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From the instant he saw it, it took all of Kennit’s control not to snatch at it. Never had he seen such a cunningly wrought bauble. It was a bubble of glass, an absolutely perfect sphere. The surface was not marred with so much as a scratch. The glass itself had a very faint blue cast to it, but the tint did not obscure the wonder within. Three tiny figurines, garbed in motley with painted faces, were fixed to a tiny stage and somehow linked to one another so that when Gankis shifted the ball in his hands, it sent them off into a series of actions. One pirouetted on his toes, while the next did a series of flips over a bar. The third bobbed his head in time to their actions, as if all three heard and responded to a merry tune trapped inside the ball with them.
Kennit allowed Gankis to demonstrate it for him twice. Then, without a word, he extended a long-fingered hand towards him gracefully, and the sailor set the treasure in his palm. Kennit held his bemused smile firmly as he first lifted the ball to the sunlight, and then set the tumblers within to dancing for himself. The ball did not quite fill his hand. ‘A child’s plaything,’ he surmised loftily.
‘If the child were the richest prince in the world,’ Gankis dared to observe. ‘It’s too fragile a thing to give a kid to play with, sir. All it would take would be dropping it once…’
‘Yet it seems to have survived bobbing about in the waves of a storm, and then being flung up on a beach,’ Kennit pointed out with measured good nature.
‘That’s true, sir, that’s true, but then this is the Treasure Beach. Almost everything cast up here is whole, from what I’ve heard tell. It’s part of the magic of this place.’
‘Magic’ Kennit permitted himself a slightly wider smile as he placed the orb in the roomy pocket of his indigo jacket. ‘So you believe it is magic that sweeps such trinkets up on this shore, do you?’
‘What else, captain? By all rights, that should have been smashed to bits, or at least scoured by the sands. Yet it looks as if it just come out of a jeweller’s shop.’
Kennit shook his head sadly. ‘Magic? No, Gankis, no more magic than the rip-tides in the Orte Shallows, or the Spice Current that speeds sailing ships on their journeys to the islands and taunts them all the way back. It’s but a trick of wind and current and tides. No more than that. The same trick that promises that any ship that tries to anchor off this side of the island will find herself beached and broken before the next tide.’
‘Yessir,’ Gankis agreed dutifully, but without conviction. His traitorous eyes strayed to the pocket where Captain Kennit had stowed the glass ball. Kennit’s smile might have deepened fractionally.
‘Well? Don’t loiter here. Get back up there and walk the bank and see what else you find.’
‘Yessir,’ Gankis conceded, and with one final regretful glance at the pocket, the older man turned and hastened back to the bank. Kennit slipped his hand into his pocket and caressed the smooth cold glass there. He resumed his stroll down the beach. Overhead gulls followed his example, sliding slowly down the wind as they searched the retreating waves for titbits. He did not hasten, but kept in mind that on the other side of the island his ship was awaiting him in treacherous waters. He’d walk the whole length of the beach, as tradition decreed, but he had no intention of lingering after he had heard the sooth-saying of an Other. Nor did he have any intention of leaving whatever treasure he found. A true smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
As he strolled, he took his hand from his pocket and absently touched his opposite wrist. Concealed by the lacy cuff of his white silk shirt was a fine double thong of black leather. It bound a small wooden trinket tightly to his wrist. The ornament was a carved face, pierced at the brow and lower jaw so the face would be snugged firmly against his wrist, exactly over his pulse point. At one time, the face had been painted black, but most of that was worn away now. The features still stood out distinctly; a tiny mocking face, carved with exquisite care. Its visage was twin to his own. It had cost him an inordinate amount of coin to commission it. Not everyone who could carve wizardwood would, even if they had the balls to steal some.
Kennit remembered well the artisan who had worked the tiny face for him. He’d sat for long hours in the man’s studio, washed in the cool morning light as the artist painstakingly worked the iron-hard wood to reflect Kennit’s features. They had not spoken. The artist could not. The pirate did not. The carver had needed absolute silence for his concentration, for he worked not only wood but a spell that would bind the charm to protect the wearer from enchantments. Kennit had had nothing to say to him anyway. The pirate had paid him an exorbitant advance months ago, and waited until the artist had sent him a messenger to say that he had obtained some of the precious and jealously-guarded wood. Kennit had been outraged when the artist had demanded still more money before he would begin the carving and spell-setting, but Kennit had only smiled his small sardonic smile, and put coins and jewels and silver and gold links on the artist’s scales until the man had nodded that his price had been met. Like many in Bingtown’s illicit trades, he had long ago sacrificed his own tongue to ensure his client’s privacy. While Kennit was not convinced of the efficacy of such a mutilation, he appreciated the sentiment it implied. So when the artist was finished and had personally bound the ornament to Kennit’s wrist, the man had only been able to nod vehemently his extreme satisfaction with his own skill as he touched the wood with avid fingertips.
