Wren Journeymage

  Wren said carefully, “Well, some people do claim there is a kind of tingly sense to magic.”

  Patka grinned. “That’s why they said I should tell you. You did those play-acting tricks when we sang, that day, before we got boomed. They figure someone who can do play-acting tricks might know a little. About. You know. Magic.” Her voice roughened, as if she were afraid of accusing Wren of something nasty. “Enough to see if Danal’s right.”

  Wren sat back, relieved. “Oh, well, I might try,” she said as carelessly as she could.

  Patka whispered, “Danal or Thad will take you down into the hold. But if we get caught—” Her peeler gestured backward.

  Over the side. Wren grimaced. “What can we do?”

  Patka hunched over her vegetables, looked around furtively again, then whispered even lower, “Find out. If the seals are fake, the silk has to be stolen. The Silk Guild always puts magic on their seals. That means the Sandskeet is practically a pirate ship—”

  Wren did not want to be working for pirates. “I think we should check. Then figure out what to do.”

  Patka ducked her head in a quick nod. “Us, too.”

  The door behind them opened. Cook thumped them both on the head with his ladle and snarled, “Are you going to sit out here dreaming all day?”

  o0o

  A series of squalls prevented them from exploring. Three days they fought their way southward against crashing green waves and cloudbursts that veered between warm deluges and sharp, short hail-storms in winds so strong that it took the entire crew to keep a single sail under control lest it rip free of its bolt-holes and even endanger its mast.

  But on the fourth night the last of the squalls passed eastward in an angry purple band across the sky, leaving a cold, clean wind—what the captain, with great satisfaction, called a topsail breeze—driving them southward at so fast a pace the seawater raced down the sides of the Sandskeet in two white-foamed arches.

  Lambin took his tiranthe up onto the deck and began singing the ballads that the crew liked best. Soon others joined in; almost all the day crew was on deck, mending ropes and nets and sails, or just enjoying not being cooped up below for the first time in half a week.

  Wren climbed slowly to the deck, her hands wrinkly from being plunged in water for far too long before Cook finally dismissed her. She sniffed the warm twilight air and looked about the deck for a nice place to sit down, but then Thad sidled up and nudged her with his elbow.

  Patka wasn’t anywhere in sight, nor Danal. Wren slipped behind Thad, they drifted toward the hatch, and when everybody was singing the chorus to a rousing song the two scrambled down the hatch to the lower deck. Thad looked around, then waved Wren to the next hatchway; one more, and they were down in the hold, which smelled of rotting canvas, old cabbage, fish, and wet wood—air, Wren, thought, that probably hadn’t been outside of the ship since before she was born.

  It was quite dark below. Danal was waiting for them. He whispered, “All clear. This way.” His fingers gripped her wrist and drew her carefully between shadow-shrouded stacks of barrels and trunks and boxes. As she passed, Wren checked the few with seals. The barrels and boxes in front all had proper seals with the magical tingle. Deeper into the hold, things were different.

  Canvas covered some trunks under barrels marked “Flour” and “Peas.” Each of the uncovered trunks had a big waxen seal over the lock.

  Patka and the boys turned expectantly to Wren, their faces underlit by the candle. She bent to examine the seal. In pressed lettering it said Silk: Rainbow Lake, and below that a was a guild mark. It certainly looked authentic. Wren ran her fingers over the wax, and a second time. There was no tingle of magic—just the hard nubs of the wax. She straightened up, and shook her head. “Nothing,” she whispered.

  Danal put his finger to his lips, then the boys replaced the canvas and the barrels exactly as they’d found them.

  Patka blew out her candle and stuck it in her tunic pocket, then they scrambled up the hatchway. The crew berthing forward was clear, and the gangways leading to the tiny cabins of the mates, the cook, the bosun, and the sail-maker aft. They slipped into the crew berth—to find three older sailors crouched on a low hammock at the back, passing a bottle back and forth.

  Danal paid them no attention. He bent down to a coil of rope and pitched a section of it at each of them. “Now,” he said in Dock Talk. “We can hear ourselves. Here’s how we repair rope. You take your darner, and your yarn, see, like this.”

