Authors: Sharon Lee
Tags: #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Contemporary, #Dark Fantasy
Carousel Seas (31 page)
“Of course.”
“Okay. I’ll be down in a few. Thanks, Henry.”
“It’s entirely my pleasure, Kate. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
. . . and that’s pretty much where the rest of my day off went. I relieved Daddy of the ticket, dropped it off with Henry, who gave me a receipt. Then I went in search of Gaby, and helped her harvest returnables while we talked over her options, which at one point meant asking her some very serious questions while the land listened hard, until at last Gaby’s temper snapped.
“Is the Guardian gonna steal from the land? You heard what I want, for finding that ticket. I got nothin’ more to do with it.”
Truth rang like a bell, which was great—for Gaby. For me—well, Henry was going to be drawing up paperwork ’til the middle of next week, and who knew what the financial whiz was going to need. And I was going to have to review and sign it all.
Well, that’s why the Guardian got the big bucks.
“You got it,” I told Gaby. “The trust will secure your land first.”
I expected maybe a handshake, but Gaby only sniffed and returned her attention to the barrel she’d been fishing.
So, I went back to Henry, who got the ticket out of the safe, had me sign it, while he signed a paper that said he’d seen me sign it, and put both together into the safe. Then he gave me another receipt.
“Beth’s with a client this morning; I hope to hear from her this afternoon,” he said. “In the meantime, this will give you some background on the kinds of trusts available. I’ve marked the sections.” He picked up a book from the top of the pile at the right of his desk. There were maybe a dozen green flags peeking shyly out from the top of the pages.
“Come back to me with questions you may have; we’ll stockpile them for Beth.”
“Thanks, Henry,” I said, and beat it, book clutched to my chest.
At home, I made myself a sandwich, poured a glass of ice tea, and retired, with the book, and Breccia, to the summer parlor.
Which is where Cael found me, some hours later, after the midway had closed. Breccia had gone back inside after the sun went down, doubtless to seek the elephants. I didn’t blame her; I’d put the book aside about then, but inertia kept me where I was.
Inertia and a nonsensical hope that, if I stared at the sea long enough, it would start behaving naturally again.
Or that I would see Borgan walking across the sand toward me.
“Good evening, Kate,” Cael said, settling to his haunches, so his face was level with mine.
“Good evening. Have fun today?”
“It was pleasant to work with Felsic and to meet those who brought themselves to my attention. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“You know? I would.” I shifted, and he put his hand on my shoulder.
“There is no need to rise, unless you wish it. I will bring the glass.”
“Thank you,” I said, and watched him rise effortlessly and move away. I sighed and wondered how you go about breaking someone who had been a servant for what I suspected was a very long time before he’d been a prisoner, of serving. No, that was wrong—my head was stuffed full of simple, complex, and private trusts, and nonprofit corporations, and whatnot to the point that nothing else could get through. All we needed to do was to identify Cael’s service to the land. Though how . . .
Cael returned bearing two glasses, with Oscar escorting. Two glasses made me a lot happier than one, which he probably knew, so was he being a servant or—
Kate
, I told myself, accepting the offered glass with a nod,
you’re overthinking it
.
Cael settled cross-legged beside me and raised his glass.
“To the land and the Guardian,” he proposed.
“To the land and those who serve,” I counterproposed.
We clinked glasses and drank.
“Your day, it was perhaps not so pleasant as mine?”
“I wouldn’t call it unpleasant. Things got done, and more things are going to get done—in service of the land, so I was on task, too.”
He nodded, and glanced out over the sand to the distant, quiet sea.
“There was much business in the midway, because the sea suffered an affliction of stingers,” he said. “Felsic said that Captain Borgan, your leman, does not often permit such things.”
“I’m guessing that Felsic knows what she’s talking about. As I understand it, this is an . . . unusual situation. He’s gone off down coast to talk to somebody who might advise him.”
“A wise lord knows when to ask for advice,” Cael said approvingly. He sipped wine, and took a deep breath.
“Felsic says . . .” He stopped.
I turned my head to meet his gaze.
“Yes?”
Another deep breath.
“Your pardon, my lady. Felsic says that these papers, which are delivered from Artie—she says that papers come only to those whose service . . .
is wide
. By which she means those who are not tied to only one place or part of the land.”
