The Storm Witch (6 page)

A soft “click” made Parno Lionsmane’s eyes flutter open. Dhulyn was sitting at their cabin’s small table with her back to him, but he had seen her in that position many times—back straight as a lance, head tilted down, fingertips resting on the edge of the table—and knew that she was looking at her vera tiles.

He blinked, just stopping himself from speaking. Looking at her tiles, seeking a Vision, was something Dhulyn hardly ever did on her own. It was always his job to nudge her, persuade her. Parno could tell the moment the Visions began by the change in Dhulyn’s breathing, and the shift in the angle of her shoulders as she leaned forward. Still, he made no move to rise from his bunk. Instead, he closed his eyes again and let his own breathing slow. Whatever reason Dhulyn had for hiding this from him, he would let her tell him in her own time.

Finally, Parno heard Dhulyn release her breath in a ragged sigh and begin putting the tiles away, almost soundlessly, into their silk-lined box. He waited until she’d slipped the box back into her pack and nudged his shoulder with her knee before he rolled over, reaching up to rub at his face.

“Bring your sword,” she told him from the doorway.

Dhulyn Wolfshead raised her face to the rushing air and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, mentally chanting the closing words of the Scholar’s
Shora
. From up in the Racha’s nest she could make out an edge of rosy light on the horizon as the sun began to rise. The pains from her woman’s time had kept her wakeful all night, despite the valerian Parno had mixed into a cup of wine for her. Finally she’d gotten up, as quietly as she could, and used a meditation
Shora
to relax enough to try the tiles again. As usual during her woman’s time, the Visions had been crisp and focused. She’d Seen a narrow path between rock and crisply trimmed hedges, an unknown Finder bending over a dark blue scrying bowl. But no matter what question she asked, what tile she used as her beginning, she could not change the Vision of Parno that appeared. Nor could she See, as she had done sometimes in the past, any Vision of Parno that might come from a different future, a future in which he did not die in the Long Ocean.

The climb up the rigging to the Racha’s nest had loosened the muscles in her lower back, and helped her vent at least some of her frustration. She and Parno had always spoken of her Sight as erratic and unreliable—and so it was, since she could no more guarantee what Vision would come than she could guarantee a given cat would chase a given mouse. But the Visions themselves were clear and truthful, even if she didn’t always understand them. And what she did See would come to pass, if steps were not taken to change the circumstances.

But now, if she could not See Parno in any Vision other than the one in which he died, it seemed her days of avoiding this particular future were over.

Movement drew her eyes downward. There he was now. Some instinct made him look immediately upward as he secured the cabin door behind him. His teeth flashed white in the dark gold of his beard and he lifted his fist above his right shoulder, signaling “In Battle.”

Dhulyn raised her open hand, fingers spread wide, over her own right shoulder, answering the salute, “In Death.”

Parno spoke, but Dhulyn shook her head at him. Between the height and the rushing air, it was impossible to hear him.

Come down,
Parno signaled.

She shook her head.
You come up. It’s only twenty spans.

“If I cannot tell you,” she said, knowing she was safe to speak. “Then I must never let you guess.”

That had been the answer her meditation had shown her. She’d made the right choice yesterday when, talking to Malfin Cor, she’d decided to behave as though this were any normal assignment. Not waking Parno, skipping the morning
Shora
—something that all Mercenary Brothers did every day unless injured—
those
had been mistakes.

If she stepped too far from the path of her normal behavior, if she acted as if nothing—not the job, not the
Shora,
not the Common Rule—mattered anymore, Parno would notice and ask questions. As soon as he realized Dhulyn had Seen it, Parno had made her promise never to tell him how he would die. If she could not keep him alive, she could at least keep her promise.

If only it wasn’t
this
death. Dhulyn gripped the narrow rail around the Racha’s nest tighter and leaned out, giving Parno as encouraging a grin as she could manage. He was almost halfway up the rigging, but with luck he wouldn’t notice anything unnatural about her smile.

“Don’t slip and fall, my soul,” she called out. Parno didn’t look up, but he did make a most rude signal with his left hand. Dhulyn laughed, strangely comforted.

Mercenary Brothers expected to die, their Schooling prepared them for it. But they hoped to die in battle, and preferably at the hands of a worthy opponent. The best death—the one that they all hoped for—was at the hands of another Mercenary Brother.

Not the way Parno would die. Not drowning.

“Oh, my soul, I’m so sorry,” she murmured. But not quietly enough.

“Sorry for what?”

“Sorry for this.” Dhulyn swung her legs over the side of the Racha’s nest, pushed Parno to one side with a foot to his sternum, and fell, catching at the rigging from time to time to slow her descent. It was a game the apprentice mercenaries had often played on the
Black Traveler
. The sound of Parno’s cursing followed her all the way down until her bare feet hit the closely fitted planks of the deck.

“Crab
Shora,
” she announced as Parno landed beside her, and pulled her second-best sword from its harness at her back. One of the basic twenty-seven
Shoras
that all Mercenary Brothers learned in School, the Crab was designed for right-handed sword and uneven ground. But it was just as well suited to the subtly shifting deck beneath their feet.

Parno’s sword flicked out to meet hers. “Come on, then,” he said, motioning her forward with beckoning fingers. “Winner gets both breakfasts.”

*Where are they* Malfin Cor resisted the urge to crane his neck around and search out the nooks and crannies of the ship. Usually, he’d know where anyone on board was without having to look. Having landsters among them changed so many things.

Darlara motioned with her eyes to the left, toward the forward deck. *She’s on upper deck, he’s in my cabin*

Malfin lowered himself to the pilot’s bench next to her. *Best think of it as their cabin* he said.