Afterwards Kennit had killed him. It was the only sensible thing to do, and Kennit was an eminently sensible man. He had taken back the extra fee the man had demanded. Kennit could not abide a man who would not honour his original bargain. But that had not been the reason he’d killed him. He’d killed him for the sake of keeping the secret. If men knew that Captain Kennit wore a charm to ward off enchantments, why, then they would believe that he feared them. He could not let his crew believe that he feared anything. His good luck was legendary. All the men who followed him believed in it, most more strongly than Kennit himself did. It was why they followed him. They must not ever think that he feared anything could threaten that luck.
In the year since he had killed the artist, he had wondered if killing him had somehow harmed the charm, for it had not quickened. When he had originally asked the carver how long it would take for the little face to come to life, the man had shrugged eloquently, and indicated with much hand fluttering that neither he nor anyone else could predict such a thing. For a year Kennit had waited for the charm to quicken, to be sure that its spell was completely activated. But there had come a time when he could not wait any longer. He had known, on an instinctive level, that it was time for him to visit the Treasure Beach and see what fortune the ocean would wash up for him. He could wait no longer for the charm to awaken; he’d decided to take his chances. He’d have to once more trust his good luck to protect him, as it always had. It had protected him the day he’d had to kill the artist, hadn’t it? The man had turned unexpectedly, just in time to see Kennit drawing his blade. Kennit was convinced that if the man had had a tongue in his head, his scream would have been much louder.
Kennit set the artist firmly out of his mind. This was no time to be thinking of him. He hadn’t come to the Treasure Beach to dwell on the past, but to find treasure to secure his future. He fixed his eyes on the undulating tide line and followed it down the beach. He ignored the glistening shells, the crab claws and tangles of uprooted seaweed, and driftwood large and small. His pale blue eyes searched for jetsam and wreckage only. He did not have to go far to be rewarded. In a small battered wooden chest, he found a set of teacups. He did not think men had made them nor used them. There were twelve of them and they were made of hollowed-out ends of birds’ bones. Tiny blue pictures had been painted on them, the lines so fine that it looked as if the brush had been a single hair. The cups were well used. The blue pictures were faded beyond recognition of their original form and the carved bone handles were worn thin with use. He tucked the small case in the crook of his arm and walked on.
He strode along under the sun and against the wind, his fine boots leaving clean tracks in the wet sand. Occasionally he lifted his gaze, casually, to scan the entire beach. He did not let his expectations show on his face. When he let his gaze drop to the sand, he discovered a tiny cedar box. Saltwater had warped the wood. To open it he had to strike it on a rock like a nut. Inside were fingernails. They were fashioned of mother-of-pearl. Minute clamps would affix them on top of an ordinary nail and in the tip of each one was a tiny hollow, perhaps to store poison. There were twelve of them. Kennit put them into his other pocket. They rattled together as he walked.
It did not distress him that what he had found was obviously neither of human make nor designed for human use. Although he had earlier mocked Gankis’s belief in the magic of the beach, all knew that more than one ocean’s waves brushed these rocky shores. Ships foolish enough to anchor anywhere off of this island during a squall were likely to disappear entirely, leaving not even a splinter of wreckage. Old sailors said they had been swept clean out of this world and into the seas of another one. Kennit did not doubt it. He glanced at the sky, but it remained clean and blue. The wind was crisp, but he had faith the weather would hold so that he could walk the Treasure Beach and then hike back across the island to where his ship waited at anchor in Deception Cove. He trusted his luck to hold.
His most unsettling discovery came next. It was a bag made of red and blue leather stitched together, half-buried in the wet sand. The leather was stout, the bag meant to last. Saltwater had soaked and stained it, bleeding the colours into one another. The brine had seized up the brass buckles that had secured it and stiffened the leather straps that went through them. He used his knife to rip open a seam. Inside was a litter of kittens, perfectly formed with long claws and iridescent patches behind their ears. They were dead, all six of them. Quelling his distaste, he picked up the smallest. He turned the limp body over in his hands. It was blue-furred, a deep periwinkle blue with pink-lidded eyes. Small. The runt most likely. It was sodden and cold and disgusting. A ruby earring like a fat tick decorated one of the wet ears. He longed to simply drop it. Ridiculous. He plucked the earring free and dropped it in his pocket. Then, moved by an impulse he did not understand, he returned the small blue bodies to the bag and left it beside the tide line. Kennit walked on.
