Tempest (4 page)

“I actually don't know how to swim,” Colm confessed.

“Really?” Fergus looked surprised. “Well, you'd sure and away be good at it if you tried, I've no doubt. Anyhow, I'm the last man who would hold your gift against you.” He leaned a little closer. “If I were you, though, I might make it a point of using a rod instead of your bare hands from here on out. Just to ease the simpler minds.”

“I will,” Colm said. He'd already decided not to show off again. He had no facility with it.

“That was a lovely little cut you gave that lad too,” Fergus added gleefully. “Just enough to let him know you meant business, not enough to really hurt him. He and his friends will likely give you a wide berth from here on out.”

As far as Colm was concerned, that was a good thing. He had never made friends easily, and it seemed that this trip wasn't going to prove any different. Gods knew what he would do once he got to Caithmor. He hoped that Desandre's aunt Meggyn was a patient woman, for he was likely to be quite the embarrassment until he got the hang of living in the city.

Assuming she lets you stay at all
, Colm thought morosely. If that didn't happen, well…he couldn't go back to Anneslea. He'd have to try his hand somewhere else and hope his strangeness didn't make him a complete pariah.

“There's no need to look so dour, Weathercliff!” Fergus clapped his shoulder companionably, then used it to help lever himself to his feet. Colm's spine creaked under the added weight. “You've done fine for your first day out of the nest. It only gets easier from here, lad.” Fergus bustled back to his wagon, clucking at his camels, and Colm watched him go with a smile. He was right. It was far too soon to write off his journey as a failure. And Farrel had deserved what he got. When Colm bedded down that night, it was with a greater sense of optimism than he'd imagined himself having a few hours earlier.

Chapter Three

The next day was much like the first, and they continued until a week had gone by almost before Colm realized it. He'd taken Fergus's advice and fished with his pole now, and all but one night, he caught more fish than he and Fergus alone could eat. Sharing his bounty with the rest of the travelers inclined them to be kind, and Farrel and his friends might cast truculent glances his way, but they didn't bother Colm any longer. Better yet, Fergus had taken it upon himself to pass along the washing-up duties to them, and so Colm was free to enjoy his mornings a little longer. He spent some time in the wagon with Fergus every day, and the big man passed the time by telling Colm wild, extravagant stories that had to be at least half lies, but were thrilling regardless.

“Oh, the Siskanns,” Fergus intoned when Colm asked about the southernmost part of the Muiri empire. “Awful, hot, damp place riddled with swamps and mires. The people now, the folk there are lusty and full of life, Weathercliff, and close to nature in a curious way. Because the Siskanns are a terrible place to live, ye understand. Full of biting insects and scaly water beasts and winds that carry illness with them.

“And the bandits, oh, don't get me started on the bandits! If the place doesn't kill you, the bandits will, and they aren't kindly bandits like you find in the desert, who just take most of your stores and then let you go. No, these lads take your stores, burn your wagons, slaughter your mounts, rape your women and string you upside down over the mires where the nimh-fish lie in wait. Then they watch and laugh as the bloody serpents take shots at you until a lucky one grabs hold of your head and pulls you down into the muck.”

“That sounds atrocious,” Colm said. He had no idea what a swamp serpent looked like, but if it was big enough to drag a man down by latching on to his head, it had to be bad.

“Aye, it is. It pays to hire extra security when you're dealing down there, no mistake. I've lost more than one comrade to the bandits' wicked ways.” Fergus sighed, looking almost old for a moment. “I'd skip the place entirely were it not for my terrible wanderlust. And the fact that I've a wife down there who'd miss me if I were gone for too long.”

“Naturally.”

The rolling foothills soon gave way to heavily cultivated plains, where the towns became larger and the sights more plentiful. Colm sampled foods he'd never tried before, strange chewy meats and bitter greens that somehow tasted delicious when sprinkled with lemon juice. He traded some fish for a paper mask of the Red-Eyed Emperor, and sent it back to Anneslea with his next letter to his sister. On one memorable occasion, he let Fergus and Marley talk him into trying peppery spirits, the liquid of life, they assured him. The small glass of clear liquid had seemed innocuous enough at first, but it burned all the way down his throat and left him gasping for breath. Fergus and Marley thought it was hilarious.

“That put some color in those sharp ivory cheeks!” Fergus crowed. “The red goes lovely with your pretty brown locks, Weathercliff.”

“Careful not to cough too much, though,” Marley added. “Your eyes will become so red, we won't even be able to see the blue, and I know the girls like blue eyes. Look at the luck this portly bastard has.” He jerked his thumb toward Fergus, who smiled graciously.