  His voice was slow, and loud. Wren noticed out of the corner of her eyes that the sailors had hidden their forbidden bottle. Patka had already explained that the captain confiscated any liquor discovered on the ship.

  Wren said in an equally slow voice, “Darner? How do you hold it?”

  “Like this,” Thad said.

  “You mean that way?” Wren asked, holding it upside down.

  “No, no. Not like a peeler,” Thad explained in that slow, boring voice. “See, you put your thumb there, and your fingers on this part—”

  “Let’s get out of here,” muttered one of the sailors.

  The second one shoved the bottle under his shirt, and they sloped out—probably to go down to the hold.

  Danal tipped his chin toward the entry, and Thad skipped over to stand guard. Danal swiftly demonstrated the way to weave yarn in between the coils of the rope, thus strengthening it, and as soon as the girls mastered it, they began working away.

  Wren said in a whisper, “How did you find it?”

  Danal and Thad exchanged glances, their faces wry. Danal said, “Our dad once said, if ye get boomed, don’t let ‘em know ye can read.”

  Thad and Patka nodded.

  “So they put me on t’ shiftin’ the cargo once we turned south. Captain wanting the cargo restowed by the stern, y’see.” He demonstrated with his hand how the back of the ship would be slightly lower in the water, thus increasing the angle of the masts back into the wind. “Sail takes more wind. More speed, see,” he said. “Anyhow, I wasn’t really paying attention, except the way they acted when we got aft, there. We shifted everything else except those trunks, all covered up by canvas and rope. When we got near, one of the mates acted like it was a king’s ransom a-lyin’ right out in plain sight. So I went back to scout.”

  Thad nodded from the entryway. “Just like he said.”

  Wren and her companions worked hard, each thinking as their darning hooks wove in and out of the coils of rough rope. Water thumped against the hull, and the masts creaked overhead.

  Then Wren said, “Can we report them when we land?”

  Thad snorted. “Land? She’ll have us locked up tight a day before we get anywhere near land.”

  Danal shrugged one bony shoulder up under his ear. “She don’t want us runnin’. Got that much from some o’ the others. See, once you’ve been on board long enough, she pays—but it’s always pay from suspicious cargo. Tells you. So you know. If you take the pay, you’re crew. If you don’t, you’re locked up in the hold again.”

  Wren wrinkled her nose. “Got it. So if you report her, you get in trouble, too?”

  “‘sright,” Patka said. “An’ it’s harder to get a job, I hear tell, since you get no character chit from this kind o’captain. But if we run, we’ll just go to another port. Change our names. Start as newbies. We know enough now. We’ll rise fast.”

  “Newbie pay bein’ better than no pay,” Thad said.

  Wren sighed. “What I want to know is, how are we almost pirates? We may as well be a pirate ship, if you ask me.”

  “Free trader. Corsair. Different names, not quite pirates,” Danal said. “Pirates stop you on the water. Take the ship or burn it. Take you prisoner. Cap’n doesn’t pirate. Buys stolen cargo, sells it to someone who doesn’t mind gettin’ stolen goods.”

  “Someone is going to figure it out,” Wren said. “And I wager anything if the captain gets caught, then the laws about piracy will extend to everyone.”

&nbs
p; “How can they catch her at it? She buys the cargo from the thief, no questions. She carries it to somewhere, and sells it for a lot of money, but cheaper than Guild prices, to someone who asks no questions.”

  “But. When that seal is broken, there will be no magic note appearing at the guild house, so they can’t track their silk. And because Rainbow silk is so rare, whoever was expecting it will contact the guild. Who will trace its route. And find their way to the thieves, especially if there is another spell put on the silk itself.”

  Patka scratched her head with the darner. “Wonderin’ about that meself.”

  Danal said, “Me too. So we’re caught between, don’t you see?” Danal said, his whisper almost a squeak. “She might try to stay clear of good ports, with all their military guard ships, and customs cruisers, but that means pirates might be on the watch. Or, we foul the hawses of some customs cruiser, and before you know it we’re all in jail, on account of that cargo.”

