Page 18 of Minor Works of Meda

The first speaker waved her hand. “A week at least,” she said firmly.

“Fine. But who else sails to Rovileis?”

“There’s nobody sails from Rovileis here but the Hound. What’s the old seer need?”

She’s dead, I almost said. But instead I ground my heel against the pebbled shore with a frown.

“Is there someone who would sail there? I need to go.”

The eldest bowed her head, as if she were nodding off. Then: “Boreas might take you to Pilkonos. You could find a ship from there.”

“Good. Fine. Who’s Boreas?”

I had a bad feeling as the old woman lifted her thin arm and waved, then whistled sharply. I turned over my shoulder to look at who she was beckoning. There was a group of men and women a little way down the shore, sorting out a big catch and preparing it for salting. One of the men straightened, wiped his hands on his trousers, and shaded his eyes.

Even from a distance, I could recognize him as the man who’d shown up with the flowers. I turned with a groan in time to see the old grandmother beckon him over.

“Him?”

“My grandson,” the woman said, narrowing her eyes at me. I wondered if it was a coincidence that she’d recommended Boreas or whether the old woman knew her grandchild had eyes for a half-rate witch.

Boreas trotted up, and then faltered when he saw me. He ducked his head, cheeks darkening as a blush stained them.

“I need to go to Rovileis,” I told him. “I’ll pay.”

“Boreas.” The old woman flapped her hand, training the boy’s attention. “Take her to Pilkonos. Yes?”

“Yes, grandmother,” he mumbled. Boreas frowned at me and then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Boat’s this way,” he said, and jerked his head towards the dock.

With a sigh, I followed him. The boat was small, with a single sail as well as oars stowed under the open bench. A half-inch of water sloshed at the bottom of the hull, and a wet lump of netting tangled in the corner next to a rusted box. I sat primly with my back to Boreas, trying not to invite conversation. He loosened the mooring ties and shoved away from the dock with one oar.

“Mistress?” He cleared his throat. “If you could catch the wind? We’d go faster.”

There was still power in the air, slowly fading but glimmering all around us. Wordlessly I did as he asked, carefully limiting the spell so no flood of magic would turn it into a hurricane. How odd it felt, to cast without thinking of going cold. To cast without worrying if the spell was too big.

I could not enjoy it.

I felt certain Boreas would try to strike up a conversation with me. He must have been wise enough to read the stiff lines of my shoulder and the way I sat with my back to him, bag on my lap. He didn’t say another word. It was a few hours, I think, before we reached Pilkonos. I was starving by then, and my head ached. I didn’t feel like crying but I did feel thoroughly miserable.

I paid him three argit.

“When you come back…” Boreas started to say. He’d tied the boat to the dock and was looking at me with big, hopeful eyes. I wondered if he’d spent the whole ride working up the courage to ask me something. It didn’t matter. I knew my answer.

I stood up, legs wide. The little boat swayed under my feet, restlessly bobbing at the end of its mooring. It was years since I had been out on the Etegen, but the gait of the waves was as familiar as breathing. My family might not have been fishers by trade, but we were still Nis-Illousian, home at sea as much as land.

Eudoria would want me to give him a chance, a treacherous part of me whispered. I could not do that.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not interested, nor will I be,” I said with a wince, not meeting his eyes. I took the broad step onto the more stable ground of the floating dock, which rose and fell but did not sway side to side.

Pilkonos was the size of three little fishing-villages put together. Perhaps that was pathetic for a capital city, but that was Nis-Illous for you. I didn’t even leave the harbor to go into town. I bought a slice of baked flat bread covered in herbs from a man who had a stack of them on a donkey cart, and then I started asking every sailor I saw if they knew a ship leaving for Rovileis. It only took a handful of tries before a woman with three braids and wide-cut trousers pointed me in the direction of the Sea-Sprint and told me I’d better hurry if I wanted a spot.

It was three days to Rovileis, and one argor for a private cabin and meals. The Sprint was leaving within the hour. If I wanted to ask for prices of other ships they wouldn’t hold my spot. That was well enough, because I was in no mood to run up and down the Pilkonos harbor bargaining. I handed over my money, locked the door to my narrow cabin—even smaller than my room at Eudoria’s—and did not emerge except for food and the latrine until the ship’s bell tolled to announce we had arrived.

By that time the last of the heavy outland magic had finally faded cold. The air was as devoid of power as it had always been. I had slept through, dull with grief, and made no use of the opportunity to work another casting.

Chapter 11

I clambered up out of the Sprint’s dark hold and crowded onto the deck with the rest of the crew and passengers. I had only seen Rovileis city, crown jewel of the Cachian Protectorate, as a miniature world in the scrying-bowl. For a backwater girl from Nis-Illous, the size of the real view was enough to take my breath away.

---