Water Witch

  “Let me take the helm.” Pelono’s voice startled him despite its softness. “We’re reputed to have a way with watery things,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  “It was just an undercurrent we passed over,” Radi said, but he handed the helm over to the old man and went to join the others for a few minutes of song. They were rounding the cape, and there were lights off in the distance, like yellow stars, that Radi knew were the lamps of a nomadic tribe’s camp.

  He took off his tunic with all its gold braid and gembone buttons and put it aside, then he sat down near Chappa and tried to think about the music. The majini veered smoothly and for a moment they seemed to be bearing down on the camp lights. Radi heard Pelono shout, but as the majini careened sharply and lurched with an ear-splitting sound, water engulfed him before he could answer.

  Instinctively, Radi swam, well-muscled shoulders and thighs pushing against the weight of the entire ocean which at first threatened to keep him under. He kicked frantically, and though he knew it was his pants’ legs clinging to his calves, he feared that he had somehow mired in a cretin’s tentacles.

  He broke the surface gasping with relief. He couldn’t see the majini, then realized he was looking out to sea. He turned. The lights on the beach were hazy through a thick cloud of smoke issuing from the majini ‘s wreck, burning on the rocks. He knew the craft had been travelling at full speed. Even so, he was shocked at the distance it had covered during the short time he’d been under water, and appalled by the growing fire. The fuel must be leaking. Damn lucky it hadn’t exploded or there’d be no wreck to burn. Grimly he swam toward the smoke.

  The burning majini was hung up on the rocks about a hundred yards from the shore. The tide was with Radi as he swam, and the same force was threatening to push the bark into deeper water. Radi thought he saw someone jump from the rocks, but it might have been only a burning brand, quickly quenched in the brine. At the top of the swells he saw that there were low crafts on the water, rafts being poled from the beach to the wreck. The nomads were coming to help. Heartened, Radi continued swimming strongly. All of his people could swim, but if they’d been burned or maimed, they might not be able to, and only the cautious Harubiki had worn a flotation ring. In the light of the flames, the survivors would be easy to see. The rafters could pick them up quickly.

  When Radi reached the precariously balanced wreck, he had to swim around a pool of burning fuel in the water. The nomads had already lashed their rafts to the rocks and were bailing water onto the fire. He couldn’t see any of his own people on the rafts or on the rocks.

  “My crew!” Radi shouted as he heaved himself onto the rocks with the aid of a swell.

  A startled villager turned, bailing bucket in hand. He swung at Radi without hesitation. The bucket glanced off Radi’s shoulder to catch him soundly on the side of the head. Ear ringing, Radi fell back through a pool of flame into the water. The tip of a pole pushed him deeper, and Radi sensed that it was only his attacker’s precarious footing on the rocks and perhaps the flaming water that prevented him from being run through. He dived deeper to avoid a second thrust, pushing away from the rocks at the same time. When he surfaced, his attacker had already turned his attention to the wreck.

  As Radi struggled with pain to keep afloat, he saw that the nomads had the fire under control and were systematically loading the rafts with bedding, clothing, and food from the looted lockers. Bits of wreckage floated nearby, but he couldn’t see the heads of his companions who might have been similarly rebuffed or ousted from the majini. More rafts were coming from the shore. Radi didn’t dare call out. His head felt light from the blow, and his back was badly wrenched from the poling, making it difficult to swim. Dazed, he tried to move toward the beach. He hoped the tide would continue to carry him to the beach, for he had no strength to fight it. His arms moved slowly and it seemed as if his legs wouldn’t move at all. When his knee scraped sand, he tried to stand, but a swell covered him and dragged him back as it ebbed. His necklace snagged on something, holding him fast. He groped, found two strong arms, the hands of which were grasping his gembone medallion.

  With an outraged roar he tried to bring the person down. The stupid nomads didn’t even have the decency to wait until he was dead before robbing him of his remaining treasure. But the sound he made was a lamentable gurgle, and it was he who fell to his knees, surf washing over him but barely making the other stagger. He was pulled up rudely by his neck and hair.

