Tempest (3 page)

Colm crouched at the water's edge and scooped gravel into the basin, then scrubbed at it with his hand. Sticky bits of porridge slowly sloughed away, and he repeated the process twice more, until he could rub his fingers across the inside of the pot without them catching anywhere. He rinsed, then rinsed again, keeping the water as steady and untroubled as he could before he hurried back to the road. The caravan was barely visible in the distance, and Colm practically had to run to catch up. Those camels didn't look fast, but their long legs kept a steady pace that ate up the distance.

“Ah, here's the uplander!” one of the other young men called out as Colm passed the wagon at the back. “Done with our dishes yet, miss?” Colm ignored him and kept walking. “You forgot to clean my cup, lass! But I'll let it go this time.” His friends laughed with him, and Colm blushed and walked faster.

“Here,” Colm said breathlessly when he'd caught up to the front of the caravan again. He thrust the pot at Fergus, who took it easily and set it behind his seat.

“Nicely done,” Fergus complimented him, catching Colm off guard. “But it won't do for you to run from those lads, Weathercliff. You'll have to snap back or be eaten by the little bastards.”

“I'll manage them,” Colm said.
Somehow.

“Course you will,” Fergus said affably. “Do you know how to drive a camel, Weathercliff?”

Colm didn't even know how to ride a mule. “No.”

“Get up here, then, it's high time you learned.” Fergus scooted over and made room, and once Colm joined him he handed over the leads. Colm spent the rest of the day learning how to coax a camel into doing his bidding—coax them, because, like horses and mules, they could be ornery, and they held a grudge far longer.

“Ah, these camels are my true family,” Fergus said expansively as he chewed on a strip of beef. “I've had them since I returned from the Fasach, the desert lands. Wonderful creatures. Feed them and water them, and they'll take you anywhere. They can handle the icy winds of the mountains just as well as the cloying heat of the swamps, and none but the greatest or most foolhardy of predators will approach them. I lost one to a manticore a few years back, but she's been the only casualty so far.”

“Where did you see a manticore?” Colm asked. He'd heard of such creatures, but the closest thing to a genuine monster they had in Anneslea was a kelpie that had abandoned the loch not long after his father had settled there.

“It was in the steppes north of the desert lands, in a nasty, rocky expanse of nothing much worth bothering about. Foolish to go there, but the rocks had a few crevices that would help protect my wagons from a sandstorm, so into the rocks we went. I didn't even see the creature until it was upon us: long, skinny-bodied thing, all ribs and teeth. The tail, though, that worked well enough. Speared one of my camels, and the lovely thing just keeled over, paralyzed. It fell on her like it hadn't eaten in months, and maybe it hadn't. Tore great chunks out while she was still alive. It was a brutal death for my poor lass.” Fergus shook his head sadly, reaching one hand up to adjust his turban. “I left right then, of course, sandstorm be damned. That thing was so ravenous, it might not have been satisfied with a single camel, and I couldn't afford to lose any more.”

Colm had cultivated the art of listening at an early age. It relieved him from having to carry on a conversation, and people tended to enjoy talking about themselves. “What other creatures have you encountered in your travels?” he asked, and spent the rest of a largely pleasant day listening contentedly as Fergus described places so far-flung, they had no name on any map he'd ever seen, the beauty of their women, the cunning of their men and the glory of skies that undulated with sheets of green and blue and purple in the night.

It was almost a disappointment to bring the wagon to a halt, although his rear had grown rather stiff from sitting. Fergus dismounted heavily, shouting for Marley and chatting with the other drivers as he circulated through where he had designated their first camp. Breaking down took a lot of preparation: camels had to be unhitched, watered and left in the grass to feed, the wagons had to be secured and provisions assembled for whatever dinner was going to be that night, while individuals and families tried to find the softest patch of ground to erect their tents on.

By the time Colm had readied his bedroll, not far from the wagon, Fergus was back. “So!” he said merrily. “Some of the lads are off to try their hands at catching some fish. I do recall that you owe me at least a six-incher tonight, and I recommend you do so before those hopeful lads scare off all the possibilities.”

