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  “No, I have made an agreement with Meester Tadol Haakom for you to take a senior journeyman’s place in the Kehlibar vlee next trading season. Pelts and furs are close to hides, but not so close that you will not have to learn a great deal. And the vlee deals in more than just furs.”

  Tycho picked up a gold-hull nut and the small mallet, tapped it twice, then gave the nut a firm thump. The shell dropped away in four perfect slivers. How did he do that? Ewoud couldn't, no matter how careful he was. Then he realized that his parents were looking at him, as if they expected him to respond. “Ah, that is, honored father, honored mother, thank you for the opportunity and privilege.”

  “Arrangements have been made, but do not mention this to the other sons, not until after port opening. There may be some unhappiness,” his mother sighed. “Waldis Pelzmann in particular.”

  Ewoud rolled his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” Waldis was a brat. Just because his father was a fur specialist and Tycho was a leather merchant didn’t mean that Waldis was better than the Galnaars. And Waldis never bought more than his required rounds at the confraternity feasts, nor did he bring food. Worse, he dared challenge the older men. Ewoud didn't always agree with the masters, but even he knew better than to question them in trade matters.

  “We will present you with your staff the day before port opening,” Tycho said.

  The wind hissed out of a clear sky, cold enough to bring tears to the eyes of the statues on the city fountains. Ewoud followed his parents down the street and to the great temple of Maarsrodi, Maarsdam of the Free City of Rhonari. They wore their best clothes, golden brown and blue, with sea-dog fur trim and linings on the outer coats. His parents wore their chains of rank and duty, and Tycho carried his iron-and-silver bound merchant’s staff. Bastian and Rikila followed Ewoud. Two other families approached the temple at the same time, and one family seemed to be going to Radmar’s sanctuary. All the great gods had their temples on the same square, even the Scavenger. The Scavenger’s small, dark building with white doors lurked in the corner the same way that his totem rat lurked in alleys and dark shadows.

  The family climbed the steps up into the temple. The doors stood open, and they all bowed, then walked into the dark inner chamber. They bowed again, and the ladies curtsied. “Be welcome in the house of Maarsrodi,” a priest called.

  “I, Tycho Gaalnar, born for Maarsdam, bring my son Ewoud to receive the sign and token of service to Maarsrodi.”

  “And I, Gerta Corwinda Gaalnar, born to and for Maarsdam, bring my son to receive the sign and token of service to Maarsrodi.”

  His parents stepped to the sides, allowing Ewoud to approach the priest waiting in front of the altar and the statue of Maarsdam. The god leaned on a gilded merchant’s staff. He held a set of scales in the other hand, one foot resting on a barrel of trade goods. A little ship with silver sails floated on water beside the god’s other foot. The deity wore a traveler’s hooded coat. He was sturdy instead of handsome, with a square jaw and a bent nose. Maarsdam wasn’t pretty. He was a traveler. Ewoud gulped, scrambling to remember what he was supposed to say. Then he genuflected and raised his hands in greeting. He called, “Hail, Great Traveler. A son of the north comes to you. I was born to you and for you, and have prospered under your care. Thanks for the safe childhood, thanks for trade learned, thanks for trade to come. Hail, Great Traveler!”

  “Blessings of the Traveler to you, young son,” the priest replied. “May your road be safe, your animals sound, and your business prosper in this life and the next.”

  “Thanks for the blessing, and for safety thus far.”

  The priest reached behind him and removed a wooden staff from the altar. “Take this in knowledge and reverence as a symbol of your duties to Maarsrodi, Maarsdam of Rhonari. Live under Maarsrodi’s laws, serve his people, do just business and fair, and remember that all who bear the staff are brothers and sisters,” the priest pointed to Ewoud’s mother. “Listen to your trade parents and birth parents, and do good in the name of your god, that he may do good in return.”

  He offered Ewoud the staff on outstretched palms. Ewoud hesitated for a breath, then reached out and accepted the heavy staff. It weighed almost ten pounds, wood and iron touched with silver. Plain metal served to decorate and reinforce the wood. A smith would engrave it later, once Ewoud achieved trade mastery and was acknowledged by the other citizens of Rhonari as a man of the city in his own right.