  “Come on,” said a girl’s voice. “You’ve got to try. I can’t carry you, too!”

  Radi swayed. The swell pushed his feet beneath him where they belonged, but when he stood he felt as if watery ropes were pulling him back.

  “Lean on me if you must, but be careful of the mbuzi.”

  Slowly comprehending now that he was being aided and not attacked, Radi draped his arm around her shoulder. He thought he heard the plaintive bleating of a desert grazer, but it wasn’t until she let him collapse behind a rock on the shore that he realized the furry and lumpy collar around the girl’s neck was a young mbuzi. She let Radi lay where he fell while she lifted the struggling mbuzi over her head, cuddled it in her arms, and smoothed its damp fur. The little creature’s legs galloped aimlessly as they dangled. Its eyes were wild, but finally the gentle cooing and reassuring strokes calmed the little beast until it only trembled from time to time. The girl’s trembling matched the mbuzi ‘s, especially when she looked back at the water.

  “You nearly crushed him,” she said to Radi, but there was no anger in her voice.

  Although she was wet and disheveled, Radi could see that the girl’s curly hair was plaited with silver ribbons and caught up in a torn wisp of fine fiddler’s lace. Her teeth were white and even, like a Red City girl’s, and she wasn’t dressed in the flowing robes of the desert nomads. He guessed she was not one of the villagers, and though he wondered why a girl from the Red City would be here in this remote place, he touched the bit of gembone set in the gold medallion, dutifully giving thanks that she was here. The girl frowned at the gesture, or perhaps at the increasing sound coming to them from the beach behind the rock. The rafts were returning with their booty.

  “We must hurry,” she said, looking worriedly at him. “Can you walk now?”

  “Hurry? Where?” Except for the tent village pitched along the shore and filled with the bloodthirsty and greedy nomads, there was nothing near enough to run to. Sindra and the marines were two days’ march. The Tycoon’s compound was closest, and that was still miles upcoast.

  The girl shrugged. “Let’s get away from here before the villagers find us.”

  Radi shook his head, winced as the movement sent shooting pains through his skull. “There were others with me on the majini,” he said, sitting up carefully. He could move, but his back still ached.

  “There’s one person ahead of us on the rocks. The others probably were not so lucky.”

  “Only one?” Radi tried to peer around the rocks at the beach, but the view was blocked by mounds of fossilized sand dunes, sculpted by waves and eroded into grotesque shapes by the daytime winds. He looked back at the girl. “There were five of us.”

  “Shh,” she said, furtively glancing the way he’d just looked. “If I saw him, no doubt one of those wretched nomads did, too.”

  There was a cry from the beach, an alarm perhaps, and the girl took fright. Hastily she pulled a long brocade skirt over her head, not bothering to fasten the laces or shake out the wrinkles. She bent over to scoop the mbuzi up, slinging it over her neck in a single motion, then extended a hand to help Radi up. Her eyes glanced over his clothes, as if appraising the damage his ordeal had done to them, then her fingers remained clasped over his ringed fingers just a second too long. She knew it, too, and with a rustling of skirts she gestured for him to follow, and scrambled up into the rocks.

  Apprehensive now, Radi checked the hilt of his dagger, loosening the strap that kept it secure. If the way had permitted, he would have had
the weapon in hand, but he needed his fingers to find footholds that his eyes could not see in the shadows. At the top of the rocks he was gratefully relieved to find himself in bright moonlight. For a distance he could see that the rocks were flat, nearly shadowless, and partially covered with slick-looking travertine. The girl was crouched over, running at an angle towards the back of the rocks, away from the water, cutting down the angle of vision between herself and the nomad-filled beach. Crouching made his back hurt, but Radi did likewise.

  The girl disappeared over the edge of the rocks into shadow again, and Radi dropped to his belly in the moonlight, watching and listening, unable to forget the girl’s more than casual inspection of him. The medallion was not large or valuable enough to attract most thieves, but he was leery of anything or anybody that was as out of place as this girl, in her copper girdle and fiddler’s lace, so obviously was.

