Child of a Hidden Sea (6 page)

“Your boat is here,” he said.

Sophie nodded. Every time she had awoken, Gale made it clear that her conviction that Sophie had to leave—and leave immediately—was unshakeable. When it was obvious there was no changing her mind, Sophie had changed tacks, insisting that Gale come visit her at home. “You obviously come to San Francisco to see Beatrice,” she'd argued, just the night before. “You can see me, too.”

Maybe it wasn't fair to badger an injured woman, but Gale had agreed. They would meet.

She'll see I'm not dangerous, and I'll get her to introduce me to my sister—half sister, she said—and I can get her to explain in detail about this whole “you must go!” issue. It'll take time, but I'll change her mind.

Her stomach grumbled, trying to quash the little sprout of optimism. All they had for food here was fish broth and pickled moths. Sophie didn't ask for more. The islanders had to live on this, year in, year out. Because of the storm, because of her and Gale, they'd missed their big annual fish harvest.

She followed Bastien to his place, where he put the reptile in a wicker cage, murmuring reverent words over it. Then they trooped to the healer's hut, where Gale was resting. By day it seemed even more ramshackle: The seaweed bundles that made up its roof had patches of rot here and there, and the mud seals between the pieces of driftwood were flaking. That much was true of many of the structures, especially those on the southern edge of the village, which had less shelter from the wind. But the doorframe of Dega's shack had a bent, cracked look to it that made the whole thing look dispirited, ready to fall.

She'd hoped to find Gale awake, but she was fast asleep. Her breathing was steadier than it had been a few days before, her face less pale.

“There's great strength in her,” Dega whispered. “She will live.”

Sophie nodded.
She'll make it, and she'll come to San Francisco, and I'll talk her 'round …

Bastien shifted behind her, not so subtly hinting that they should go. Sophie kissed her unconscious aunt's forehead, then followed the spellscribe.

“Your things.” She already had the camera bag with her, but Bastien handed her a rag-woven bag containing the handful of biological samples she'd collected. The conch shell he'd used to teach her Fleetspeak was nestled inside.

“Thank you.”

“Take care, Kir.” He escorted her to a rowboat and gave her a whisper-frail hug before telling the sailor: “She's to go to Convenor Gracechild.”

The little harbor was busy: A number of sailing ships had arrived to give aid to the islanders. The seascape looked like a painting from the Napoleonic Wars.
Horatio Hornblower,
she thought, as they rowed out to meet them. Her head was throbbing. Now that she was sitting, fatigue from the climb was combining with hunger to leave her a little dizzy.

At least she'd caught up on her sleep.

An incoming boat passed on their starboard side.

The boat bore, as its passenger, one of the most attractive men Sophie had ever seen. He was perhaps thirty, with skin the color of a walnut shell, glossy black curls and a full mouth that made her think, in her hunger-addled state, of ripe plums. His expression was sober and intensely focused.

Her hand drifted to her camera.

One of the rowers saw her looking. “Captain Parrish, of
Nightjar
. Pretty, no?”

“
Nightjar
 … Gale's ship?”

“The cutter.” He pointed it out, a gray, somehow frumpy-looking ship.

“Is that where we're going?” Maybe she'd misunderstood; maybe Gale would take her with her after all.

“No, Kir, we're for
Estrel
.”

Sophie had spent considerable time at sea on various dives, but had only been aboard a proper tall ship once. Now, as she climbed to the main deck under the watchful eye of her sailor escort, she saw this ship wasn't quite the Age of Sail relic it seemed. The same letters that glowed on her Fleetspeak shell had been carved into the ship's wheel. It and the masts had a sinewy, organic sheath; the spokes of the wheel reminded her of a bird's talons.
Estrel
's sails were embroidered with gray thread, long gray stitches that gave them the appearance of feathers.

The figurehead itself was a bird of prey, one Sophie didn't recognize.

“More magic?” Excitement pipped, like a newborn chick, over the physical distress. She ran a hand over the rail. It was polished to a high shine and, at first glance, also seemed to have a feathery pattern to it, but under her fingers it felt like varnished wood.