“Of course.” Colm pulled his collapsible rod and tackle from his pack, then headed for the shore of the river. He was surprised when Fergus fell into step beside him. “Oh—don't you have things to do back at camp?”

“Why, Weathercliff, can't handle an audience?” Fergus softened his words with a wink. “No, I'm letting Marley handle the meal tonight. He makes a mean stew, practically edible, and if I stayed around, he'd just ask to use my spices. Hang that, I say. People want to salt or season their stew, they can bring their own.”

A moment later, they reached the bank of the Wending Slew, where, sure enough, several yards downstream, the same three young men who had laughed at Colm earlier were casting flies determinedly into the swift current. Colm stifled a laugh, but one of them heard him anyway.

“Oh, here she is,” he said with a grin. “Come to catch dinner for all of us, miss? Or did you come to see it done properly, then?”

Colm wondered for a moment if Fergus would speak up for him, but the fat man just rocked back on his heels and folded his hands over his belly. Fine, then. Colm started to piece his rod together.

“Ooh, what, couldn't even afford to get it all in one piece, miss?” The men laughed together. Colm gritted his teeth and tried to ignore them. “Not going to have much luck with a broken pole. One hard tug and it'll come to pieces on you. Tell you what, lass, step back and you can do the cleaning for
our
fish once we reel 'em in, hmm?”

Colm took one deep breath, then another. He reached out with his hand and let his fingers drift in the current. The water was harder to read here. Not surprising, with three oafs fouling the eddies not ten feet away. After a moment, though, he could feel the slow, smooth tremors that meant a fish was moving nearby. Putting his rod down, Colm rolled his pants up past his knees and stepped into the water. He waded in as deep as he could go without drenching his clothes, hunched over so his fingers slipped below the cool surface, and stilled.

The men were shouting something at him, derisive and uproariously funny if the braying sounds coming from their throats were anything to go by, but Colm barely heard them. All his attention was on the water. It made his skin crawl uncomfortably. Colm had never relished the feel of water on his skin, despite how well he could read it. But he managed to ignore that too, in favor of following the fish with his mind. Closer, closer…a young sand slider, he thought, edging on six inches but possibly not quite there. Another chance wasn't a sure thing, though, not the way those idiots were churning up the water, and so as soon as he felt it draw close enough, Colm plunged his hand deep down into the mud. He trapped the slider between the silt and his own long fingers, making them a cage, then lifted it out of the water.

Every man there went totally silent.

Colm turned and smiled at Fergus, who watched with wide eyes. “Here is your dinner.” He examined the slimy brown fish. “Just over six inches, I think.” Colm tossed it at Fergus, who caught it awkwardly, almost fumbling it to the ground.

“Aren't you going to clean it, then, Weathercliff?” Fergus demanded.

“Mmm, no, cleaning wasn't part of the deal,” Colm said, already scanning the water for a fish of his own.

“Luck!” one of the men shouted. “That was pure luck! How could you possibly have seen a brown fish in brown water with the sun going down?”

“I didn't see it, I sensed it,” Colm said absently.

“Sensed it? What are you, a fish-man? Sensing your own kind?” the man sneered. He charged into the water beside Colm, fouling it terribly and frightening all the fish away. “Is it some sort of magic you do?” he demanded, grabbing the hand Colm had caught the fish with and glaring at it. The grip hurt, and Colm pulled back, but the young man wouldn't let go.

“Unhand me,” Colm said coldly.

“Not if you're some sort of a mage I won't,” the man replied. “Vile, murderous bastards all of them, who do magic without prayin' to the Four. So what is it, then?” He stepped closer and squeezed harder. “Are you a fish-man or are you a mage?”

“Farrel, leave him be,” one of the other men called, but Farrel's grip didn't waver.

“No!” he shouted back. “We have a right to know if a mage is travelin' with us! You—” He gasped suddenly, and drew back as the pain of what had just happened reached his brain. Colm had his thin-bladed gutting knife in his hand, the knife he carried tucked away beneath his shirt, so small no one ever thought to look for it. He had drawn it across the back of Farrel's hand as soon as the man had become distracted, leaving a shallow but long slice in the thin flesh.

