Water Witch

  The servants looked up as she hobbled past them, head held high so that her insets would catch the lamplight. There was a slight sibilance that followed her passage, whispering among them, and an echo of the girl’s expression on their hardened faces. She looked directly at one of them, and his head dropped to his work. She would at least not be forbidden to go to the grazing pens. She wondered if there was any servant even brave enough to question her right to be there.

  Behind the stables, the girl had said. Deza could still not believe she had heard right. The last of the stalls butted up against the low overhanging sandstone roof, and the final yards Deza was crossing to them were solid rock with only a fine dusting of dirt, obviously the far reaches of the dugout. Come to think of it, though, a servant had mentioned rough storage rooms clawed into the solid sandstone where they kept cheese and butter. Perhaps the mbuzi was there, though Deza could not imagine why, and the servant girl had distinctly said, “with the others.” She had thought there were only those few that grazed in the compound’s irrigated green with the Tycoon’s ponies and Edvar’s pair in the barn.

  The servant girl suddenly plummeted from behind the last of the wood-supported stalls. She stopped short in front of Deza and dropped a hasty curtsey. “I was coming for you,” she said, wide-eyed. “Oh, it was just as you said. The mbuzi wouldn’t come at all.” The girl’s hands were covered with sharp scratches.

  “Where is it?” Deza said.

  “This way.” The girl darted in front of her. Deza followed, wishing she had put a gentler reminder in the bandages. Her running had shifted the sponge slightly so it dug savagely into Deza’s ankle at every step. The girl ducked suddenly behind the last of the stalls and then ran back for Deza. “I forgot about your ankle. Forgive me,” she said, and grabbed Deza’s arm. Her idea of helping was worse than useless. Deza now had to put her full weight sideways on the sharp bristles with every step.

  They skirted the rough backs of the stalls, which were almost flush with the dark sandstone wall, only a narrow path between them. The roof dipped sharply, and they ducked under it and through an even narrower space and then abruptly were in the open. The girl had not exaggerated. There were certainly grazing pens behind the lower stables. Twenty, no, fifty of them, each the size of Deza’s room or larger, stretched back into the darkness, lit only by occasional lamps on tall poles. And each was filled almost to overflowing with mbuzim. Deza shook off the girl’s arm and turned to look behind her. “Is this a natural cave?” she asked.—

  “Oh, no, miss, the Tycoon had it dug.” Her tone implied the question, didn’t you know? Deza decided she could not risk any more questions. But she could certainly see for herself. She would never have suspected this vast domed cave lay below and behind, yes, behind and to the west, she supposed, of the enclosure. It must stretch almost half a mile toward the karst plateau on the west. If the Tycoon had dug much farther he would certainly have encountered natural caves. She had a new respect for the Tycoon. The mbuzim would not care where they were stabled. They did not require the sun. All they cared about was food and water. And… Deza suddenly put her hand up to her cheek, as if to catch a thought. She pressed her hand flat against the inset, trying to feel the rock around them, the dusty sandstone that was over and under and on all sides of them.

  “Here he is, miss. Oh, he’s not glad to see me at all.” The servant girl was kneeling by the pen that held Deza’s mbuzi. He was hardly recognizable—his matted hair had been clipped and curled, his hooves polished so that the patterned gembone shone in the dim light. He was lying in the accustomed heap, but his hooves kicked out reflexively as the girl put out a hesitant hand toward him.

  —Stop that, father,—Deza said.—You’re being childish.—

  —Churlish. There’s a difference.—

  —None that I can see. Let her carry you. We’re going to dinner and I have injured my ankle.—

  —Daughter,—he said sternly.—There is such a thing as carrying a con too far. The peketa is a simple trick, but a sprained ankle is another matter. And there is the limp, a difficult thing to remember to do in conditions of stress.—

  —I can remember—Deza said sharply.—And I quite agree, father. There is such a thing as carrying a con too far. Or working too many at one time.—

  To the girl she said aloud, “I think you can pick him up now. He won’t fight you now that I’m here.”