  Patka groaned. “That stinks!”

  Danal leaned in. “So what do we do?”

  Voices echoed down from the gangway.

  Thad muttered in a quick jumble of words, “I dunno. But at least we do know. Watch. Listen. And first sight o’ land, over the side we go, even if it means a swim. An’ leavin’ our dunnage behind. Start over.”

  Wren frowned at the rope in her hands, wondering what—if anything—she ought to do. One thing for certain, it would be unfair to transfer away and leave her friends behind.

  Even if they hated magicians.

  Nine

  “Fire!”

  Gasps of fear, curses, shouts of “What?” “Where?” rose from the sleeping crew all around Wren.

  She flipped out of her hammock and landed on her feet, still half asleep. Like everyone else, she thought only of the hatchway up to the deck, and safety.

  But the bigger crew members shoved their way to the front, and Wren and her friends were thrust back again and again.

  A hard hand smacked into Wren’s nose, causing stars to flicker across her vision. She tumbled to the deck, shocked into wakefulness. She could smell a faint tinge of burning wood, but saw no fire. Nor was there smoke. She thought immediately of her knapsack, and as the scramble at the hatchway was still going on (slowed by everyone pulling on one another’s backs in order to get up first) she crawled back to the forepeak on hands and knees, and plunged her hands into her knapsack. She could bear to lose everything in it but her magic book and her Connor note.

  So she pulled the book out and shoved it down the front of her tunic, then retied her rope-sash to keep it in place. Next she yanked her winter tunic over everything to hide the contours of the book.

  The last of the grownups clambered up the ladder. Patka glanced back, her face white and strained in the changing light from the swinging lamp. “Hurry, Wren. What are you doing!”

  “Put on my extra tunic,” Wren said.

  Patka shook her head, and Wren scrambled up after her.

  Wren glimpsed tall masts and rigging from another ship hauling up on the weather side just before a fist in her back knocked her flat to the deck. Feet thundered by, one stepping a hand’s breadth from her nose. Somewhere the captain was bawling orders, a stream of words mixed with curses from which Wren understood only “The pumps! The pumps!”

  Wren rolled, got to her hands and knees, squinting up against billows of smoke. Tiny arcs of yellow light flew overhead: arrows. Fire-arrows, all landing in the sails.

  The deck erupted in noise—yells, shouts, the sudden clash and clang of arms—as a pirate ship angled toward the bow of the Sandskeet. The mainsail yard on the pirate’s foremast tangled into the Sandskeet’s rigging.

  The entire ship lurched, masts creaking. Everyone staggered, and some fell down.

  “Gotta do something.” Wren’s voice was lost in the noise of groaning timbers, shouting pirates, and the cries and yells of the defenders. She looked around wildly. Arrows! Aiming at us!

  How to defend against pirates? Illusion? What kind? Arrows. Wood—feathers. Yes, feathers—

  Wren gabbled, her voice trembling. Images, magic, and ideas skittered like frightened mice in her mind as she tried to race through two spells, one for wood, and one for feathers, anything to distract those pirates who were putting arrows to real bows, and pulling them back—

  Wrong, wrong, her mind squeaked, but she gabbled faster, forced all her flailing energy into the messy spell, then gasped “Nafat!” just as someone thumped her in the back. Once again she went sprawling.

  This time she heard the cackle and squawk of angry chickens, and then harsh laughter.

  Chickens?

  She got to her hands and knees, peering up past pain-blurred eyes, to see both pirates and crew members recoil, some of them guffawing, as feathers flew around fat, cackling chickens.

  But the chickens were not real, they were badly made illusion, and they popped out of existence again, sending feathers drifting downward before they too winkled into oblivion.

  “How did I manage that?” Wren moaned, stumbling to her feet.

  The pirates began shooting again.

  Arrows hissed and zipped. A few struck crew members in arms and legs, some clattered over the deck, and one thunked into the main mast not far from Wren.

  “Do something, do something,” she keened, as a new crop of pirates picked up burning arrows and took careful aim.

  First Crisis Rule! A calm and clear mind hears what must be heard—

  “Sails! Sails!” the first mate roared.