There was an idea. I supposed Felsic knew about that, too. My mother had a packet of papers; Gran definitely had papers. It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder how many other
trenvay
had papers. Felsic didn’t, nor the overwhelming number of those
trenvay
who worked at the midway. I took a sip of wine, wondering if I should approach Felsic or Artie for more info—and decided on Felsic as generally easier on my nerves.
“Let me think about that,” I said, “and . . . take advice. Not only am I just settling into my Guardianship, you’re the first whose service I’ve accepted for the land.”
He nodded, and we sipped in companionable silence for a few minutes, Oscar stretched out between us.
“Felsic also says,” Cael murmured, “that tomorrow we ought to have a game night.”
I stopped with my glass halfway to my lips.
“She does, does she? Is there a guest list?”
Cael smiled gently, as if he’d known I was going to react badly.
“Felsic said that she and Peggy will bring a game. We—you and I and Breccia and Oscar—we will provide
munchies and beer
. I will tomorrow go to Ahz and purchase munchies and beer . . .” He hesitated.
“Felsic said that I will need money to do this.”
“Right you are.” I thought about being annoyed, but what I mostly felt was relief. Game night would take my mind off . . . things. Especially things related to Borgan.
God, I missed him.
I drank off the rest of my wine, and glanced at Cael.
“I’ll give you some money; you get the shopping list from Felsic. In the meantime, you want a sandwich?”
“I do, yes. Shall I make one for you, also?”
“No,” I said, coming to my feet somewhat creakily. “Let’s go inside and make one for each other.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THURSDAY, JULY 13
LOW TIDE 7:17
A.M.
EDT
SUNRISE 5:12
A.M.
The scrambled eggs were much improved, and even tasted cream cheesy. I gave Cael his due, and promised myself to indoctrinate him to the mysteries of cholesterol . . . soon.
Cael cleared the table while I refilled our coffee mugs and carried them to the table. I’d given him fifty bucks in cash, and part of our breakfast conversation was devoted to his understanding of currency, change, and base ten. Here, it transpired that his day in the booth with Felsic stood him in good stead. I wasn’t going to have to worry about him fumbling his change at checkout.
I sat down, and leaned forward to touch the blue-and-gold flower, as fresh now as when Aleun had plucked it for me—had it only been two days ago?
“What kind of flower is this?” I asked, as Cael took his chair.
He blinked, and put his mug down without taking a drink.
“Retorinas, my lady. Should you ever wish to return to . . . the garden from which it was plucked, all you need do is take it in hand and—ask.” He hesitated. “Of course, it is only a flower, and can do no more than find its own bed.”
So, it was a one-way ticket to Sempeki, without having to open the World Gate. If it didn’t change. If whatever Prince Aesgyr was doing with the Wind Between the Worlds didn’t utterly confuse its poor vegetative directional sense. If, if—
Footsteps on the stair—two sets, both heavy. The land showed me an honest-to-God Archers Beach policeman—not a summer cop—and . . .
Jim Robins.
Oscar had been napping in front of the French doors. He raised his head, and growled softly.
Cael was already out of his chair when the knock came—too loud, and too long. That, I saw through the land’s eyes, was Jim Robins’ doing. I got out of my chair and strolled into the living room. I opened the French doors, and tried to nudge Oscar out onto the summer parlor—nothing doing. He wasn’t rude about it; merely slipped away from my hand and walked over to stand at the knee of the master of hounds.
Cael opened the door.
“That’s him!” Jim Robins snapped, lurching forward, like he was going to grab Oscar by the collar. “That’s the guy who stole my dog!”
Oscar growled—Cael moved a hand, and he stopped, and sat, head tipped to one side.
The cop grabbed Robins by the arm and hauled him back out onto the porch.
“That your dog, mister—?” the cop asked.
“He is my dog, yes,” Cael said composedly. “I am Cael Wolfe.”
The cop looked at Jim Robins. Jim Robins said something rude—then pointed, past Cael . . .
. . . at me.
“She was in on it!”
The cop looked at me. I came forward to stand at Cael’s side in the doorway.
“Good morning, I’m Kate Archer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the cop—Cyr, according to his badge—said. “You related to this man?”
“Our families go ’way back,” I said. “I’d have to look at one of my grandfather’s genealogy charts to give you the exact relationship.”
He nodded, and looked back to Cael.
“I don’t guess you have any papers for this dog, do you, Mr. Wolfe?”
“Of course I do,” Cael said, sounding surprised.
