Once Upon a Winter's Night (44 page)

“
Chp!
” chirped Scruff, as if he totally agreed.

Camille stood. “Though I cannot answer the riddles posed by Lady Urd, still we must press on . . . but which way, my friend? Which way? Left? Right? Inland?”

Camille scanned the shoreline as far as she could see in either direction, but she espied no sign of habitation whatsoever. Of a sudden, Scruff
chp!-chp!-chp!
ed, and, rising over the horizon, sails appeared, swiftly growing taller, and then a hull came into view. And driven by the wind abaft, over the sea it rode.

“A ship, Scruff. A ship. Oh, how glorious.”

Camille watched awhile as it hove across the water.

“It seems to be heading somewhere off to our right, Scruff. Perchance ’tis an omen telling us which way to go, for perhaps ...”

Camille pulled the stave from the rucksack loops, taking care to not snag a splinter on the cloth. “Lady Sorcière, were it any stave but yours, I would wrap it tightly with leather or cloth, or bind it with straps, all to deal with the splits and cracks and splinters. Yet I deem you meant it to be thus, and so wrap it I shall not. Instead I shall again walk with it, for mayhap, contrarily, it cracks from disuse.”

And, stave in hand, off Camille set, following the rightward shoreline, as the ship asea plunged across the rolling brine, the wind driving her swiftly. And rising across the horizon after, came a seething, dark wall of clouds.

“A storm is coming, Scruff,” said Camille, her cloak flying in the wind. Onward she strode across flowing grass on cliffs above the sea, hoping to find shelter ere the blow came.

On she walked and on, a candlemark and then two, the land rising and falling, the storm drawing nigh, and just as she topped a long upward slope, with a hard-driven blast the tempest did blow ashore at last. And through thickening gray sheets of rain hurled by a pummelling wind, Camille saw spread out before her a broad harbor sheltered by seaward hills, ships riding at anchor within, and a seaport town arcing ’round.

 

The hard rain pelting down, the wind moaning among the buildings, Camille saw ahead a signboard swinging wildly in the squall, a leaping fish depicted thereon, the words Le Marlin Bleu circling ’round. It marked the very first inn she had come across after entering the town. In the rain and wind she ran for the door and lifted the latch, and a hard gust snatched the handle from her grip and slammed the panel wide.

“Shut the door, boy,” shouted a man above the howl of the storm, scrambling for papers swirling about behind the counter as the panel slapped to and fro. “I said shut the door, else the storm itself’ll blow us all away.”

Camille lunged to catch hold of the panel madly swinging. Then she struggled against the wind to shut the wild thing, pushing it to with her shoulder. Finally, she got it closed and latched, and relative quietness descended, the moaning wind shut out. Thoroughly drenched and dripping, she cast back her hood and turned toward the man at the counter, who yet chased after paper. Shedding her cloak, she looked at Scruff in the high vest pocket, his feathers soaked. Bedraggled, he looked up at her and grumped a short, sharp “
chp!
” Camille laughed and said, “You look like a wet dog, my friend.”

“Who you callin’ a wet dog, boy?” came the voice from low, the man down on hands and knees and reaching under a desk for a loose receipt.

“Oh, sieur, I meant not you,” said Camille, stepping forward. “I was speaking to my companion.”

“I didn’t see you come in with any—” Voucher in hand, the man rose to his feet. “Oh, pardon, ma’amselle, I thought you were, um—”

“My companion is here in my pocket, good sieur, and we would like a room, and a hot meal, too, and warm bath, and a good long drink of water.”

“
Chp!
”

“Oh, and some grain for my friend. Oats, rye, barley, if you please. He is a bit tired of millet.”

The man cocked a skeptical eyebrow at Camille and the sparrow, and Camille fished about in her rucksack and then plunked a gold coin down to the counter.

The man’s eyes lit up and he quickly said, “Right away, ma’amselle.” He turned and called out, “Aicelina, à moi cet instant!”

 

There came a soft knock on the door, barely heard above the moan of the wind and the drumming of rain on the shingled roof.