Awe flowed through him with his blood. Tree. Bark and sap, the scent of the wood and the leaves fluttering overhead. Tree. But also the soil and the water, the air and the light, all was coming and going through the being known as tree. He moved with them, sliding in and out of an existence of bark and leaf and root, air and water.
‘Wintrow.’
The boy lifted his eyes slowly from the tree before him. With an effort of will, he focused his gaze on the smiling face of the young priest. Berandol nodded in encouragement. Wintrow closed his eyes for an instant, held his breath, and pulled himself free of his task. When he opened his eyes, he took a sudden breath as if breaking clear of deep water. Dappling light, sweet water, soft wind all faded abruptly. He was in the monastery work room, a cool hall walled and floored with stone. His bare feet were chill against the floor. There were a dozen other slab tables in the big room. At three others, boys like himself worked slowly, their dreamlike movements indicative of their tranced state. One wove a basket and two others shaped clay with wet grey hands.
He looked down at the pieces of gleaming glass and lead on the table before him. The beauty of the stained-glass image he had pieced together astonished even him, yet it still could not touch the wonder of having been the tree. He touched it with his fingers, tracing the trunk and the graceful branches. Caressing the image was like touching his own body; he knew it that well. Behind him he heard the soft intake of Berandol’s breath. In his state of still-heightened awareness, he could feel the priest’s awe flowing with his own, and for a time they stood quietly, glorying together in the wonder of Sa.
‘Wintrow,’ the priest repeated softly. He reached out and traced with a finger the tiny dragon that peered from the tree’s upper branches, then touched the glistening curve of a serpent’s body, all but hidden in the twisting roots. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulders and turned him gently away from his worktable. As he steered him from the work room, he rebuked him gently. ‘You are too young to sustain such a state for the whole morning. You must learn to pace yourself.’
Wintrow lifted his hands to knuckle at eyes that were suddenly sandy. ‘I’ve been in there all morning?’ he asked dazedly. ‘It did not seem like it, Berandol.’
‘I am sure it did not. Yet I am sure the weariness you feel now will convince you it is so. One must be careful, Wintrow. Tomorrow, ask a watcher to stir you at mid-morning. Talent such as you possess is too precious to allow you to burn it out.’
‘I do ache, now,’ Wintrow conceded. He ran his hand over his brow, pushing fine black hair from his eyes and smiled. ‘But the tree was worth it, Berandol.’
Berandol nodded slowly. ‘In more ways than one. The sale of such a window will yield enough coin to re-roof the noviciates’ hall. If Mother Dellity can bring herself to let the monastery part with such a thing of wonder.’ He hesitated a moment, then added, ‘I see they appeared again. The dragon and the serpent. You still have no idea…’ he let his voice trail away questioningly.
‘I do not even have a recollection of putting them there,’ Wintrow said.
‘Well.’ There was no trace of judgement in Berandol’s voice. Only patience.
For a time they walked in companionable silence through the cool stone hallways of the monastery. Slowly Wintrow’s senses lost their edge and faded to a normal level. He could no longer taste the scents of the salts trapped in the stone walls, nor hear the minute settling of the ancient blocks of stone. The rough brown bure of his novice robes became bearable against his skin. By the time they reached the great wooden door and stepped out into the monastery gardens, he was safely back in his body. He felt groggy as if he had just awakened from a long sleep, yet as bone-weary as if he had hoed potatoes all day. He walked silently beside Berandol as monastery custom dictated. They passed others, some men and women robed in the green of full priesthood and others dressed in white as acolytes. Greetings were exchanged as nods.
As they neared the tool shed, he felt a sudden unsettling certainty that they were going there and that he would spend the rest of the afternoon working in the sunny garden. At any other time, it might have been a pleasant thing to look forward to, but his recent efforts in the dim work room had left his eyes sensitive to light. Berandol glanced back at his lagging step.
‘Wintrow,’ he chided softly. ‘Refuse the anxiety. When you borrow trouble against what might be, you neglect the moment you have now to enjoy. The man who worries about what will next be happening to him loses this moment in dread of the next, and poisons the next with pre-judgement.’ Berandol’s voice took on an edge of hardness. ‘You indulge in pre-judgement too often. If you are refused the priesthood, it will most like be for that.’
