Among the Silvering Herd

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  “You’re not firing the first mate for being easy on the eye,” Captain Sloot told Gale as they dropped anchor in the harbor of Redcap Island. He sounded put out, but it was an act: they fit together like oar and lock, she and he, and they both knew he was going to win this one.

  Still… “Nightjar is my ship.”

  “Aye, so say her papers.”

  “Have you looked at him, Royl? He’s still teething.”

  “He’s grown, if only just, and a good sailor too. It’s been six first mates this year!”

  “Fortune smiles on the number seven.”

  “You aren’t superstitious,” Sloot said. “We’re keeping Garland Parrish, and if people think you hired him to keep you up nights—“

  “And they will.”

  “He can’t help the pretty face, Gale.”

  “Well, what about that? People will be courting him wherever we land. He’ll marry into the first good situation he finds, or someone’ll grab him for a harem.”

  “In which case, you’re free of him,” Sloot said. “Take him with you today.”

  “Take the young stud to see the horned studs?”

  “See if you like him, that’s all.”

  “You never cared if I liked his predecessors.” She pulled her most frightful riding coat out of a big wardrobe in the cabin they shared. It was red, floppy, and thoroughly ridiculous. It was also warm and rainproof.

  “Ragin’ seas, woman, you’re not wearing that?”

  “This is a job for the Dotty Aunt coat.”

  “That, beg your pardon, is an Awful Woman coat.”

  A tap at the door, and the first mate bounded in. “Rowers are ready, Cap’n…oh. Forgive me. I forgot—“

  “That I had a woman here?” Sloot asked.

  He looked fuddled but didn’t deny it.

  “Sit, Parrish. This woman is your employer, and it’s time the two of you met. Properly.”

  Parrish, visibly surprised, took the offered seat.

  “Well? Gale?”

  “Properly? You want—Royl, you’re serious?”

  “I’m insistin’.”

  What was going on? Reluctantly, Gale opened her government-issue courier’s satchel and removed a dried chrysanthemum, pale gold in color. “Royl—”

  Sloot folded his arms. “I can’t have him thinking you’re the cook’s helper, Gale.”

  “Kirs, if I’ve offended—” Parrish’s skin was oak brown and utterly smooth, his hair a black cap of wind-tossed curls. But it was the lips that made him so ravishing. They were full, plummy in color, and wantonly lush. They begged for biting—more so, perhaps, because he wore them with an air of innocence, of having no idea of their effect.

  Over the years, about a fifth of the dried chrysanthemum’s petals had been plucked. Now Gale removed another. “My name is Gale Feliachild, Kir Parrish.”

  “That’s…a Verdanii name?”

  “Important one, as things are reckoned there,” Sloot put in.

  If her alleged nobility impressed him, it didn’t show. “Go on, Kir.”

  “When I was young,” she told Parrish, “Our All mother ordered a divination. The priestess said that I would enjoy good health and a useful life. Then she said my life would end suddenly, in violence.”

  “Murder, in other words,” Sloot clarified.

  A ripple of concern she’d seen before: the boy thought she needed him to save her. Gale crushed the flower petal in her palm, rolling it to fine yellow dust.

  “My parents knew better than to defy fate outright, but couldn’t resist a small enchantment. Lean forward, please.”

  Parrish complied with instant, soldierly obedience, and she blew petal dust into his eyes. It was the gentlest way to weaken the spell. There were others. She could injure him, rouse him to a fury…

  …seduce him, a sly inner voice suggested.

  Parrish straightened, blinking. He looked at Gale more closely.

  “I was scripped unmemorable, young man. I’ve one of those hard-to-remember faces, a name that rarely comes to mind—“

  “Why?”

  “Harder to imagine killing someone if you’ve forgotten them, isn’t it?” She rose, donning the floppy coat. “Well, Sloot? You happy now?”

  “Delirious, Kir.” But it was relief stamped on the aging face, not joy.

  Minutes later, she and Parrish were aboard the rowboat, cloaked in uncomfortable silence.