  On his way out, Ewoud mimicked his parents and brushed his fingers over the god’s staff that hung by the door. The heavy wood shone, worn smooth by hundreds and thousands of other touches. I will come back a merchant, Ewoud promised the god.

  2

  The Sea Road

  Ewoud perched on top of a salt barrel, sorting through white-roots. The koog White Wave rolled a little but not as badly as he’d feared. Jan Webeker sulked, grumbling to himself. Ewoud made a little wave sign, warding off Donwah’s wrath. His father said that She inclined toward the family, but still, if She sank the boat, Ewoud have to swim just like everyone else, and the water felt cold, even for late spring. They’d been sailing north for four days, with two more to go before they rounded the Scythe. If the winds remained favorable, if no storms blew up, and if no one annoyed Donwah.

  “Why didn’t the Great Northern Emperor use his magic to make this trip shorter, if he favors trade?” Jan muttered. “That’s useful magic.”

  Ewoud shrugged, sniffed the last white-root and decided that it was edible. He drew his small knife out of the sheath and started removing the stem-core and four warts. Why did all white-roots have four warts? Did Korvaal make them that way? Maybe He'd arranged it so they’d be easier to divide. Aloud he said, “The same reason his great majesty’s predecessors never cleared the rocks out of the Moahne. Perhaps the gods said it was not to be done.”

  Jan made Maarsrodi’s sign. “Do they do that?”

  Ewoud considered words as he prized the last wart out of the root, then dropped the root into a bowl on the neighboring salt barrel. “They have given signs in the past, and even in recent years. Unmistakable signs my father says. Unmistakable enough that an entire city gave double tithes that year.” How anyone could doubt after the gods together turned an ambassador into ash and left all his clothes untouched, even his smalls, Ewoud had no idea. Nor did he want to meet that person. Ewoud turned his attention to the next root.

  He finished four more roots before Jan said, “Still, it has to be faster to dock at the neck of the Scythe and portage across to the Blue Sea. Doesn’t the chart show a river that starts half-way across the neck?”

  “I didn’t look that closely. I was trying to find where that strange city is, the one in the half-mountain, um…” Ewoud stared up at the decking over their heads, trying to remember the chart and the writing on it. “Quashel, that’s it.”

  Jan sniffed and looked down his nose at Ewoud. “Really? You could have been memorizing the chart, and instead—yike!”

  Ewoud and Jan jumped off the barrels and raced clear of them as White Wave seemed to buck, jerking once to the left, then again to the right, and left again. The koog dipped in front—the bow Ewoud corrected himself—then heaved up, landing in the water with a “splash” that almost knocked the two off their feet. He heard a sharp spang from under their feet. Jan blenched and Ewoud squeaked, “Um, I’ll go see what that was if you’ll move the roots.”

  Jan opened his mouth to answer when they heard angry voices over their head, very angry voices, voices that grew louder. Heavy feet thumped down the ladder. “To the pump,” one of the sailors ordered. Ewoud sheathed his knife, tossed the half-peeled white-root into the bowl, and followed the man down to the lowest deck, where stones and other heavy cargo rested. “Get the hose and pass it up to the next deck.” Ewoud found the shielded spell-lantern beside the ladder and moved the shade for more light, then hunted around among the barrels and dressed stones until he found the right chest. The canvas stocking weighed a lot more than he’d guesse
d, and Ewoud heaved, then heaved again. He put the lantern back on its peg so he could use both hands and his shoulders. On the third try he managed to get half the hose out of the chest. He dragged it to the base of the ladder, then went back and straightened a loop out of the length. “Bring me that end. No, here.” The sailor left the pump and dragged the remaining canvas out of the chest. “Help.” Ewoud used his weight to pull the heavy cloth and metal to the pump. “Hold this here.”

  Ewoud held as the sailor pulled something loose on the wooden and leather box. "When I say push, push.” The man turned, grabbed two rings welded to the end of the hose and called, “Push!” Ewoud leaned forward with all his strength and weight as the sailor guided the iron ring onto a wooden tube as big around as Ewoud’s arm. “Good. Get on the other end of the pump.”

  “What happened, sir?” Ewoud could guess what he needed to do and rested his hands on the pole.