“You,” Colm wheezed as soon as he was able, “are
both
. Utter
bastards
.”

“Aye, lad, that's the spirit!” Naturally, they bought him another round. Naturally, Colm drank, and it was easier the second time, and much easier the third. His headache was so wretched in the morning that Fergus took pity on him and let Colm ride in the wagon all day, his cloak pulled tight around his face to hold back the horrid, pitiless sun. He didn't emerge until full dark had fallen, when Fergus patted his head gently.

“Not everyone is made to handle spirits,” he said, and it sounded like actual compassion in his voice. “I reckon this was a fine learning experience for you, Weathercliff. Now you'll know what not to do in Caithmor.”

“I will never drink anything again,” Colm groaned.

“Not even plain old water?” Fergus asked, offering up his skin. Colm considered it for a moment, then thrust his hand out with poor grace.

“Give it here.”

The water sloshed uncomfortably in his empty stomach, but after a while, Colm felt well enough to sip some broth, stumble off to the bush that had been designated the latrine and relieve himself, then walk back at a slow, careful pace. After another night of decent sleep, Colm felt almost normal the next day, if more assured than ever that he was
never
going to drink again.

Five days out from the coast, when a strong westerly wind blew in, a scent like Colm had never known before caught his attention. His body went stiff as he raised his head higher, trying to discover the source of it. Fergus noticed his sudden attention and laughed. “You caught that, then?”

“What is it?” Colm asked, transfixed.

“That's the sea, lad. When we get closer, you'll almost taste the salt in the air.”

“The sea.” Colm knew, intellectually, that the sea was a tremendous expanse of water, vaster than the mountain ranges of his home, something that supposedly stretched in such a way that it rivaled the sky for vastness. He felt he had a pretty good picture of it in his mind, that he could accept the existence of that much water just like he understood the concept of the continent he walked across. He just hadn't thought it would
smell
so enticing.

“Aye, the sea. Nice, isn't it?”

“It…yes.”

“Ah, there's that selkie blood playing up,” Fergus said knowingly. “It captures you, it does. It'll be like coming home for you, Weathercliff. Just you wait.” Colm didn't know how he would handle the waiting. As the wind dissipated, the scent faded with it, and he felt his shoulders slump with unexpected disappointment. Colm wanted it back; he wanted
more
. He didn't know how he would last five more days without experiencing the sea.

On the third-to-last day out from Caithmor, late at night, Colm was woken up by the sounds of muted cursing. He pushed off his blanket and headed for the noise coming from the direction of the ditch Marley had dug to be the caravan's latrine earlier that evening.

“Bloody fucking Four-fold damn,” Colm heard Fergus gasp, pain evident in his voice. He couldn't see the other man, though. “Come on now…up you get, one two, thr—bloody hells!”

“Fergus?” Colm called tentatively.

There was silence for a moment, then, “That you, Weathercliff?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, bah. Well…it could be worse, old man,” the caravaneer said, more to himself than to Colm. “Come over here and help me up, lad.”

“Where are you?”

“Sprawled over this dirty damn ditch, and I'd like to be out of it as soon as possible, so shift your lanky limbs and pull me out, damn it!”

Colm approached a little reluctantly, not enjoying the smell. There was Fergus, fallen onto his hands and knees. His turban had been knocked off and his sand-colored robe was filthy. “What happened?”

“What do you think happened, lout?” Fergus demanded in an angry whisper. “I tripped over my own damn feet and fell into this shit hole and twisted my bloody ankle, and if you don't get me out of here right now, I'll have you washing pots morning, noon and night for the rest of the trip!”

Colm overcame his reluctance and reached an arm down to Fergus. The heavy man gripped him tight, and Colm heaved, every muscle in his back and shoulders straining as he levered Fergus out of the ditch. “Bloody hell,” Fergus gasped once he was upright. “This foot's going to be a nightmare, I can tell.” He shook his head, making his hair flap around strangely. “Help me back to the wagon, lad, then go get me a bucket of water.”

Colm slid Fergus's arm over his shoulder and helped him hobble along, and as they walked he couldn't help but notice that Fergus's hair seemed oddly matted in places. Two long swaths on either side of his head were stuck together, and moved independently of the rest of it. Colm blamed the darkness and his own disbelief for his slowness in recognizing them for what they actually were. “You have
ears
?” he exclaimed.

“Keep your bloody voice down!” Fergus whispered harshly. “And yes, course I have ears, idiot, everybody has bloody ears.”

“Yes,” Colm said, helping Fergus turn and sit at the back of the wagon, “but yours aren't human ears.”

Fergus snorted. “Obviously not, very sharp eyes you've got there, Weathercliff.”