Wintrow’s eyes flashed to Berandol’s in horror. For a moment stark desolation dominated his face. Then he saw the trap. His face broke into a grin, and Berandol’s answered it when the boy said, ‘But if I fret about it, I shall have pre-judged myself to failure.’
Berandol gave the slender boy a good-natured shove with his elbow. ‘Exactly. Ah, you grow and learn so fast. I was much older than you, twenty at least, before I learned to apply that Contradiction to daily life.’
Wintrow shrugged sheepishly. ‘I was meditating on it last night before I fell asleep. “One must plan for the future and anticipate the future without fearing the future.” The Twenty-Seventh Contradiction of Sa.’
‘Thirteen years old is very young to have reached the Twenty-Seventh Contradiction,’ Berandol observed.
‘What one are you on?’ Wintrow asked artlessly.
‘The Thirty-Third. The same one I’ve been on for the last two years.’
Wintrow gave a small shrug of his shoulders. ‘I haven’t studied that far yet.’ They walked in the shade of apple trees, under leaves hanging limp in the heat of the day. Ripening fruit weighted the boughs. At the other end of the orchard, acolytes moved in patterns through the trees, bearing buckets of water from the stream.
‘“A priest should not presume to judge unless he can judge as Sa does; with absolute justice and absolute mercy”.’ Berandol shook his head. ‘I confess, I do not see how that is possible.’
The boy’s eyes were already turned inward, with only the slightest line to his brow. ‘As long as you believe it is impossible, you close your mind to understanding it.’ His voice seemed far away. ‘Unless, of course, that is what we are meant to discover. That as priests we cannot judge, for we have not the absolute mercy and absolute justice to do so. Perhaps we are only meant to forgive and give solace.’
Berandol shook his head. ‘In the space of a few moments, you slice through as much of the knot as I had done in six months. But then I look about me, and I see many priests who do judge. The Wanderers of our order do little except resolve differences for folk. So they must have somehow mastered the Thirty-Third Contradiction.’
The boy looked up at him curiously. He opened his mouth to speak and then blushed and shut it again.
Berandol glanced down at his charge. ‘Whatever it is, go ahead and say it. I will not rebuke you.’
‘The problem is, I was about to rebuke you,’ Wintrow confessed. The boy’s face brightened as he added, ‘But I stopped myself before I did.’
‘And you were going to say to me?’ Berandol pressed. When the boy shook his head, his tutor laughed aloud. ‘Come, Wintrow, having asked you to speak your thought, do you think I would be so unfair as to take offence at your words? What was in your mind?’
‘I was going to tell you that you should govern your behaviour by the precepts of Sa, not by what you see others doing.’ The boy spoke forthrightly, but then lowered his eyes. ‘I know it is not my place to remind you of that.’
Berandol looked too deep in thought to have taken offence. ‘But if I follow the precept alone, and my heart tells me it is impossible for a man to judge as Sa does, with absolute justice and absolute mercy, then I must conclude…’ His words slowed as if the thought came reluctantly. ‘I must conclude that either the Wanderers have much greater spiritual depth than I. Or that they have no more right to judge than I do.’ His eyes wandered among the apple trees. ‘Could it be that an entire branch of our order exists without righteousness? Is not it disloyal even to think such a thing?’ His troubled glance came back to the boy at his side.
Wintrow smiled serenely. ‘If a man’s thoughts follow the precepts of Sa, they cannot go astray.’
‘I shall have to think more on this,’ Berandol concluded with a sigh. He gave Wintrow a look of genuine fondness. ‘I bless the day you were given me as student, though in truth I often wonder who is student and who is teacher here. I shall miss you.’
Sudden alarm filled Wintrow’s eyes. ‘Miss me? Are you leaving, have you been called to duty so soon?’
‘Not I. I should have given you this news better, but as always your words have led my thoughts far from their starting point. I am not leaving, but you. It was why I came to find you today, to bid you pack, for you are called home. Your grandmother and mother have sent word that they fear your grandfather is dying. They would have you near at such a time.’ At the look of devastation on the boy’s face, Berandol added, ‘I am sorry to have told you so bluntly. You so seldom speak of your family. I did not realize you were close to your grandfather.’