  The sailor pulled, then pushed down on the pump-pole. “Engh. Some blasted fool worked some kind of magic, damaged the spell-guards on the ship. She responded, and sprang some of her seams. Cap’n felt the water reach the alert spells.” Ewoud waited until his end of the thick pole rose to the full height, tightened his grip, and used his weight drag it back down. Someone else had picked up the end of the hose and now the canvas ran up the ladder, as best Ewoud could tell in the darkness. The hose bucked as water pushed in. Ewoud grunted as he pushed the pole to the deck, then stepped to the side as the sailor caught his end and started hauling it back down. Where was Jan?

  “Where’s your friend?”

  Ewoud breathed. Then he caught the end of the pole and pulled-shoved down. “Ugh. I don’t know sir.”

  “Huh.” After that they pumped in silence, saving breath. Two more sailors climbed down and joined them on the pole, while Meister Enkerman and Meister Hajo started moving some of the cargo away from the wet spot. Hajo grunted something about fools, magic, and water, and Ewoud did not feel inclined to disagree. His shoulders burned, his hands felt raw, and he wondered if this was Donwah’s punishment for his feeling optimistic about the voyage. As he helped pump, more men arrived with green hides and a sack of something, and earth-tar. Ewoud wanted to watch, then changed his mind and concentrated on pumping. The sailors didn’t talk as they worked, and when he glanced over his shoulder, Ewoud saw them taking bits of frayed rope out of the sack, dipping them in the earth-tar, and shoving them into something.

  “She’s only sprung, then, not cracked,” Hajo reported. “Donwah be praised for her mercy and grace.”

  “Donwah be praised,” all the men replied. Ewoud added the information to what he knew about ships, and decided that meant that the waterproofing had been damaged but not the wood and iron. Could they stop pumping soon? He hoped so. At least he wasn’t running buckets like he did on fire-watch. Yet, he added quickly, he was not yet running buckets, Donwah be thanked and praised.

  “Smit, you stay and watch,” one of the sailors ordered. He picked up the sack of rope pieces. “Stand down from the pump for now.” Ewoud waited until the sailors let go before lowering his arms. They burned as if he’d stuck them in a fire, especially around his shoulders, and his hands stung and ached. “Leave everything connected until we can be certain the Lady of Waters will not inflict further punishment.”

  The sailors climbed up the side of the ladder, careful not to step on the hose. Ewoud blew on aching palms, then steeled himself and climbed up, using his legs as much as he could. He stopped on the next deck and leaned against the bundles of cloth, head down, waiting for the pain to ease. “You sick, boy?” an enormous hand slammed onto his shoulder and Ewoud whimpered despite himself.

  “Not sick, sir. Sore in the hands and arms.”

  The rough hand grabbed Ewoud’s own and turned it over. He’d worn the skin off, past blistering. “Ah, so you’re Donwah’s token. Go to the mediko so that doesn’t turn into skin-rot.” Captain Huub Huydonks thumped him on the head, gently, and slid down the ladder into the lowest hold. Ewoud considered curling up among the bales, if he could find space, and hiding until the pain faded. But that might be after they reached land, so he walked slowly to the bow-end of the deck, bent double under an enormous beam, and contemplated the closed door. Should he tap it with his head? He tried the back of his hand.

  “Come in, come in, and if you are sea sick on this water, I can’t help you,” a light tenor snapped. Ewoud pushed the door open just enough to squeeze inside the cabin. The bright light hurt his eyes, and he squinted. Were there windows? No, it came from above, and he peered up to see chunks of glass. “They are bespelled to bring even more sunlight in than they otherwise would. What do you need?”

  “Um, your pardon sir, but my hands are a little raw.”

  “I can’t see them from over there. I’m not a message mage.” Ewoud walked toward the voice and found the speaker seated behind a trestle-table. The table and benches blocked the cabin, like the god-barrier in the temples. “Sit, and rest your hands on the table, please.”

  Sitting felt very good. Letting his arms rest also felt good. Having the strange man poke at his palms hurt. “You have gloves?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Get a pair before you do whatever it was again.” The man stopped, leaned forward, and peered at Ewoud with unfocused grey eyes. He reminded Ewoud of a fox, with a face so thin it could serve as a carver’s chisel, a shock of red hair, and a nose that made the ship’s prow seem flat and small in comparison. “Ah.” His eyes snapped back into focus, and he twisted around, reaching behind him for a small jar and two pieces of hide. “You are not the,” thin lips pressed into a line, and the proud proboscis wrinkled. “I will merely say fool, who tried land magic here. So. This will sting a little.”