“Entré!”

Dressed in a borrowed robe, Camille looked up from her just-finished meal of haddock and red cabbage and green beans and black bread. A dark-haired young maiden, certainly no older than Camille, and perhaps a year or two less, stood at the doorway looking in.

“Mademoiselle, your bath is ready.”

“Merci, Aicelina.” Camille took a last sip of tea, then stood. “Keep guard, Scruff,” she said to the dozing, wee bird, perched on the back of the chair before the red coals on the hearth, wind groaning down the chimney.

“Mademoiselle, shall I add another brick of peat to the fire?”

Camille glanced at the hearth and then at Scruff. “Non, Aicelina. I believe the room is now warm enough. Besides, he is quite comfortable as it is.—Now where is the bathing room?”

“This way, mademoiselle.”

Camille, barefooted, followed Aicelina down the hall—doors on the right, windows on the left—and gusts and rain rattled pane and sash. And Camille said, “Aicelina, I have been pondering a riddle given me. Know you of winds that do not blow, but flow across the sea? The reason I ask is that I have been advised to seek a master of such.”

Aicelina opened the door at the end of the hall. She turned to Camille and said, “Non, mademoiselle, I know of no such thing.” And as wind whistled ’round a corner outside, the maiden’s brown eyes widened and she glanced through the windows at the storm without. “Mayhap ’tis a mage, for ’tis said some are masters of the wind.—Oh, but wait, that would be a wind that blows, rather than one that does not.” Aicelina frowned and fell into momentary thought, but then realizing where she was, she moved aside. “Your bath, mademoiselle.”

Camille stepped into the chamber; a tub of steaming water sat waiting. Aicelina followed and said, “Fresh towels on the bar, mademoiselle, and soap in the dish, three scents in all: mint, lilac, rose. And a fresh sponge is on the board. Is there aught else I can do?”

“Merci, Aicelina, it is enough.”

Aicelina started to leave, but then turned back and said, “About your riddle, mademoiselle . . .”

“Yes?”

“This is a port town, a seaport town.”

Camille nodded and said, “The very first I’ve ever seen, Aicelina. I’m a farm girl and, but for a handful of drawings in a book in Fra Galanni’s library, I know little of ships and boats. Yet when I topped the long hill above the town and saw all the ships at anchor, oh what a thrilling sight it was. —But what has this to do with my riddle?”

“Well, mademoiselle, your riddle speaks of masters, and there are masters of ships, and the ships themselves—”

“Of course!” exclaimed Camille, grabbing the startled girl and embracing her. “And the ships themselves flow across the sea. Oh, merci, merci, Aicelina.”

Yet after the girl had gone, and Camille had slipped into the soothing water, as she luxuriated in the warmth she frowned.
But how can ships be winds that do not blow
?

 

“Well, now, young lady, for a tot of rum, I’ll answer your question.”

It was the next morning, and Camille stood on a dock along the harbor. The storm had blown itself out sometime during the night, and the skies were blue above. Even so, great waves yet crashed against the breakwater at the harbor mouth afar, remnants of the blow.

“And how much would that be?—The cost, I mean.” The eld man looked her up and down, as if gauging her wealth, his eyes widening at the sight of the sparrow on her shoulder. Then he said, “A bronze.”

Nearby, a lounging youth snorted. “A tot is but a copper, ma’amselle.” The oldster shot him a glare.

Nevertheless, Camille handed the man a bronze. “Now, sieur, my answer.”

With surprised eyes, the eld man looked at the coin in his hand, then glanced down the dock at the Bald Pelican, a ramshackle tavern sitting ashore just beyond the planking. Then he looked at Camille and said, “Your answer is tied up at pier thirty-two; she’s being laded for a long run.” He bobbed his head, then turned about and trotted away as fast as his legs would bear him, for
ten
tots of rum awaited, and perhaps out of generosity for a good-paying customer such as he was about to be, the barkeep would set up the eleventh for nought.