  The mbuzi allowed itself to be picked up without a struggle. The girl hoisted the animal over her shoulders with a practiced shrug and started off at her breakneck pace the way they had come before.

  “Oh,” Deza said, clutching at her ankle.

  The girl stopped and whirled around, concerned. “Are you hurt, miss?”

  “No… oh,” she said, rubbing the bandage, “is there any other way out of here?” She hoped the question sounded logical and not over-interested.

  “None that I know of, miss, except the opening onto the karst plateau where they bring the water in, and that is farther, not nearer.” She reached out that over-helpful hand to Deza. “Here. I will help you back to the house.”

  “No, that’s all right,” Deza said, and the girl took off again. Once in motion, nothing could stop her, and anyway, Deza wanted to be early for dinner.

  There was no one in the dining room. Deza had time to brush any telltale dust from her clothes and to instruct the girl to place the mbuzi by her chair at the already-set table. She hesitated a moment, wondering which chair she should pick.

  —I take it from your concern over position that yours is not a position of strength,—her father said.

  —It will be when this dinner is over.—She said sharply to the girl, “Seat me there. Between Edvar and the priest and facing the lady of the house.”

  —You should sit facing the Tycoon directly. He is your adversary.—

  —They are all my adversaries, thanks to you. You might have told me your plans.—

  —And you might have listened when I told you this place was dangerous. Since, however, you will have everyone under your thumb by the end of the meal, you do not need my advice.—The mbuzi sank into a heavy, snoring sleep.

  “Deza!” Edvar said, “Darling, you shouldn’t have come down alone.” He helped her to her chair.

  “Our Deza is a resourceful girl,” said the Tycoon behind his son. He heaved himself into the chair at the head of the table. “She will get where she wants to go, injured ankle or no, I think.” He laughed. “Isn’t that so, Deza?” There was no laughter under the surface of his voice.

  What did that mean? Had she been shadowed on her way to the grazing pens? Father was right. The stupid ankle was going to be her undoing. Deza looked sideways at the Tycoon. “I am a poor orphan girl with no kind father like you to guide and help me. If I do not make my way in the world, who will make it for me?”

  “Make it you shall. I have every confidence in you.” Deza blushed gracefully. “With your kind help, my lord, I am sure of it.”

  The Tycoon smiled humorlessly at her for a moment and then raised his arms in the signal that the meal was to begin. Thank goodness. Deza felt weak from the encounter. Sparring with the Tycoon was no easy task at any time. Now, when he held all the cards, it was tiring and frightening. She hoped Radi knew the Kalmarran customs well enough to realize that conversation was for after the meal, not during it. She needed the respite to gather her defenses for the second round of battle.

  Radi kept his head piously bowed over the endless courses of steaming food. In spite of the Tycoon’s sudden embracing of native dress, it was obvious that he had not changed his life style significantly. Either that, or the iron-handed lady of the house had refused to relinquish her kitchen. The food, like the clothing, was desperately inappropriate to the climate, but after a week of hunger, Deza was not about to complain about the hot feather-fish, hot soup, and boiled vegetables. And she had to smile each time the servant refilled her water goblet after each sip. It would have been easier to pretend to
take one draught of antivenom, if only there were such a thing for peketa poison. Even Kalmarrans, who claimed to be more advanced than Mahalians, had not managed to develop such a thing, for when there was a Kalmarran peketa victim, he did the same thing every Mahalian did—drink enough water to flush the poison. Deza was beginning to feel as if she were floating away.

  The Tycoon sighed a hearty, relaxed sigh at the entrance of the pitcher of hot bitter Kalmarran cider. Deza breathed a long breath, too, but not of relaxation. She took a long look around the table, as if it were a battlefield, and exhaled, slowly, carefully. She was determined to have the first word, determined to set the conversation on the proper track at once. In this she knew she had the advantage. The Tycoon would not speak until the steaming drink had been poured all around the table, but she was under no such rule of etiquette.

  “We were so sorry that Pelono was called back to the City in the Red Cave,” the Tycoon said as soon as she opened her mouth. “I trust he is well.”