  It was always thus: she’d tell someone the truth and they’d start worrying she was about to get stabbed. To distract him, she asked: “What do you know of Redcap Island?”

  “It’s a kingdom,” he said promptly. “Government is stable, king’s rule is absolute. The crown passes to the eldest son upon the death of the king or his sixtieth birthday, whichever comes first. Elder kings go into a kind of ceremonial exile, along with any other sons…”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s usually just one other son. They must use magic to affect the succession.”

  Gale nodded. “Once there’s a healthy heir and a second son, the king’s consorts bear only daughters. The Blossoms Majestic—the princesses—run the government.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “No.” A stir of excitement. “It’s supposed to be wondrous.”

  Parrish beamed: “I heard there’s a kind of deer…”

  “Greystag.”

  “Yes. Their horns are used in a spell that makes people…charming?”

  “Compelling, yes. Charismatic. Fleet officers buy them, and politicians.”

  The enthusiasm in his face winked out, leaving him unreadable.

  “Are you political, Kir Parrish?”

  “Just a sailor.”

  “Call me Gale, Parrish—I’m nobody, remember?”

  Her gaze fell on his lips, her thoughts turning to the taste of ripe fruit. Stop it, you ridiculous old woman!

  A young woman waited on the beach, flanked by six heavily muscled guards: three male and three female. Now the guards waded out to meet them. They marched alongside the rowboat as Gale’s sailors withdrew their oars. Then, suddenly, they lifted it. There was no jolt, no reduction in speed: they were borne aloft, from hip to shoulder—Gale had a fleeting thought of pallbearers—gliding to the beach. With no evidence of effort, they eased the boat into a drydock decorated with streamers.

  “Mind that frown, Parrish,” Gale said.

  “They’re not slaves?” he asked, sotto voce.

  “No, Redcap is a free island. The pulvers are court appointees. They compete for the honor.”

  “I see.”

  “Bright skies, it’s good to be on dry land!” Gale brayed, bustling off the platform and folding the princess into a surprise hug. “Sapira, innit? Good to see you again! This is a lovely beach. Ever go clamming here?”

  The girl pulled free, dazed. Then she caught on: this was no official visit, just two women chumming it up. “In summer, yes. I’m glad you remember me. When we met, I was a child.”

  “Well, you’re grown now, aren’t you?”

  “I hope so.” Sapira’s voice had the richness of a seasoned speaker’s. Her smile conveyed warmth, acceptance. She had seemed bright enough as a girl, but had not been vibrant. Now, as her attention slid past Gale, it was almost a loss, as though she had fallen into shadow.

  Sapira licked her lips. “I’m sure you’ll find me every inch a woman.”

  Rot. Gale coughed. “Meet my first mate, Kir Parrish.”

  He bowed gravely.

  It took the girl a moment to remember herself, to clasp Gale’s arm and lead everyone away from the shore.

  He really is that beautiful. Gale had
hoped her eye was too particular, too keen to find fault. Maybe she’ll marry young Garland in marriage and I can tell Royl to find someone more…well, someone else.

  “You on your own today, Sapira?”

  “The court is with the western herd,” Sapira said. “Daddy and the crown prince are collecting horns with a group of visiting dignitaries.”

  “Sounds like you’re missing a party.”

  “Diplomats, formal dances, empty small talk…” Sapira’s gaze slid back to Parrish. “Better to be out on the highlands.”

  “I can’t wait to see these famous Redcap stags,” Gale said.

  “I’ve arranged refreshments; then we’ll set out.” Atop the hill, a silk tent sheltered a table laid with tea and light fare: braised greystag, shellfish, and pickled vegetables. Uphill, horses and trail guides were waiting.

  Sapira glided to head up the table. “You ride, Kir Parrish?”

  “A bit.”

  “The trails are slippery. I hope you’ve got a good seat.”

  “I’ll do my best to keep up, Kir.” No sign he’d picked up on her suggestive tone.

  They were packed and under way in less than an hour, and Parrish wasn’t boasting—he could ride. The pulvers hiked ahead and behind, tirelessly striding through the switchbacks into the stony hills. Winter was barely over: the rivers were high and icy, the paths wet.