  He thought he heard a sound mingled with the wind, perhaps furtive voices or maybe only the startled bleat of the mbuzi. He turned, heading far to the right of where the sounds originated, slithering across the travertine, uncomfortably aware that he was bathed in moonlight. He was invisible from the beach but easy enough to see in his bright yellow shirt if anyone had been curious enough to follow them up to the rocks. Travertine gave over to lumpy sandstone that caught on Radi’s belt and laces, slowing his progress to the edge of the rocks. He pulled his dagger from the sheath, rested a moment, listening again. He could only hear the distant voices of the nomads over the sound of the surf lapping gently on the rocks behind him. He crawled, wanting to have his feet beneath him when he reached the edge. Cautiously he made ready to look over the side, poised to spring if the girl were alone, to leap away if she had secret companions.

  Near Radi’s feet, a man’s arm snaked out of the darkness to grab a tiny nub of rock. Radi had raised his dagger and nearly let it fly when Chappa’s head and shoulders rose into the moonlight. The young marine saw Radi’s feet, and as his gaze followed the wet brown legging up, a smile of recognition spread across his face.

  “We thought you were dead,” Chappa whispered. His tunic was torn and his cheek was cut. He hung wearily with his elbows hooked over the ledge, then his foothold must have slipped, for his body lurched. “This way, Radi,” he said hastily. “Harubiki’s with me.” He dropped to what sounded like sand below.

  Radi sheathed his dagger and followed, climbing down the rock, for though there was indeed sand below, he feared the jump might further injure his back and surely would set his head to throbbing again. At the bottom he followed Chappa to a niche in the rocks where Harubiki and the brocade-skirted girl were waiting.

  “I only saw one survivor,” the girl said, her bewildered glance going from Chappa to Harubiki.

  Ignoring her, Radi looked around. They were in the shadow of tall rocks, protected by an overhang from being spotted from above but trapped by the protrusions if someone came from behind. Beyond the rocks would be some vegetation, watered only by the morning fog that drifted in from the sea. Beyond that was the vast Tegati Desert where not even surface natives wandered. Radi gave Chappa two signs, tiny configurations with his fingers. Chappa gave no sign of surprise, didn’t even glance at the stranger, but Radi knew Chappa’s attention was on the girl. He stationed himself a little way from the niche where he could see anyone approaching their retreat, or attack the woman in a single leap. Finally Radi moved into the niche.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Deza eased the shivering mbuzi off her shoulders to cradle it in her arms, uncomfortably aware that she was being scrutinized. Prudently, she kept her back to the wall of rock while she crooned softly and stroked the frightened animal. She had kept the animal nearly dry while she was in the water; she had also apparently scared it out of its wits. Its eyes rolled back into the head until only the green conjunctiva showed. A bitter smell, emitted from the scent glands around the stiff little ears, was rapidly becoming evident in the windless niche.

  —Father,—Deza called soundlessly.—Please, Father. need your advice. I’ve rescued him but now I don’t know what to do with him.—

  —De… pri… cave… don’t—Her father’s voice could not get through the mbuzi’s terror. It came to her in short, staticlike bursts, not even a whole word long.

  —Shhh,—she thought at the mbuzi—It’s all right, it’s all right,—she crooned. It was no use. The mbuzi was too frightened. Or perhaps it’s me that’s frightened, Deza thought.

  She had been so busy keeping the mbuzi from drowning and the young man’s head out of the waves that she had not thought about the water. Now its power rushed over her, and then, like an ebbing tide pulling grains of sand from the shore, it withdrew, leaving her weak in the knees. She reached a hand out to the gritty sandstone wall to steady herself. Her cheekbones ached.—Father, please.—

  There was no answer. The mbuzi had fallen into a trembling sleep. She knelt, laid it gently on the sandy floor, and pillowed its head with the fiddler’s lace she had worn in her hair, exaggerating her concern for the treacherous beast to give herself time to think before she turned to face the young man. The lace was no loss. Her hair was drying now in pretty curls around her face. She bent farther forward and with a deft movement loosened the drawstring of her blouse so that more of her bosom showed. Rescued by a pretty peasant, and a willing one at that, he would think. He could find out later that she was not all that willing, but not until she was safely inside a compound. She stood up, put her hands on her hips, and turned to face him.