  Radi arched an eyebrow. “Very well,” he said blandly.

  Deza sat quietly. Radi was not doing badly for a first encounter, but he was no match for the Tycoon, who’d just neatly dismissed the entire issue of the priest’s dismissal, and would now turn the conversation to his own ends. But it was Radi who spoke, smiling easily at Deza.

  “You have your mbuzi again, Deza-child. A prettier sight than during our dusty trek.”

  The mbuzi, as if on cue, tottered to its feet at her side and nudged against her ribs. She trickled water from her crystal finger bowl into the mbuzi’s open mouth. “My servant went after him for me,” she said, careful not to lie directly. “The stableman has improved his appearance considerably.”

  “It’s the male of a matched pair,” Edvar said. “The other is mine. My female is not as large, but just as pretty.”

  Radi leaned over Deza and lifted one of the mbuzi’s feet. The unsteady animal toppled farther against Deza’s side, nearly knocking her off her chair. “The fossilizing has progressed quite far in this animal. This is beautiful stuff,” he said, looking curious and sincere. “Where did you get these animals?”

  Edvar shot a sharp look at his father.

  “They were a gift from a traveller,” the Tycoon said, “a traveller who wanted water protection.”

  Radi took the mbuzi’s hoof in his hand to examine it more closely. Deza fumed, pinioned between the two young men. The mbuzi, now totally unable to keep its balance, was practically in her lap. The Tycoon smiled benignly at her.

  “Then the traveller paid dearly,” Radi said. “I suppose you know what these are worth. This is some of the finest gembone I’ve ever seen on a live animal.”

  “The traveller promised us that the offspring would be even more valuable, have even higher quality gembone,” the Tycoon said, a little too quickly.

  —Move over,—Deza said.—You’re digging into my ribs.—

  —Quit fidgeting and listen.—

  —How can I listen? I can hardly breathe. And these two idiots are bent on suffocating me between them.—

  —You want to get control of this situation. You need information. Stop behaving like a spoiled child and listen.—

  “I’m afraid the traveller deceived you there,” Radi went on. “Gembone has nothing to do with genetics. Unless you can graze your animals on land fed by ground water or feed it to them directly, there won’t be any fossilization. The water is the key. The mbuzim that drink it, and it has to be ground water from far down, Maundifu river water that has a tremendous mineral content, do fossilize. Their bones, even to some extent the cartilage tissue, turns to gembone. But the process only continues as long as they have access to ground water.”

  “Oh, really? I know little about mbuzim,” the Tycoon said, drinking deeply of his cider and looking a little bored. “I suppose I shall have to give up my hope for gembone on the hoof. That, or find some ground water.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Radi said.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s found a few places in the far south as surface water. Perhaps that’s where the traveller was from. There are a few artesian wells on the karst plateau to the west of you, but most of that area is uninhabitable. There would be nothing there for mbuzim to graze on even if you could find water. I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with your pair of mbuzim as they are.”

  —Listen to what?—Deza said.—I don’t see what all this…—

  —The water is the key,—her father said.

  —And the grazing pens open onto the karst plateau.—Her hand went almost reflexively up to touch her insets. She hastily put it back in her lap, hoping the Tycoon hadn’t noticed. That was what had seemed wrong about the grazing pens. There was no water in the sandstone cave. The dry dustiness had told her that, but so had her water sense. No water in the rock. All those mbuzim. And an opening onto the karst plateau, where there were only a few scattered wells. It made no sense.

  “Your cheek… decorations are made of gembone, aren’t they, Deza?” the Tycoon’s wife said.

  “What? My insets? Oh, yes, they are.”

  “That’s an example of what makes gembone so valuable,” Radi said. “A gem that can be sculptured like soap into a filigree pattern like Deza’s insets would command a high price on any planet, although jewelry is necessarily a limited market. Have they found some other use for gembone on Kalmar?”

  The Tycoon frowned at Radi’s question and said abruptly, “I understand some of your people believe there’s a religious significance to the gembone.”