“Liar! That’s
my
dog. You got no—” Jim Robins thrust forward again.
Oscar surged to his feet and barked, hard and sharp, like he meant it.
Robins stepped back; I could see the sweat on his face.
“If this man will stop trying to enter Ms. Archer’s house, I will bring the license paper. Can this be done?”
“He’ll stay right here on the porch,” the cop promised.
Cael nodded, and went into the living room, pulling the envelope he’d gotten from Artie off the mantelpiece. He shuffled the papers, chose a yellow quarter-sheet and came back to hand it to the policeman.
Officer Cyr looked down, frowning slightly, like maybe he really ought to look into getting reading glasses.
“Says here, Oscar, German shorthaired pointer, black and white, five years old, last rabies vaccination September of oh-five, all other shots up to date, owner . . .” He looked at Jim Robins, and said, “Cael Wolfe.”
Jim Robins snatched the paper out of the cop’s hands, looked down at it—and swayed slightly where he stood, his face going white, then red. I reached for the land, hoping I wasn’t going to have to patch up an apoplexy—then he thrust the paper back into the cop’s hand, and leaned forward, one hand out slightly, but not over the door frame.
“Oscar,” he said, his voice low and pleading. “C’mon, Oscar. You remember Jim.”
Oscar snarled, showing teeth.
“Oscar,” Cael said mildly, “your manners, sir.”
The dog stopped snarling, and sat, reluctantly, to my eye.
Officer Cyr handed the registration back to Cael.
“Thank you, sir. Sorry for the trouble.” He looked at Jim Robins.
“Guess you made a mistake. Right, Jim?”
There was a long moment before the man sighed, growing visibly shorter as his anger left him.
“Guess I did,” he said, and gave me a nod. “Sorry, ma’am, mister. That dog meant a lot to me. Always a good dog, an’ now . . .” He let it drift off, and turned abruptly away, but not before I’d seen the tears in his eyes.
“Sorry to’ve bothered you folks,” Officer Cyr said. “You have a nice day, now.” He followed Jim Robins down the stairs.
Cael closed the door. I put a hand on his shoulder.
“He’s suffering,” I said, not sure what I wanted.
Cael’s mouth thinned.
“He is a cruel and petty man, who brought pain on those who gave him their loyalty and their love.” His face softened somewhat. “I admit, it is a harsher punishment than that which I had intended. Had the laws of this land allowed for justice, he would be dead now, and beyond suffering.”
There wasn’t, I thought, a lot to say to that.
I went back to the kitchen table and picked up my coffee mug.
She was a fool.
The goblins had held the secret of the misty wall surrounding the pool in which she was imprisoned, and she had thought to use their method and thus escape to the wider ocean.
However, the Borgan had altered the working since the goblins had breached it.
Of course
he had done so. The Borgan, at least, was not a fool.
She had examined the working and attempted several answers herself, based on her own not-inconsiderable understanding of spellcraft. Nothing served, and it became very quickly obvious that the more power she brought to bear against it, the less power was available to her—and the sturdier the wall became.
Plainly, she could not continue in that current. She would need as much power as she could hold, when the Borgan’s grant of mercy expired and his geas returned her to Cheobaug.
Thus, she withdrew to the center of the pool, where the current was coldest and most potent . . . and opened herself to the power of the waters.
There were half a dozen riders on the carousel when I arrived, and maybe three times that many in line. Apparently, yesterday’s epic crush had subsided. I wondered if that was good news, or bad.
Vassily answered the question for me.
“There is a sickness upon the ocean,” he said, as I joined him at the operator’s station. “The waves do not make, there are stinging bladders in the water, and dead fishes, too.”
Oh, good. The one thing we’d been missing was dead fish.
“That’s too bad,” I said, as he rang the bell for the end of the ride. “I was hoping yesterday was a fluke.”
He gave me a sideways glance.
“There is nothing that you, yourself, can do for the sad, sick ocean?”
I only stared at him, mouth half open.
Vassily leaned over to open the gate.
“Welcome,” he said, smiling at the first person in line—a strapping young man of maybe nine summers. “Two tickets for the fantasy carousel—the best ride in all of Maine!”
He counted off the riders, then closed the gate with a smile for the next in line.
“Next time, you are certain to ride!” he said, then looked back to me.
I shook my head.
“Not my area of expertise,” I said, and added, just in case anybody was listening who could make it so, “but I’m sure everything’ll be fine in a day or two.”