  Twice the trail narrowed, forcing them through narrow passes overwatched by stone towers.

  “Nice killing pits you got here,” Gale said.

  “Relics from the days before the Fleet Charter,” Sapira said, waving to a pair of bored-looking tower guards. “Redcap was oft-attacked.”

  “Your ancestors retreated to the mountains and picked the pirates off when they followed?” Parrish said.

  She nodded.

  “What about larger forces?” Gale asked. “Someone must have tried to bring an army up this trail.” The towers were well-placed, but not impregnable. Serious invaders would have come armed with magic as well as muskets and swords.

  “There’s a fortress inland.”

  “Fortress” proved to be an understatement. Six hours into the journey, they reached a long alpine shelf, an expanse overshadowed by a jagged rise of mountain. The rock face above the plain was bald stone the color of dried blood, topped by an enormous ice pack.

  They picked a slow route across a floor of broken rock and dirty snow, slick terrain dotted with patches of young grass and flowers. Goats grazed the new growth avidly. The river they’d been following, the Kingsilver, came from higher up: it was pouring down the rock face and spilling across the plain. Fed by the glacier above, it ran fast, its water boisterous and foamy.

  Looks cold. Since around her fortieth birthday, Gale had been increasingly preoccupied with keeping warm.

  “You asked about invasions?” Sapira pointed.

  The locals had cut their keep into the mountainside. Carved doorways rose on either side of the waterfall. The doors themselves were stained glass, lit from behind in an array of colors: gold, rose, the deep blue of the sea.

  “Glass doors in a fortress?” Parrish asked.

  “There are military shutters in storage. We haven’t needed them in eighty years.”

  The land approach to the keep was encircled by a defensive wall. Eight feet high, with the random, tumbled shape of a rock pile, it was covered in bilious green vines. New shoots and finger-long thorns reached through its mat of snow and winter-sodden leaves.

  Parrish reined in well short of the barrier. “Redcap…would that be another name for maddenflur?”

  Sapira gave him an appreciative smile. “Are you a botanist as well as a sailor?”

  “I know this plant. It’s hallucinogenic.”

  “It has many uses, medicinal, magical, and military. Its poisons and thorns protect the wall.”

  “How do you keep it from taking over?”

  “The goats can digest the young shoots.”

  “But they don’t crop it from the wall?”

  Pleased at his interest, Sapira gestured them closer. Donning a heavy leather glove, she pulled a strand of the vine, exposing the rock below. About fifteen nasty-looking ants gathered on the stem, spraying tiny drops of formic acid.

  “We add new stones to the wall each year,” she said. “The vines stitch it all together, and the ants keep the goats at bay. When maddenflur takes root elsewhere in the meadow, there are no ants.”

  “So the goats eat it,” Parrish said.

  As if to illustrate the point, a pregnant nanny picked her way over the wall, dodging the spraying ant poison around her hooves.

  “A perfectly balanced natural defense,” Parrish said, with obvious appreciation.

  “Gorgeous,” Gale agreed. “But how’s an old lady who means no harm haul her backside into your keep?”

  “We take the river.”

  Sapira led them to a covered barge waiting on the banks. Once they were aboard, the pulvers jumped into the turgid stream, seizing ropes of braided goatskin and using brute strength to tow the barge against the current. They skirted the crushing heart of the cataract, passing through the falls on one side. Water splashed, deafeningly loud, on the roof, sheeting down in curtains. Then they were through, entering a massive chamber, a reception hall, overlooked by a mezzanine and centered, at ground level, by the circular pool for the barge.

  Two more Blossoms, a teenaged girl and an elderly woman, awaited them on an ornately decorated pier.

  “Well!” Gale gushed. “This is impressive. Your enemies would have had to either brave the poison or push through the waterfall. Efficient, Parrish, wouldn’t you say? My, look at that ceiling!”

  He gaped upward at the frescoes with perfect sincerity. Her heart warmed a little.

