When she saw anger on the faces of the other girls, she grinned instead, white teeth flashing against dark skin. “Daja Kisubo.”

  “Lady Daja is my guest,” Sandry told Liesa.

  A girl nearby muttered, “If that’s a lady, I’m a cat.”

  Reaching out, Sandry lifted the pitcher of milk from the table. Cradling it in both hands, she walked over to the mutterer. “I am Sandrilene fa Toren, daughter of Count Mattin fer Toren and his countess, Amiliane fa Landreg. I am the great-niece of his grace, Duke Vedris of this realm of Emelan, and cousin of her Imperial Highness, Empress Berenene of the Namorn Empire. You are Esmelle ei Pragin, daughter of Baron Witten en Pragin and his lady Colledia of House Wheelwright—a merchant house. If I tell you my friend is a lady, then you”—carefully she poured milk into Esmelle’s plate—“you had best start lapping, kitty.” She set the pitcher down and returned to her chair.

  Daja was still on her feet. “You did no one any good with that,” she said in Tradertalk. “Not me, not you, not even them.”

  “I don’t care.” Sandry spoke in Common, so that everyone understood. “My papa said that nobility has no right to be rude. We are supposed to know better.” She plumped her bottom onto her chair and looked at Daja. “Are you going to sit?” she asked. “Big as you are, you look like you can’t afford to skip meals.”

  For the first time since the sinking of Third Ship Kisubo, Daja smiled. Gingerly, she sat. “I hope other nobles aren’t like you.” She had a lilt in her speech when she spoke in Common. “I don’t think I could stand the excitement.”

  Novices began to carry bowls and platters to the tables. Any talk about what had just taken place was drowned out in the rattle of wood and metal.

  “Trisana, listen to me—I have your best interests at heart.” The blue-robed dedicate stood over her, blocking the light. “These odd ways of yours make you no friends with the other girls. They’re outside enjoying this splendid weather. You should be, too. If you are to make anything of yourself, you need friendships wit
h girls who will help you to meet the right kind of people.”

  Does she ever shut up? wondered the redhead as she turned a page in her book.

  “Are you listening!” Dedicate Staghorn took the girl by the arm and pulled her up until she was sitting instead of lying on her cot. “Stop slouching. Put that book down.”

  Tris attempted to yank out of the woman’s hold, without success. She looked up into Staghorn’s face with eyes that glinted like gray ice behind her spectacles. “Let go,” she said quietly.

  “This is for your benefit,” the dedicate told her. “Whatever caused your parents to give you to the Living Circle temples—”

  They didn’t want me, so shut up, Tris thought miserably, pale skin crimson with humiliation. Shut up shut up shut up—

  Across the room, shutters banged as they closed, then flapped open.

  Staghorn jumped and released the girl’s arm. “Now listen. You have been in this dormitory for six weeks and you act as if you are royalty—which you are not.” Staghorn jerked as a door slammed. “You need to be nicer to people.”

  Tris couldn’t answer. Her head was starting to ache, and her stomach lurched unpleasantly. Pressure built in her ears until she thought they might burst. The room pitched before her eyes. This was very different from just being angry. “You wanted me to go out?” she gasped, standing up. “I’m going.” Running to the door, she yanked it open. “You might want to come, too!”

  The air popped. Staghorn lurched. “If you’ve made me ill—”

  A pitcher marched off a bedside table and shattered on the floor. The metal-and-enamel image of Yalina, goddess of water, dropped from the shelf on which it sat. In the corner, a freestanding closet fell over.

  Staghorn ran for the door that Tris still held for her. “Quake!” screamed the dedicate. “It’s a quake!”