“Scribed for speed.” A woman—the captain, presumably—answered her unvoiced question. “
Estrel
's uncanny good at finding the breeze. We'll get you to the Fleet in a week.”

Sophie made herself smile. There were still things to see here, observations she could make.

Lots of opportunity if you take it.
It was what Bram would have said.

“Are you all right, Kir? Seasick?”

Starving.
“Just … missing my brother.”

“I'm Captain Dracy,” said the woman.

“Sophie Hansa.”

“Of the Verdanii Feliachilds, I understand?”

“Um … I guess that's technically true.”

“A Verdanii princess, eh?”

Sophie turned. The man who had just come up from below was dressed like the hero on the cover of a romance novel. Tanned, with flowing golden hair and a toothy grin, he wore an open-collared peasant shirt and tight tan breeches.

“No princesses here,” Sophie said.
And what are you, the ship's gigolo?

Dracy cleared her throat. “This is Lais Dariach of Tiladene … another passenger. Lais, Kir Sophie Hansa.”

“You must be somebody, Kir,” he said. “We're dropping everything to rush you to the Fleet—”

“All that makes me is inconvenient,” she said. “To my aunt, to the islanders, and apparently to all of you. Believe me, if I'd known chasing my past was gonna drop me in a fantastic new ecosystem that I'm not allowed to explore, I'd have stayed home and rewatched
Veronica Mars
.”

Lais rocked back on his heels, seeming baffled. “Beg your pardon, Kir.”

“It's okay: I'm joking, sorta.” Sophie upended the rag bag onto the deck, shaking its contents free so she could toss it down to the departing rowers. The Stele Islanders were so poor that even a woven bag was a sacrifice.

Lais caught her conch before it could bounce across the deck. “Careful, Kir! You don't want to break the intention.”

“What? If it breaks, I won't understand Fleetspeak anymore?”

Dracy and Lais exchanged a look.

“I'm not from around here, okay?”

“Well … yes,” Lais said, bemused. “The purpose of the spell lays within the inscription.”

She bundled it in her skirt. “I've been keeping samples in it.”

“We'd better lock it in your cabin.” Dracy picked up Sophie's collected bits and pieces, leaving her the camera case, and led her aft.

Sophie followed, automatically falling into walking with, rather than against, the rhythm of the ship's movement. “You came to help the islanders?”

“As we're able. We gave them some salted fish and a few barrels of preserved onions. I'm leaving my diver behind to see if they can raise one of the downed ships. We'll pick up more food and swing back, after we've dropped you off.”

Estrel
had already caught a fresh breeze. Her sails filled, and she made for the open ocean beyond the bay.

“Were you caught in the storm?”

“Skirted it,” Dracy said. “We were headed out toward Zunbrit Passage with Lais. It was an evil clash of winds, Kir. My mate and cook saw towers of lightning, spun between the water and cloud. It blew up of a sudden and was gone just as fast.”

“But you're okay? No damage?”

“
Estrel
saw us through,” Dracy said, laying a hand on the bulkhead with obvious affection. “And here we are.”

“Home sweet home, huh?” The cabin was small, a triangular closet, well aft, with a peculiar, heavy portal. Its substance was glassy, but it was thick and its texture was rough. It was more translucent than transparent, with a dark tint.

“Is this obsidian?”

“Yes, from Erinth. Stow that scrip here,” Dracy said, opening a small locked cabinet and offering her a linen handkerchief to wrap the conch shell in.

“It's not that fragile.”

“It names you, Kir.” Dracy explained. “A certain amount of discretion is … customary.”

“Meaning what? Someone needs my name to do a spell on me?”

“Exactly. Lais and two of my crew have seen it already, as have I. You should conceal it from now on.”

Sophie ran a hand over the glowing copper script on the shell, fighting a momentary urge to dash the thing against the wall. It was hardly worth it to know Fleetspeak if she was being packed off home.