“They look like…” Colm was a little reluctant to say it, but he had to know. “They look like the ears of an ass.”

“Makes sense, considering that's what they are. Go on now, fetch me some water,” Fergus said, waving his hand feebly at Colm. “I'll tell you the rest of it after I don't stink of piss any longer.”

Colm left him and pulled water from the river, which had widened this far from the mountains, growing slower and shallower. He took a moment to clean his own hands and shoes before returning, grateful that the sky was clear and bright tonight.

Fergus was nude when Colm returned, his round, pale body an earthbound twin to the moon floating above. He still sat on the edge of the wagon and had a cloth and rough-cut soap ready to dip into the water. He cleaned himself quickly and efficiently, dumped the rest of the water over his head, then pulled another robe over his head and belted it firmly around the middle. The asses' ears twitched and quivered as Fergus dug his fingers into the hair around them, scratching viciously.

“Ahh, gods,” he sighed, “I've not had a proper bath for months. I need to get my wife to check me for lice, I shouldn't itch this way.”

“Are your ears the real reason you wear the turban?” Colm asked softly. “Not just because you're…” He stopped, not sure how to go on without being offensive.

“Not just because I'm a crazy traveling eccentric who spent too much time being bewitched by the Fesach and copied their strange ways?” Fergus finished. “Got it in one, Weathercliff. Though if my heart could settle anywhere, I would wish it were back in the desert. There's hidden beauty there the likes of which you've got to see to believe, lad.” He sighed heavily. “I suppose you're wondering about these.”

“Yes, but don't feel obligated to tell me.”

Fergus shook his head. “You are the strangest damn lark of a lad I've ever known, Weathercliff. You could blackmail me with information like this in Caithmor, you know that? The city priests are no friends of anything magical, and these”—Fergus tugged on one ear—“are definitely the result of magic. A curse, to be exact. A curse on greed, and one I knew full well about. I thought I would be the one to escape it, of course.” Fergus shook his head. “Ah, the folly of youth. Do you want to hear the tale, or don't you?”

“I do,” Colm said. “And I would never blackmail you.” He couldn't even imagine doing so.

“Good, then you can bind my ankle up nice and tight while I tell you.” Colm ripped the cloth from one of Fergus's turbans into bandages as the other man spun him a story of an ancient stronghold in the Fasach Steppes, where everything inside the keep was made of gold. The curse was the result of a once-great king's greed and madness, and it touched everyone who tried to take gold from the ruins.

“The more you took, the more you would change,” Fergus recalled. “The men I was with, they were a hearty lot, convinced of their own immortality. Most of 'em heaped themselves with as much as they could carry, heavy sacks of it, and staggered as fast as they could for the exit. As soon as each man crossed the threshold, though, he changed. Some turned into rabbits, some into pigs. One man turned into a nightingale. I had my own bags, but when I saw what was befalling the men around me, I threw them into the keep. Only one piece stayed with me, a golden circlet I'd stuck around my thick skull. It bought me these ears, and I'm fortunate it stopped with those.”

“So you were the only survivor?” Colm asked.

“Just about. The only other man to survive was the one who'd called us all fools and stayed with the camels. Marley always was a smart one, though.”

“It was Marley?” The porter had never struck Colm as the adventurous sort. “You two have been together that long?”

“Ah, well. Wives come and go, but true friends are worth their weight in gold. I would know,” Fergus added, his voice soft with memory. “It wasn't a terrible fate for me. I used the gold from the circlet to buy my first wagons and get my start as a caravaneer. Settling down was never an option, y'know.

“There are places in the world that are kind to those of us who've been touched by magic, lad, and I've seen many of them on my travels. Even tried to make a home in one of 'em,” he said with a sigh, “but my heart's not the type to rest easy, no matter how well I might fit in. Kind places, but they're small, well-hidden. No, it could only be the road for me, so I adopted a few mannerisms that make me seem eccentric and kept making my way through the world. Most think me harmless, and I'd like them to continue to do so. Can I count on your silence, Colm Weathercliff?”

“I already said I wouldn't blackmail you,” Colm told him. “You're keeping my secret, whatever it may be. I'm pleased to be able to keep yours.” He tied the last bandage off. “It's swollen, but not too badly. Be easy with it for a while.”

Fergus nodded gratefully. “Aye, I'll do that. You're a good lad, Weathercliff, for a bloody great stork. When we get to Caithmor, I'll make sure you find where you're looking for, all right? What's the name of the inn again, the Cove?”

“Yes,” Colm confirmed. “The Cove.” Privately, he wasn't sure he'd need the help, but it meant something to Fergus to offer it, and he wasn't going to insult the other man by turning his favor down.