  Ewoud braced, tongue between teeth. When medikos and herb-women said that, it meant pain like fire and ice and the worst birching his mother had ever given him. The mediko opened the salve pot, spread creamy yellow stuff on the leather, and used both hands to lay one piece on the oozing palm. Ewoud felt cool, then nothing. No pain, no burning, no sting. He blinked. The mediko repeated the performance with the other piece of leather, this time holding it up for Ewoud to see. “What is this?”

  Ewoud could see light through the piece. Had it been scraped thin or was it that thin to start with? He considered, and ventured, “Ah, rabbit, sir?”

  “Close.” The mediko draped the piece onto Ewoud’s right palm. He picked up Ewoud’s left hand and pressed the salve and leather in, then from palm out towards the fingers and heel of the hand, with a stroking motion. He repeated the exercise with the left hand. “So. This is snow-veshla. It’s not true veshla, but it looks like very pale veshla. The beast’s fur won’t stay on the hide, no matter how you try to tan it. Yoorst made it that way.” He reached behind himself again and brought out two bands of soft brown cloth. “So the tribesmen catch them and tan the hides, but split them half-thickness. In the far north, they are used for burn dressings, ice-burn and fire-burn, since they don’t have rabbit. The things swarm every few years, and the men club as many as they can, then cache the hides until they need them.” He wrapped the cloth over Ewoud’s palms, and fastened it in the back with little ties stitched into the bandages.

  “Come back in two days. Do not get those wet, do not stick your hands in anything messy.”

  “Two days, nothing wet, nothing messy, yes sir.”

  The mediko made a fluttering motion with his hands, and Ewoud took that to mean “shoo.” He stood carefully, bowed, and left the cabin. His hands didn’t hurt, but his arms and shoulders burned from over-work. As he contemplated the ladder to the main deck, he heard Jan whining, “Why do I have to watch, sir? I didn’t do it!”

  Slap! “Because you are here, and you did not do your duty when it was needful, boy.” Ewoud backed away from the ladder, but a sailor popped out of the lower hold and pushed him forward. Ewoud climbed, still using his hands as little as he could. The bright sun above hurt his eyes, and he scooted t
o the side, shuffling to keep from tripping over any ropes or other things. Captain Huydonks stood with his back to Ewoud, and all the sailors and traders had gathered toward the sterncastle. Ewoud eased that direction. A red patch glowed on Jan’s cheek and he pouted. Meister Hajo wrinkled his nose, as if smelling something nasty, then turned to Ewoud. The master nodded once, then turned his attention to the main mast.

  One of the journeymen from Maans’hill stood with his arms above his head. No, his hands had been tied to the mast, Ewoud realized. He did not wear a shirt or sweater. Captain Huydonks nodded to the sail-master, who stepped forward, a whip in his hand. Ewoud gulped and shivered. “No one works magic on board without permission. You were told once. Did you ask permission, fish-shit for brains?”

  “It was just a little charm, no—aieeee!” The triple-lashed whip swept across the man’s back, leaving crimson welts.

  “Did you ask permission?”

  “It’s not my fault! Meester—” The next screams hurt Ewoud’s ears, as six more welts bloomed on tan skin.

  “Did you ask?”

  “Bwaaaahh, no, I didn’t because Meester Dogald asked me to look for weather and I thought that was approved and it is a charm, not a true spell and Meester Dogald is to blame not me, and—” thunk! The captain’s hand slammed into the back of the journayman’s head, thumping his forehead against the mast. Ewoud gulped and renewed his promise never to challenge or disobey one of the masters, be the man a merchant or a ship captain.

  The captain turned to the observers. “What is the rule of magic on board ship?”

  “Use none without permission, Sir,” one of the masters from Vlaaterbe said from behind Ewoud. “Charms or full spells.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The captain pointed to the journeyman with his thumb. “Take him down at the turn of the glass.” With that he left the deck, and the sailors returned to their tasks. Ewoud heard retching and saw Jan leaning over the side. Ewoud didn’t smile, but it took work to keep his face still.