  —determines the immediate need—

  Fire. On arrows.

  I know this spell. I’ve done it over and over, my very first year.

  A calm and clear mind—

  Forcing herself to speak slowly and steadily, to focus eyes and mind, she picked the worst fire, eating its way into the mainsail. She murmured the spell for enclosure, held it . . . muttered the spell for transfer . . . and “Nafat!”

  The fire flared white then sparked from the sail to the pirate’s yardarm, leaving behind a smoldering hole.

  One by one she transferred the fires from the Sandskeet to the pirate ship, until her vision swam from smoke and magical after-effects. One more spell . . . yes! A barrier that would convert the incoming fire arrows to what? To leaves!

  Again she started gabbling, and she felt the magic leaching away. Despair. I know this spell, I know it.

  A calm and clear mind!

  Calm and clear? Who am I fooling?

  No, don’t give in, don’t give up.

  Wood. Focus. Alter the wood. You know that. It’s a second year spell— a calm and clear mind—

  Deep breath. Speaking steadily now, her gaze focused on the arrows being pulled back overhead, she intoned the well-known string of spells, and—

  “Nafat.” Snap! An instant of sparkle in the air—and the spell held. Pirates howled as the arrows in their hands shifted into leafy twigs. Some shot the arrows anyway, just to see them spin and tumble through the air to clatter harmlessly on the deck, or sploosh into the water. Others flung the arrow-leaves down into the ocean between the ships, wiping their hands in a desperate attempt to avoid the spell somehow transforming them.

  Dizziness threatened to overwhelm Wren. She staggered to one of the barrels holding rainwater, and dipped her head in. The coldness shocked her mind back into alertness. She lifted her head, gasping, and flung her soggy braids back to thump against her shoulder blades.

  What now?

  At the bow, pirates still tried to board despite the crew’s desperate attempts to stop them. On the pirate ship, a slew of pirates balanced on a lower boom, gripping ropes running up to one of the topsail yards. They were going to swing over, swords and knives at the ready.

  “Rope,” Wren said. Twisted hemp—back to its plant shape!

  A calm and clear mind—focus, focus—

  One . . . two . . .three . . . She muttered the spells, and watched in relief as horrified pirates, halfway over on
their ropes, felt their hands sliding down the slick stems of green plants. They fell into the sea between the two ships, yowling in rage and surprise. Then came a series of mighty splashes.

  One more transfer spell. She knew exactly where everything was in the galley.

  Easy, you know this one. Focus. A calm and clear mind—

  She could picture the big corked jug of ground red pepper on its shelf, clear as a Destination. She transferred it up, and then, with a quick mutter and a wave of her hand, let the wind blow it in the pirates’ faces. A cacophony of coughs, chokes, curses, and wails of dismay rose.

  “Boom ‘em off!” the captain bawled, running down the length of her vessel. “Set sail!”

  Wren looked up at the pirates’ mainsail and rigging. Her little fires burned nicely. She muttered the wind spell again, putting the last of her effort into it, and a gust of wind caught at her flames, scattering them up into the topsails and top-gallants, as horrified pirates watched in dismay.

  “Magic,” someone said.

  “They’ve got a mage!” a pirate yelled.

  Everyone on both ships looked around. Though her head swam dizzily from reaction, Wren also looked, though turning her head that made her head ache worse.

  The firelight on both ships revealed the pirates packing on sail as fast as they could in order to get away. Wren stumbled the few steps to the hatch, and eased herself down, as clumsy as her very first day.

  Not to the crew cabin, she thought hazily. Even though it was still night, and her sleep shift, she did not want anyone talking to her.

  Down, down, until she reached the hold. She felt her way back to the illegal cargo, and lay down on one of trunks with its extra layers of canvas.

  And then despair smacked over her spirit like an old, moldy wet blanket. How close they came to total defeat while she stood there making stupid mistakes! Three spells. Three stupid, elementary spells in the time Mistress Leila, or Tyron, would have done a dozen—twenty—all correct the first time. Tyron would not have produced squawking chickens as his first effort in an emergency.