Darlara nodded, her eyes suddenly spreading wide open. *See their practice this morning* she asked.

Malfin shrugged, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward enough to look around his sister to the forward deck. He could just make out the spot of dark red that was Dhulyn Wolfshead’s hair.

*Seen fighters practice*

*Not like this, and those that did won’t be forgetting it soon*

*Was it so strange then* Without straightening, Mal turned to look at her.

*Mal, it was fast* Darlara leaned against his shoulder, and Malfin felt a tickle of cold run down his spine as her feelings transferred to him. *Went at each other like were crazed, on the main deck, up and down the rigging and ladders—once she ran balancing on the rail and he doing his best to knock her off* *They were all the time smiling, never a foot put wrong—so fast couldn’t always see the blades moving—any minute expected blood to fly* Dar put her hand on his arm. *And, Mal, kept it up until the sun was a span over the edge of the sea, and when finished, were dripping sweat, but breathing easy like sitting in a chair*

Malfin’s eyes narrowed. *Could hold their breaths long, you think*

*They’re landsters, when all’s said, but oh, Mal, if you’d seen*

Mal considered his sister’s thoughts carefully, but there was none of that glow he’d sometimes felt when there was a new man she was interested in. Not that he would have been surprised. Both the Mercenaries were tall even for landsters, and Dar liked them tall. And their coloring was unusual enough to make them exotic to the Nomads. Lionsmane was brown and gold all over, like the animal he was named for, and Wolfshead was pale as a deep-sea pearl, and looked like she’d be just as cool to the touch—except for her hair, red like old blood.

No, what he saw now in Darlara’s thoughts wasn’t lust, but something closer to awe.

*Guess I missed something then*

*There was only the night watch on deck, your turn tomorrow*

*I can’t wait—look*

Darlara sat up and turned to look forward. Parno Lionsmane had come out of the cabin carrying what were clearly pipes in his hands. Dhulyn Wolfshead moved from where she had been sitting, coming halfway down the ladder leading to the forward deck, and speaking to her Partner as she came. He answered, she nodded, sitting down where she was on one of the rungs, and went back to reading her book. Dar looked at her brother and lifted her shoulders in query. He frowned and pointed forward again. Dar looked back, and this time she saw what Mal was drawing to her attention. One or two of the crew were circling, closing in on Parno Lionsmane from other parts of the ship, Goann from the forward hatch, Mikel from the galley underneath where he and Dar were sitting, and what looked like Conford, the new exchange, from one of the cabins amidship. All were keeping Pod silence, so you had to be watching to see anything. There wouldn’t be much to notice if you were down on the main deck, but from up here it was obvious.

*Trouble* he said to his sister.

*Mercenary Brother has nothing to worry about* she said.

*Not even three against one* Mal got to his feet and headed for the ladder. *Practice against each other is one thing, a fight with Nomads is another*

But he moved with casual deliberation. Strangers were rare aboard a Nomad ship, the crew would have been unsettled in any case, and the circumstances bringing these particular strangers made things even worse. The crew was itching for a confrontation, and the Mercenaries made as good an excuse as any. And since there was bound to be an incident, better it happened now, under his eye, and not later, perhaps when neither he nor Darlara was by.

And he had to admit he was curious. He’d seen a bit of Lionsmane’s speed in the
Catseye,
but so had some of the crew, and now they’d be prepared.

Lionsmane had taken his pipes to the narrow bench, little more than a shelf, that ran along the ship’s side under the main deck’s rail. The instrument’s air bag was partially filled, and he was looking down, attaching first the chanter and then the drones.
Chanter
. That was part of his name, and now Malfin figured he knew why. So if the Wolfshead was called Scholar . . .

Lionsmane took the chanter in his fingers and began the opening notes of a slow dance tune, his elbow squeezing out a rhythm through the drones.

“Hey, pipe-boy, do you dance nice like you play?” That was Conford’s voice, heavy with anger, and Mal began to walk faster. Con had only recently come to
Wavetreader
from a Round Ocean ship. And voluntary though an exchange always was, Conford’s had been particularly hard. Everything and everyone here was strange to him, and it would take him time to feel that he had a good wind and a fair current. In his mid-twenties, Conford was small and thick-muscled like most Nomads, his grin, seldom seen, showing a space where he was missing a tooth. He wore a
garwon
at his belt—which he had every right to—but was beckoning Parno forward with empty hands.

“Come on, then, show us how well you dance.”

Lionsmane didn’t even open his eyes, but went on playing. Malfin circled around to ship’s starboard, until he was standing to the left of Dhulyn Wolfshead where she sat on the ladder, reading.

“Come on, pipe-boy. Or you gonna get your lady friend to fight for you?”

Other crew were beginning to gather, some elbowing each other, grinning. Josel looked up from the lesson he was chalking on the deck boards and shepherded the children toward the aft hatch, shaking his head as he went.

The Mercenary broke off in mid-note, the drones groaning as he released the air bag. He ignored Conford and looked toward his Partner.

“Dhulyn?”

“You go ahead.” The Mercenary woman shrugged one shoulder without lifting her eyes from her book. “I did the last one,” she added.

She’s Senior,
Mal remembered, moving forward until he was next to and below her.
Lionsmane won’t act without her nod.

“Are you sure? He seems to think you beat me this morning.”

“I
did
beat you, and look again. That man’s not one of the crew who watched us this morning. I think his friends are playing a trick on him.”

“I like tricks.”

“Well, watch out for your pipes. They won’t be easy to replace out here.” And she’d still never lifted her eyes from her reading.

Mal was close enough to her to speak without raising his voice. “Not even going to watch?”