  —Change the subject when someone gets too close to the truth for comfort,—Deza’s father said.—He ‘s a wise man.—

  —That gembone’s valuable? Everybody knows that.—Her father was being absolutely maddening tonight. He wanted her to listen, but then he kept interrupting with these cryptic comments.

  “Oh, yes,” Radi said, “there’s a tradition that the spirits of the dead, deprived of their own bodies, lodge in the gembone. You’ve seen the large filigreed amulets many of us wear. Those are to provide a place for relatives to lodge in case of need.”

  “But what if you wanted to be rid of the relative? What if he had hung about your neck in life? Would you allow him to hang around your neck in death, too?”

  Radi laughed. “And what if your relatives did not get along? Would you have to listen to their bickering?”

  “Yes,” the Tycoon said, “I’ve heard of people who claim they converse with the spirits. I can’t imagine what I’d talk to the dead about. Religion, perhaps.”

  “Or how they wished you’d died instead,” Radi said.

  “Deza,” Edvar said. “Your insets, are they full of ghosts?”

  “Oh, no,” she said lightly. “My spirit resides in my mbuzi.”

  That brought a general laugh. ‘And do you talk to it?” the Tycoon said.

  “Oh, yes, all the time.”

  “About what?”

  “About you, my lord.” That brought even more laughter. “My spirit is that of a poor dead lady. She is quite in love with you.”

  The Tycoon roared with laughter. “And is she pretty?” “She says she is, my lord. But saying and being are quite different things.”

  “Indeed, Deza. Saying and being are different things, but easily found out.”

  “How, my lord?” Deza said, wishing she had not gotten on such difficult ground and not quite sure how she had gotten there.

  He looked steadily at her. “Oh, there are ways, Deza.” Then he said lightly, “Tell the lady that I have a wife, and that even if I hadn’t…” he stopped and raised his arms again in the signal that the dinner was over. “I could not bring myself to kiss an mbuzi.”

  And thank goodness, dinner was over. Radi and Edvar fought nicely over who would take her back upstairs and ended by both taking an arm. “I shall need someone to bring my mbuzi,” she said sweetly. “Radi, you like pretty ladies. Would you bring it, please?” Edvar blushed with pleasure and Radi
looked annoyed, both of which were good signs. But Radi should be looking worried, not annoyed. Dinner was over, she felt less in control of the situation than ever, and she needed to talk to Radi as soon as possible.

  The Tycoon had talked about gembone as if he were an innocent, even though Deza knew full well her father had told him all the legends surrounding it when he presented her as a water witch, with ground water fossilizing in the thin bones of her face and making her sensitive. A traveller had not given them the mbuzim. They’d been a gift from Botvidi, the priest, and everyone at that table except Radi knew it and had not batted an eye. And what had made the Tycoon suddenly change the subject? And make such threats to her, barely veiled from the rest of the company? “There are ways to separate the saying from the being.” He was not afraid of her at all. His attitude was what the servants’ had been before she left, contemptuous and amused. Now they were frightened to death of her, and he was… playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse before it devours it.

  “My ankle hurts,” she said to Edvar. “I want to lie down.”

  “Of course.” He shot a glance at Radi behind them. “I’ll come in and see you settled.”

  Radi obediently deposited the mbuzi at the foot of Deza’s bed and left the room without an argument. Deza did not dare look at him. Come to me, she thought earnestly. I’ll get rid of Edvar immediately. He started to pull the door shut.

  “Oh, Edvar, I’m sorry, but it really hurts. I just want to be alone.”

  “I could rewrap it for you. The bandages are too tight, perhaps.”

  “No, I…” she put an appealing hand on his arm. “Please. I just want to lie down.”

  Edvar finally nodded and managed to smile. Before he left, he poured water into a cup from a fresh pewter pitcher. The empty flagon and decanter had been removed. Then Edvar left.

  Deza heard them both down the hall and their boots’ first steps down the front stairway. She put down the cup, then hurried to the slipspace. Please, please come. And hurry.