‘I am not,’ Wintrow simply admitted. ‘Truth to tell, I scarcely know him. When I was small, he was always at sea. At the times when he was home, he always terrified me. Not with cruelty, but with… power. Everything about him seemed too large for the room, from his voice to his beard. Even when I was small and overheard other folk talking about him, it was as if they spoke of a legend or a hero. I don’t recall that I ever called him Grandpa, nor even Grandfather. When he came home, he’d blow through the house like the north wind and mostly I took shelter from his presence rather than enjoyed it. When I was dragged out before him, all I can recall was that he found fault with my growth. “Why is the boy so puny?” he’d demand. “He looks just like my boys, but half the size! Don’t you feed him meat? Doesn’t he eat well?” Then he would pull me near and feel my arm, as if I were being fattened for the table. I always felt ashamed of my size, then, as if it were a fault. Since I was given over to the priesthood, I have seen even less of him, but my impression of him has not changed. Still, it is not my grandfather I dread, nor even keeping his death watch. It’s going home, Berandol. It is so… noisy.’
Berandol grimaced in sympathy.
‘I don’t believe I even learned to think until I came here,’ Wintrow continued. ‘There, it was too noisy and too busy. I never had time to think. From the time Nana rousted us out of bed in the morning until we were bathed, gowned and dumped back in bed at night, we were in motion. Being dressed and taken on outings, having lessons and meals, visiting friends, being dressed differently and having more meals… it was endless. You know, when I first got here, I didn’t leave my cell for the first two days. Without Nana or Grandma or Mother chasing me about, I had no idea what to do with myself. And for so long, my sister and I had been a unit. “The children” need their nap, “the children” need their lunch. I felt I’d lost half my body when they separated us.’
Berandol was grinning in appreciation. ‘So that is what it is like, to be a Vestrit. I’d always wondered how the children of the Old Traders of Bingtown lived. For me, it was very different, and yet much the same. We were swineherds, my family. I had no nanny or outings, but there were always chores aplenty to keep one busy. Looking back, we spent most of our time simply surviving. Stretching out the food, fixing things long past fixing by anyone else’s standards, caring for the swine… I think the pigs received better care than anyone else. There was never even a thought of giving up a child for the priesthood. Then my mother became ill, and my father made a promise that if she lived, he would dedicate one of his children to Sa. So when she lived, they sent me off. I was the runt of the litter, so to speak. The youngest surviving child, and with a stunted arm. It was a sacrifice for them, I am sure, but not as great as giving up one of my strapping older brothers.’
‘A stunted arm?’ Wintrow asked in surprise.
‘It was. I’d fallen on it when I was small, and it was a long time healing, and when it did heal, it was never as strong as it should have been. But the priests cured me. They put me with the watering crew on the orchard, and the priest in charge of us gave me mismatched buckets. He made me carry the heavier one with my weaker arm. I thought he was a madman at first; my parents had always taught me to use my stronger arm for everything. It was my earliest introduction to Sa’s precepts.’
Wintrow frowned to himself for a moment, then grinned. ‘“For the weakest has but to try his strength to find it, and then he shall be strong”.’
‘Exactly.’ The priest gestured at the long low building before them. The acolytes’ cells had been their destination. ‘The messenger was delayed getting here. You will have to pack swiftly and set out right away if you are to reach port before your ship sails. It’s a long walk.’
‘A ship!’ The desolation that had faded briefly from Wintrow’s face flooded back. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I hate travelling by sea. But when one must go from Jamaillia to Bingtown, there is no other choice.’ His frown deepened. ‘Walk to port? Didn’t they arrange a man and a horse for me?’
‘Do you so quickly revive to the comforts of wealth, Wintrow?’ Berandol chided him. When the boy hung his head, abashed, he went on, ‘No, the message said that a friend had offered you passage across and the family had been glad to accept it.’ More gently he added, ‘I suspect that money is not so plentiful for your family as it once was. The Northern War has hurt many of the trading families, both in the goods that never came down the Buck River and those that never were sold there.’ More pensively, he went on, ‘And our young Satrap does not favour Bingtown as his father and grandfathers did. They seemed to feel that those brave enough to settle the Cursed Shores should share generously in the treasures they found there. But not young Cosgo. It is said that he feels they have reaped the reward of their risk-taking long enough, that the Shores are well settled and whatever curse was once there is now dispersed. He has not only sent them new taxes but has parcelled out new grants of land near Bingtown to some of his favourites.’ Berandol shook his head. ‘He breaks the word of his ancestor, and causes hardship for folk who have always kept their word with him. No good can come of this.’