  “You’re lucky I’m such a good swimmer,” she said, smiling at him. “Maybe I’m lucky, too.”

  “Maybe,” he said coldly. He was leaning against the entrance to the niche, dark eyes fixed on her. His wet hair was as straight as a foreigner’s, and he was well-fed like them, too. But the telltale high cheekbones marked him as being from the City in the Red Cave, a renegade of some sort, no doubt, since he didn’t wear any of the city’s emblems. The younger man stood off to Deza’s side, his arms casually folded across his chest. One of the woman’s hands was hidden by a fold in her wet skirt.

  Deza could not see any weapons, but she knew they were there, only a second’s movement away. Their positions were too carefully studied to be real. One misstep and there might be a knife in her heart. One misstep… and she might already have made it.

  —Father, come back, please. I don’t think this con’s going to be so easy to work.—

  “Who are you?” the young man said sharply.

  Deza flared. “My name is Deza. I saved your life, remember?”

  “why?”

  The loosened drawstring, the prettily curling hair had been wasted on him. “I don’t have the slightest idea. I should have let you drown,” she said angrily.

  “But you didn’t. You led us here. Why? Are your friends waiting outside to strip us of the few things we have left?”

  “I don’t have any friends. And why would I put myself to all that trouble? I could have let the villagers kill you and taken your jewelry off you afterwards. I could have taken your necklace off you while we were coming here and you still wouldn’t know it.”

  “I’m sure that idea crossed your mind.”

  What crossed Deza’s mind was that they must be pirates. Who else could possibly have a majini, or a need to fly across the waters at such high speeds? She stood stubbornly silent, head up, trying frantically to decide what story to use. She could hardly tell them she was from the City in the Red Cave and demand homage, not when they were pirates in the pay of the City. Or even worse, ones who were not! That was not a one-person con anyway. Her father had always been the one to inform people like Edvar’s parents that she was the lost princess while she concentrated on looking innocent and unaware. Anyway, the whole thing was too complicated.

  The best lie is the truth, Father always said. And since the high-and-mighty hero is not interested in sex, maybe the helpless little girl will appeal to him.

  “All right, I’ll tell you why I
saved you.” Her voice was still angry, but now there was a slight tremor in it, as if she were about to cry. “I thought you were rich enough to help me. Those horrid nomads wouldn’t even help me go and get my… my… father!” She was about to burst into noisy tears when her father abruptly reestablished contact.

  —It won’t work, Deza. He’s too smart.—

  It will.—

  —It won’t. I knew this boy’s… just take my word for it. He won’t fall for it.—

  Deza tried to keep her face stubbornly brave for effect. The others will. They’ll believe me, and he’ll have to go along with it. He won’t want them to think he’d be cruel to a helpless orphan girl.—

  She ignored her father’s sharp and obscene remark in response to that, and she turned to the woman. “We… crashed in the desert, and I tried to get him out, but he was already dead!” She let the last word become a wail. The boy moved toward her. The woman looked uneasy.

  “So I… came here. I was lost, and then those stupid nomads.…” She put her face in her hands and sobbed. The boy put an arm around her.

  “She’s as stranded as we are,” the boy said comfortingly.

  “Chappa!” The arm left Deza’s shoulder. “Go find out what those nomads are doing now. Harubiki! Stand guard for him.” The woman and boy shuffled out of the niche of rocks, leaving Deza alone with the hard-eyed young man.

  —I told you so,—Father said.

  “Oh, shut up!” Deza said aloud, and then sat down on a rock.

  “Well, well, what’s happened to the poor little orphan girl? ‘Shut up,’ indeed. And where are your tears?” He reached a hand out to her cheek.

  Startled by his touch, Deza looked up at the young man. I spoke aloud, she thought, horrified, and then, they mustn’t guess. They mustn’t know it’s my father. The rest was reflex. As his fingers traced the tearless line of her cheek, she bit down hard on his nearest finger.