“I'm just a man,” Colm said quietly. “There's no magic in me, just a knack for finding fish. Don't try to touch me again, or I'll show you another of my talents.” He stepped out of the water, grabbed his tackle and slid his shoes back on. “I think I'll pass on dinner tonight,” Colm told Fergus, then headed back for the caravan. He could hear Fergus lambasting the other men as he crossed the road, finally, and that made Colm feel just the slightest bit better.

Colm had resigned himself to a hungry night, but Marley surprised him by bringing him a bowl of stew. “No one in our caravan goes hungry,” he said gruffly. “Fishing went poorly, then?”

“You could say that,” Colm replied, taking the bowl and sipping tentatively. The broth was simple but tasty, and bits of carrot and shredded jerky floated enticingly.

“Don't let those young'uns get to you,” Marley advised, topping Colm's bowl off. “Full of dreams they are, but little sense. Caithmor will knock that into 'em, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Colm agreed. Marley moved on, and Colm sat alone in the twilight, savoring the heat of the bowl against his chilled fingers. He always felt so cold after being in the water. It seemed to take hours for the feeling to dissipate. Once he had finished his meal and rinsed his bowl, he laid his head back against his pack and stared up at the stars, trying not to think too hard about what the other man—Farrel—had said.

Uplanders were a naturally superstitious folk, and they'd suffered terribly under tyrants who'd maintained their dominance through bloody, fearful magic before Tierna Red-Eye had broken the mage lords' backs with his ruthless campaign. The only people who could practice magic now were priests, and only in service to the Four. Worship of the Two, the dark, unfathomable expanses both above and below, had been banned. Magic was a dirty word, and being accused of using it was a serious allegation.

Colm didn't know where his ability came from. Ger Weathercliff had been a good fisherman, but he had never had Colm's knack for sensing the movements of the water, for knowing what moved through the deeps and being able to distinguish the movements of fish from water weeds or roiling currents. Colm thought the knack might come from his mother, but that was one topic of conversation that his father had never, ever discussed, not with him or anyone else. Something terrible must have happened to her, and Colm had never pressed when he saw how much pain it caused his father.

“Whoof!” Colm's eyes, which had fallen closed with his ruminations, snapped open as Fergus levered himself to the ground in an untidy sprawl next to him. The caravaneer carried an oil lamp and a plate with his freshly cooked fish still steaming on it. “If the gods someday invent a way that man can accomplish all he needs while standing on his own two feet, I'll be thrilled,” Fergus grunted as he crossed his legs. “It's the getting up and getting down that bothers me these days. Old, that's what I'm becoming.”

“What can I do for you?” Colm asked, not too politely, but then he wasn't feeling extremely polite either.

“All I want is your company and some conversation,” Fergus assured him. “I doubt those lads will be giving you any trouble from here on out. Being shown up is one thing, but accusations of magic are quite another. Too much of that and people will start to talk, and not in a good way.”

“So you're here to…warn me, then?”

Fergus took a bite of his fish and chewed slowly, savoring it. “Delicious,” he said after he swallowed. “Warn you? Oh, not so much. I warned them, certainly. You…well, no one can help what the gods gift them with, can they? You're a dowser, Weathercliff, pure and simple.”

“A dowser?” Colm sat up and turned to face Fergus. “I've never heard of such a thing before.”

“Aye, 'tis more of a desert term. There are men there who can find water in the middle of a desert, some by going into a trance, some just followin' their noses. I met a girl, daughter of a blacksmith, who could find ancient starfalls and recover their celestial metal. I've even met a man who could see the patterns lizards left on bare stone and find all their little hiding places. A man who feels for fish is no great stretch for me.” Fergus shrugged and ate another bite. “It's possible you've a bit of selkie in you. Your dad came from the coast, didn't he?”

“Yes,” Colm said, intrigued by Fergus's descriptions. “What's a selkie?”

“A seal that becomes a woman on shore. Steal her pelt and she'll make you a good wife, but if she ever finds it again, she'll leave you and all your children to return to the water. There are plenty of old families along the coast with some selkie in their blood. I reckon you swim like a fish too.”