‘I know. I should be grateful I am not afoot all the way. But it is hard, Berandol, to accept a journey to a destination I dread, let alone by ship. I shall be miserable the whole way.’
‘Seasick?’ Berandol asked in some surprise. ‘I did not think it afflicted those of seafaring stock.’
‘The right weather can sour any man’s stomach, but no, that is not it. It’s the noise and the rushing about and the crowded conditions. The smell. And the sailors. Good enough men in their own way but…’ the boy shrugged. ‘Not like us. They haven’t the time to talk about the things we speak of here, Berandol. And if they did, their thoughts would likely be as basic as those of the youngest acolyte. They live as animals do, and reason as animals. I shall feel as if I am living among beasts. Through no faults of their own,’ he added at seeing the young priest frown.
Berandol took a breath as if to launch into speech, then reconsidered it. After a moment, he said thoughtfully, ‘It has been two years since you have visited your parents’ home, Wintrow. Two years since you last were out of the monastery and about working folk. Look and listen well, and when you come back to us, tell me if you still agree with what you have just said. I charge you to remember this, for I shall.’.
‘I shall, Berandol,’ the youth promised sincerely. ‘And I shall miss you.’
‘Probably, but not for some days, for I am to escort you on your journey down to the port. Come. Let’s go and pack.’
Long before Kennit reached the end of the beach, he was aware of the Other watching him. He had expected this, yet it intrigued him, for he had often heard they were creatures of the dawn and the dusk, seldom moving about while the sun was still in the sky. A lesser man might have been afraid, but a lesser man would not have possessed Kennit’s luck. Or his skill with a sword. He continued his leisurely stroll down the beach, all the while gathering plunder. He feigned unawareness of the creature watching him, yet he was eerily certain that it knew of his deceit. A game within a game, he told himself, and smiled secretly.
He was immensely irritated when, a few moments later, Gankis came lolloping down the beach to wheeze out the news that there was an Other up there watching him.
‘I know,’ he told the old sailor with asperity. An instant later he had regained control of his voice and features. In a kindly tone, he explained, ‘And it knows that we know it is watching us. That being so, I suggest you ignore it, as I do, and finish searching your bank. Have you found anything else of note?’
‘A few things,’ Gankis admitted, not pleased. Kennit straightened and waited. The sailor dug into the capacious pockets of his worn coat. ‘There’s this,’ he said as he reluctantly drew an object of brightly painted wood from his pocket. It was an arrangement of discs and rods with circular holes in some of the discs.
Kennit found it incomprehensible. ‘A child’s toy of some kind,’ he deemed it. He raised his eyebrow at Gankis and waited.
And this,’ the seaman conceded. He took a rosebud from his pocket. Kennit took it from him carefully, wary of the thorns. He had actually believed it real until the moment that he held it and found the stem stiff and unyielding. He hefted it in his hand; it was as light as a real rose would be. He turned it, trying to decide what it was made from: he concluded it was nothing he had ever seen before. Even more mysterious than its structure was its fragrance, as warm and spicy as if it were a full-blown rose from a summer garden. Kennit raised one eyebrow at Gankis as he fastened the rose to the lapel of his jacket. The barbed thorns held it securely. Kennit watched Gankis’s lips fold tight, but the seaman dared no words.
Kennit glanced at the sun, and then at the ebbing waves. It would take them over an hour to walk back to the other side of the island. He could not stay much longer without risking his ship on the rocks exposed by the retreating tide. A rare moment of indecision clouded his thoughts. He had not come to the Treasure Beach for treasure alone; he had come instead seeking the oracle of the Other, confident that the Other would choose to speak to him. He needed the confirmation of the oracle; was not that why he had brought Gankis with him to witness? Gankis was one of the few men aboard his ship who did not routinely embroider his own adventures. He knew that not only his own crew members but any pirate at Divvytown would accept Gankis’s account as true. Besides. If the oracle that Gankis witnessed did not suit Kennit’s purposes, he’d be an easy man to kill.
Once again he considered the amount of time left to him. A prudent man would stop his search of the beach now, confront the Other, and then hasten back to his ship. Prudent men never trusted their luck. But Kennit had long ago decided that a man had to trust his luck in order for it to grow. It was a personal belief, one he had discovered for himself and saw no reason to share with anyone else. He had never achieved any major triumph without taking a chance and trusting his luck. Perhaps the day he became prudent and cautious, his luck would take insult and desert him. He smirked to himself as he concluded that would be the one chance he would not take. He would never trust to luck that his luck would not desert him.