That's not true.
The inner voice, the one that sounded as much like Bram as herself, argued.
The language itself is an artifact. A good linguist might make links between Fleetspeak and the tongues of home.

Not to mention that the shell could serve as a sample of the magical writing. Cheered, she locked the conch in the cupboard.

“Perhaps, too, since you're an outlander…”

What else had she done? “Yes?”

“Lais Dariach … he's from Tiladene.”

Tiladene. That word was on one of Gale's coins. “You said that. So?”

“They're somewhat … promiscuous.”

The significant look on Dracy's face made her want to giggle. “You mean sexually promiscuous?”

“They don't believe in marriage—in faithfulness.”

“Okay, got it. Your other passenger—”

“Lais.”

“Lais is from Friends with Benefits Island.”
Planet of the Polyamorous Sluts
, she thought, lightheaded.
Didn't the
Star Trek
guys used to go somewhere like that for shore leave?

And then:
A little shore leave wouldn't be the worst idea I ever had. And he is cute.

Not as cute as that guy in the rowboat.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Artifacts. Samples. Lots of opportunity to learn.
“I'd love to see some charts. I don't know this area.”

“Of course, Kir. This way.”

Still carrying the camera case—she figured her battery might be good for another fifteen shots—she followed Dracy up to the pilot house, where she unrolled a map of currents and islands.

“This is our position and bearing. Stele is here…” She indicated a small hump to the north-northeast.

“We're making for the open ocean?”

“The Fleet is on its spring tour to the islands of Greatwater; we'll rendezvous around here.” Dracy tapped the map.

Spring. It's spring at home, too.
“How many days until the equinox?”

“Seventeen.”

She bent over the chart. Since recognizing the moon, Sophie had been convinced that seeing a good map would orient to the geography of the area her aunt had called Stormwrack. This was some little unheard-of archipelago of islands, had to be. Yes, she'd been flung across the planet in the blink of an eye, and yes, there were some animal species she didn't recognize. But another world? Come on.

Same moon, same gravity, same pelicans, same Earth. Gale's wrong.

She knew magic existed: It made sense that the Stormwrackers kept themselves hidden.

None of the landmarks on this map matched anything she knew, though.

“Do you have anything with a smaller scale?”

“A world chart?”

“Exactly.”

Dracy's brow knitted. Rummaging in the cupboard, she found a page the size of a placemat, colored with a crude enthusiasm that hinted it was a kid's school project. “Does this help?”

“Yes, thank you,” Sophie said, but she was lying. There were continents at the north and south poles, all right, but the oceans between them were massive, laced with fairy-rings of islands, small and large. The biggest of the land masses wasn't quite as as big as Australia. And Europe, North and South America, Africa …
where the hell are they
?

“Kir Sophie?”

“I'm sorry. It's just—I've seen projections of land losses to global warming. In one, the water rose two hundred meters, and I could still make out the continents. Where's Asia? Where are the Rocky Mountains?”

“I don't understand ‘Asia,' I'm sorry.”

“
You
don't understand?” She fumbled out the camera and photographed the map. The battery light blinked at her, dying, dying. Shutting off the camera, she gaped at the map again. “Okay, maybe we're not in Kansas, Toto.”

“I don't know Kansas. This is the Northwater.” Dracy stubbed her finger down on the northwest quadrant of the page. “Our position.”

Sophie took a moment to put her camera away, fumbling the case open, shoving Gale's courier pouch aside—she'd forgotten to return it.

Ask for some food, Sofe.
Bram's voice again.
Your mood's swinging like this because you're being an idiot
.

She didn't deserve food. She'd drowned those islanders.

“Northwater. So … north?” She tapped the top of the map. “South, down here? East, west?”

“Yes, of course. But that little chart's no use for day-to-day navigation,” Dracy said gently. “If you want it…”

“It's almost all water,” she murmured. The child's rendering of the map showed chains of islands, hundreds of them, and no real continental masses at all. Even the biggest landmasses were mere lumps at this scale; if this was even somewhat accurate, there wasn't an island on this world that had even the area of Australia.