  Sapira made introductions: “This is my half-sister Teale and our aunt Agate.” Agate gave Gale a quick, shrewd glance; Teale, naturally, was staring over Gale’s shoulder. “This is…ah…”

  She thrust out a hand: “Gale Feliachild of Verdanii.”

  “And Captain Parrish, from the Nightjar,” said Sapira.

  “Not the captain,” Gale corrected Sapira sharply.

  They toured the reception chamber, climbing to a parlor on the mezzanine that overlooked the docked barge in its pool. There they sat down to play a board game.

  Time to find out why I’m here. Gale brought up clamming again, rattling on about the shellfish of the various islands she’d been to, making bad jokes and guffawing. It didn’t take long for Agate to bring the conversation ‘round to politics.

  “Before the peace, we had strong ties with Sylvanna,” she said. “Our defenses on land are considerable, as you see, but we have a lot of beach.”

  “Lotta landing sites.”

  “Exactly. Sylvanner ships patrolled our waters in the days before the Fleet-enforced peace.”

  “And in exchange?”

  “One of our more impulsive kings agreed to supply Sylvanna with ninety flawless greystag horns every year.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever,” Sapira said.

  “Perpetual contracts are illegal,” Parrish said.

  “They are now. Ours predates the Fleet Charter,” Agate said.

  “Ninety horns, Agate—is that a lot?”

  Agate nodded. “The herd’s population was high at the time, and there has been some contraction since the Peace. Nothing serious, but for some decades we rarely saw more than eighty horns of the required quality.”

  “And the fee?” Gale asked.

  “A fixed amount, paid per horn. It was a decent rate even fifty years ago.”

  “I suppose if you’re short on the ninety horns, you owe them the next year.”

  “Exactly. We were deep in arrears for a long time, which suited Sylvanna. But lately, we’ve made progress.”

  Gale wondered if Parrish was following this: Agate was explaining why, for decades, Redcap had been voting with Sylvanna on contentious issues within the Fleet Conve
ne. Now they were out of debt, the Sylvanners didn’t want to give up a puppet.

  “We’re not poor,” Sapira said. “But this contract will eventually beggar us. They’d let us out of it, maybe, in exchange for the inscription that makes the pulvers, but—“

  “You’ve sought legal advice?”

  Parrish coughed into his drink, spraying tea, his cheeks purpling. Agate gave Teale a warning glare.

  See, Sloot? They can’t keep their hands off him, Gale thought.

  “We’ve had the contract reviewed,” Sapira affirmed, as if nothing had happened.

  “No easy way out, mmm?”

  “No. And we don’t want to end up in court.”

  “Hah. Sylvanner lawyers would swallow you whole.”

  They were asking Gale to find a way to break it, in other words, without arbitration or court or anything that might smack of them breaking treaty. This was why she was here playing dotty aunt.

  The board game concluded with Parrish winning everything—the girls were too distracted to play well. Afterward, servants led Gale to a room that overlooked the valley. Her view of goats and snowmelt was distorted by the pale champagne-colored glass of her balcony doors.

  Instead of enjoying the scene, she bustled around the keep, being a nuisance, demanding nettle soap, pretending to be lost and grilling the servants. There was little they could add to the story. Sylvanna had sent a large diplomatic party to court, allegedly to celebrate the fact that Redcap meant to pay off the backlog of horns this year. Trouble was expected.

  Dinner came. Gale told off-color stories; Agate endured. The girls made eyes at Parrish.

  He was distantly polite to them, but his attention was below, on the reception chamber. The barge and its dock had been cleared away from the pool, and stone spheres were placed around its circumference. Freestanding torches blazed, illuminating the back of the waterfall.

  “Are they setting up for an event?” he asked.

  “Each year the eldest of our pulvers retires and a new initiate gets scripped,” Agate said. “The changeover ceremony is about to start—see, there they are.”

  Twenty pulvers gathered at the edge of the pool. When they were in place, six more marched in, bearing a column of stone.

  A young man clad in an oversized white shift was bound to the column. They erected it in the center of the pool, so his feet dangled just above the water.