Camille looked at the youth. “Which way?”

The lad pointed.

 

Three-masted she was, and broad, with a wide and flat low prow and a high deck aft, her length some thirty-five paces in all, and her hull was painted red. On her bow were two glaring yellow-orange eyes, and in slashing black lines, a strange symbol was inscribed behind and below each eye. She was tied up at pier thirty-two, and a bustle of dockworkers labored at loading bales and kegs and crates onto the cargo nets of the large vessel, seamen aboard cranking the windlasses and raising the goods and swinging the booms about, to lower the nets down through the hatches and into the bays below.

The crew adeck were men like none Camille had ever seen: the cast of their skin a yellow-tan, their eyes tilted like those of Elves, yet their ears were not tipped. All had hair jet-black, curled in a loop behind and tied by a small bow. And they spoke in a strange tongue, the words short and sharp and at times harsh-sounding.

Most were dressed in red pantaloons, their arms and chests bare, yet among the crew were warriors, or so Camille thought them to be, for each was armed with two gently curved swords held to their waists by broad golden sashes wrapped ’round vibrant red robes.

“Quite a sight, eh, Mademoiselle Sparrow?”

Camille turned to see beside her a brown-haired, brown-eyed, brown-bearded man of middling years. He glanced at Scruff and smiled, then added, “The ship, I mean.”

“Indeed, sieur, for never have I seen such. But that is no wonder, for, in truth, never had I seen any ships at all before yester.—Do you know its name?”

“Her, ma’amselle.”

Camille turned up a hand, an unspoken question in her eyes.

“All ships are female, ma’amselle; and yes, I know her name, and I’ll trade you her name for yours.”

Camille dropped her gaze from his and turned to look at the ship. “I am Camille, sieur.”

“I am Jordain, harbormaster here, and she is the
Higashi No Kaze.
”

“The
Higashi No . . . ?”

The harbormaster smiled. “The
Higashi No Kaze.
I am told by her master it means
East Wind.
”

Camille’s heart leapt with hope.
There are winds that do not blow, but flow across the sea.

“Sieur, I must see this master.”

Jordain pointed. “He’s there on the poop.”

Even as Camille’s gaze followed the harbormaster’s outstretched arm to see a formidable figure standing on the high deck astern, she said, “No, M’sieur Jordain, I mean I must speak with this master. It is urgent I do so.”

He, too, was dressed in a red robe, though elaborate yellow-gold dragons were depicted thereon. About his waist was a broad red-and-yellow sash. His feet were stockinged in white, and strange black sandals he wore. Like his crew, his eyes were tilted, his complexion a yellow-tan. He, too, had his black hair tied in a curl behind by a small black bow. In his right hand he held horizontally an open red fan. Before him, on the straw mat where he knelt, his two gently curved swords lay in jet-black scabbards, one sword longer than the other.

On his knees on a separate straw mat to the left of the man and a bit behind, the interpreter, one of the crew, said, “Lord Hirota says, there can be no such place, Jordain san.” The interpreter had not once looked at Camille.

On the floor of the captain’s cabin, Jordain and Camille also knelt on woven straw mats—“tatami,” Jordain had called them—Camille to Jordain’s right and slightly behind.

Again Hirota spoke, his words chopped short as if each were cut off by an axe, and Camille wondered if Lord Hirota’s scowl was perpetual.

When Hirota fell silent, the interpreter said, “Lord Hirota says, though there are many strange things in Faery, a place east of the sun and west of the moon is not one of those, for
Tsuki Musume,
um, Daughter Moon, is quite disobedient, for she sometimes runs ahead of, um, Father Sun, and sometimes lags after, sometimes hides her face and sometimes shows it brazenly.”

Camille, her heart falling, said, “Then he knows of no such place?”

The interpreter yet looked only at Jordain, and when the harbormaster nodded, the interpreter spoke rapidly to Hirota. Hirota turned his head and gazed at Camille, the look in his eyes quite insolent, and, without saying a word, he snapped the red fan shut.