This convolution of logic pleased him. He continued his leisurely search of the tideline. As he neared the toothy rocks that marked the end of the crescent beach, every one of his senses prickled with awareness of the Other. The smell of it was alluringly sweet, and then abruptly it became rancidly rotten when the wind changed and brought it stronger. The scent was so strong it became a taste in the back of his throat, one that almost gagged him. But it was not just the smell of the beast; Kennit could feel its presence against his skin. His ears popped and he felt its breathing as a pressure on his eyeballs and on the skin of his throat. He did not think he perspired, yet his face suddenly felt greasy with sweat, as if the wind had carried some substance from the Other’s skin and pasted it onto his. Kennit fought distaste that bordered on nausea. He refused to let that weakness show.
Instead he drew himself up to his full height and unobtrusively straightened his waistcoat. The wind stirred both the plumes on his hat and the gleaming black locks of his hair.
Generally speaking, he cut a fine figure, and drew a great deal of power from knowing that both men and women were impressed by him. He was tall, but muscled proportionately. The tailoring of his coat showed off the breadth of his shoulders and chest and the flatness of his belly. His face pleased him, too. He felt he was a handsome man. He had a high brow, a firm jaw and a straight nose over finely-drawn lips. His beard was fashionably pointed, the ends of his moustache meticulously waxed. The only feature that displeased him were his eyes: they were his mother’s eyes, pale and watery and blue. When he encountered their stare in a looking-glass, she looked out of them at him, distressed and teary at his dissolute ways. They seemed to him the vacuous eyes of an idiot, out of place in his tanned face. In another man, folk would have said he had mild blue eyes, inquiring eyes. Kennit strove to cultivate a cold blue stare, but knew his eyes were too pale even for that. He augmented the effort with a slight curl of his lip as he let his eyes come to rest on the waiting Other.
It seemed little impressed, returning his stare from a height near equal to his own. It was oddly reassuring to find how accurate the legends were. The webbed fingers and toes, the obvious flexibility of the limbs, the flat fish eyes in their cartilaginous sockets, even the supple scaled skin that covered the creature were all as Kennit had expected. Its blunt, bald head was misshapen, neither that of a human nor a fish. The hinge of its jaw was under its ear holes, anchoring a mouth large enough to engulf a man’s head. Its thin lips could not conceal the rows of tiny sharp teeth. Its shoulders seemed to slump forwards, but the posture suggested brute strength rather than slovenliness. It wore a garment somewhat like a cloak, of a pale azure, and the weave was so fine that it had no more texture than a flower petal. It draped him in a way that suggested the fluidity of water. Yes, all was as he had read of it. What he had not expected was the attraction he felt. Some trick of the wind had lied to his nose. This creature’s scent was like a summer garden, the air of its breath the subtle bouquet of a rare wine. All wisdom resided in those unreadable eyes. He suddenly longed to distinguish himself before it and be deemed worthy of its regard. He wanted to impress it with his goodness and intelligence. He longed for it to think well of him.
He heard the slight crunch of Gankis’s footfalls on the sand behind him. For an instant, the Other’s attention wavered. The flat eyes slid away from contemplating Kennit and in that moment the glamour was broken. Kennit almost startled. Then he crossed his arms on his chest so that the wizardwood face pressed into his flesh securely. Quickened or not, it had seemed to work, holding off the creature’s enchantment. And now that he was aware of the Other’s intent, he could hold his will firm against such manipulation. Even when its eyes darted back to lock with Kennit’s gaze, he could see the Other for what it was: a cold and squamous creature of the deep. It seemed to sense it had lost its hold on him, for when it filled the air pouches behind its jaws and belched its words at him, Kennit sensed a trace of sarcasm. ‘Welcome, pilgrim. The sea has well rewarded your search, I see. Will you make a goodwill offering, and hear the oracle speak the significance of your finds?’
Its voice creaked like unoiled hinges as it wheezed and gasped words at him. A part of Kennit admired the effort it must have taken for it to learn to shape human words, but the harder side of him dismissed it as a servile act. Here was this creature, foreign in every way to his humanity. He stood before it, on its own territory, and yet it waited upon him, speaking in his tongue, begging alms in exchange for its prophecies. Yet if it recognized him as superior, why was there sarcasm in its voice?
Kennit dismissed the question from his mind. He reached for his purse, and took from it the two gold bits that were the customary offering. Despite his earlier dissembling with Gankis, he had researched exactly what he might expect. Good luck works best when it is not surprised. So he was unruffled when the Other extended a stiff, greyish tongue to receive the coins, and he did not shrink from placing them there. The creature jerked its tongue back into its maw. If it did aught with the gold than swallow it, Kennit could not tell. That done, the Other gave a stiff sort of bow, and then smoothed a fan of sand to receive the objects Kennit had gathered.
Kennit took his time in spreading them out before it. He set down first the glass ball with the tumblers within it. Beside it he placed the rose, and then he carefully arranged the twelve fingernails around it. At the end of the arc he placed the small chest with the tiny cups in it. A handful of small crystal spheres he nested in a hollow. He had gathered them on the final stretch of beach. Beside them he set his final find, a copper feather that seemed to weigh little more than a real one. He gave a nod that he was finished and stepped back slightly. With an apologetic glance at his captain, Gankis shyly placed the painted wooden toy to one side of the arc. Then he too stood back. The Other looked for a time at the fan of treasures before it. Then it lifted its oddly flat eyes to meet Kennit’s blue stare. It finally spoke. ‘This is all you found?’ The emphasis was unmistakable.
Kennit made a tiny movement of his shoulders and head, a movement that might mean yes or no, or nothing at all. He did not speak. Gankis shifted his feet about uncomfortably. The Other refilled its air sacs noisily.
‘That which the ocean washes up here is not for the keeping of men. The water brings it here because here is where the water wishes it to be. Do not set yourself against the will of the water, for no wise creature does that. No human is permitted to keep what he finds upon the Treasure Beach.’
‘Does it belong to the Other, then?’ Kennit asked calmly.
Despite the difference in species, it was still easy for Kennit to see he had disconcerted the Other. It took a moment to recover, then answered gravely, ‘What the ocean washes up upon the Treasure Beach belongs always to the ocean. We are but caretakers here.’
Kennit’s smile stretched his lips tight and thin. ‘Well then, you need have no concern. I’m Captain Kennit, and I’m not the only one who will tell you that all the ocean is mine to rove. So all that belongs to the ocean is mine as well. You’ve had your gold, now speak your prophecy, and take no more care for that which does not belong to you.’
Beside him Gankis gasped audibly, but the Other gave no sign of reacting to these words. Instead it bowed its head gravely, inclining its neckless body toward him, almost as if compelled to acknowledge Kennit as its master. Then it lifted its head and its fish eyes found Kennit’s soul as unerringly as a finger on a chart. When it spoke there was a deeper note to its voice, as if the words were blown up from deep inside it.
‘So plain this telling that even one of your spawn could read it. You take that which is not yours, Captain Kennit, and claim it as your own. No matter how much falls into your hands, you are never sated. Those that follow you must be content with what you have cast off as gew-gaws and toys, while you take what you perceive as most valuable and keep it for yourself.’ The creature’s eyes darted briefly to lock with Gankis’s goggling stare. ‘In his evaluations, you are both deceived, and both made the poorer.’
Kennit did not care at all for the direction of this soothsaying. ‘My gold has bought me the right to ask one question, has it not?’ he demanded boldly.
The Other’s jaw dropped open wide — not in astonishment, but perhaps as a sort of threat. The rows of teeth were indeed impressive. Then it snapped shut. The thin lips barely stirred as it belched out its answer. ‘Yesss.’
‘Shall I succeed in what I aspire?’
The Other’s air sacs pulsed speculatively. ‘You do not wish to make your question more specific?’
‘Do the omens need me to be more specific?’ Kennit asked with tolerance.
The Other glanced down at the array of objects again: the rose, the cups, the nails, the tumblers inside the ball, the feather, the crystal spheres. ‘You will succeed in your heart’s desire,’ it said succinctly. A smile began to dawn on Kennit’s face but faded as the creature continued, his tone growing more ominous. ‘That which you are most driven to do, you will accomplish. That task, that feat, that deed which haunts your dreams will blossom in your hands.’
‘Enough,’ Kennit growled, suddenly hasty. He abandoned any thought of asking for an audience with their goddess. This was as far as he wished to press their sooth-saying. He stooped to retrieve the prizes on the sand, but the creature suddenly fanned out its long-fingered webbed hands and spread them protectively above the treasures. A drop of venom welled greenly to the tip of each digit.
‘The treasures, of course, will remain on the Treasure Beach. I will see to their placement.’
