The Wizard's Daughter Page 19

  If she had been wrong about this most fundamental part of herself—the beginning—what else about herself had she gotten wrong? What other lies had she told herself? What if she was not the person she thought she was at all?

  Who was she, really?

  The answer just might be that she could be anybody. Anybody at all. Anybody she wanted to be.

  The Gublins, searching the cabin next door, were startled by a strange sound. They looked up. It was a sound that had never been heard before in that desolate place, and it would never be heard again. It was the sound of a girl laughing.

  They hurried to investigate and met Brieze leaving the cabin, still hugging the book to her chest.

  “You found it?” Zeelak asked.

  She nodded.

  “And it contains the valuable information you were seeking?”

  “Beyond price,” she grinned, stashing the book in her pack.

    

  There by the wreck of the Atagu Maru, Zeetog took leave of them to continue his journey west. He clasped hands with Zeelak. Then, to Brieze’s surprise, he offered his hand to her.

  “I am sorry for what my cousin did to you,” he said.

  She took his hand. “Thank you.”

  “I wish you had known him when he was younger. He was kinder then. And not so…damaged.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Zeetog shouldered his pack and marched away. Soon, the mist swallowed him up.

  “Come,” Zeelak said, shouldering his own pack. “We have a long walk back.”

  The three-day walk was a tedious, grueling blur. Zeelak set an even faster pace than before, fretting about the time he was losing. Brieze, anxious to leave the underworld behind and get back to her ship, to return to Kyo with her important news, did her best to keep up. She slogged through the sand behind him, using him to block the wind and stinging grains when she could. They slept only a few hours each night. They ate little, talked less.

  When they reached her old campsite and Brieze saw the remains of her fire, her rope still dangling there at the base of the tooth, she felt almost as relieved and grateful as if she had returned to her own bedroom back in the wizard’s house. She gave the rope several strong tugs to make sure it was still secure. It was.

  She and Zeelak clasped hands.

  “We are no longer bound,” he said. “I wish you safe traveling.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and faltered, trying to think of something appropriate to say. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” There was a silence, and she realized he was waiting for something. “Oh…” she said, remembering. She unpinned the medallion from her jacket and handed it to him. “As we agreed.”

  He unslung his pack and stashed the medallion in it.

  “I’ve never met a live human before,” he said. “It was…interesting.”

  “It definitely was.”

  He slung his pack onto his back, turned, and marched away. But before the mist swallowed him up completely, he turned and called out, “Be careful in the world above, silly human, flying around in those flimsy airships! I don’t want to come across your bones down here one day!”

  Brieze grinned. “I will!”

  He disappeared into the fog.

    

  She ate the last of her food and lay down to get some sleep and build up some energy for the climb back to the Devious. She slept Gublin-style, worming her way into the sand and using her pack for a pillow. She felt more like some creature from the underworld than a human being, stiff and sand-encrusted, dry-skinned and leathery. She could barely remember the look and feel of a clear blue sky. Exhausted, she fell asleep faster and slumbered longer than she’d expected to.

  When she woke, the feeble, mist-shrouded sun glimmered high in the sky. She stood up and stretched. She pinched the sand from her nostrils. She felt good. The food and rest had done her well. Her body was eager for the climb, eager to be back in its own world, to feel the touch of cold, grit-free wind. She strapped on her climbing cleats and pulled on her gloves. She tied the end of the rope to her pack so she could pull it up after her.

  The climb was easier than she expected. Without the pack on her back, she felt light as a feather to herself. And the week of walking with that heavy pack had toughened up her muscles. Her feet found good foot holds and the spiked cleats bit and held tight to the rock. When she reached the little ledge at the halfway point she didn’t feel the need to rest, but she stopped there anyway. The sun shone brighter and the fog had thinned. Her heart beat with the anticipation of seeing the real sky again. And the Devious! She hadn’t realized how attached she’d become to her slippery little ship, how much she missed it.

  When she finally poked her head up above the big ledge where the Devious was anchored, she saw something strange.

  A pair of high, well-worn and scuffed black boots stood right in front of her.

  Several more pairs of boots stood around the first pair.

  The boots were attached to legs, and the legs were attached to men.

  Rough hands seized her and pulled her over the ledge.

  Even caught completely off-guard like that, after a hard climb, she put up a good fight. She twisted and clawed and kicked. She saw a knee in front of her and lashed out at it with a fist, putting as much force behind the punch as she could. It felt as if her knuckles shattered against the kneecap, but the man screamed as the leg bent slightly backwards—the wrong way.

  “Subdue her you dogs!” a deep voice shouted. “Break an arm if you have to.”

  There were too many of them. They pinned her arms and legs, knelt on her back, until she squirmed helplessly. When she finally gave up and went slack, they hauled her to her feet, twisting her arms behind her back.

  The leader stepped forward and looked her up and down.

  He looked at her like he couldn’t believe his eyes. His mouth dropped open and he blinked confusedly. She was clearly not what he’d expected to see.

  He ran a hand through his bristly, close-cropped white hair. Then, slowly, a malicious grin spread across his harsh and wind-burned face. The thick white scar that ran from the base of his left ear to the corner of his mouth twisted over the deep furrows of his cheek. White teeth gleamed. The grin erupted into a laugh—the long, loud laugh of a man who can’t believe his sudden good luck!

  The man was Cutbartus Scud, former admiral of the royal fleet, now a traitor, a wanted man in exile. He’d started a war with the Gublins behind the king’s back, then tried to discredit the king and take power for himself. But he’d failed, thanks to Brieze and Tak’s interference and testimony at court.

  The last time he and Brieze met face-to-face, he tried to kill her.

  “By all the clouds and currents!” Scud said. “When we saw someone had discovered our little cave here, and appeared to be using it as a base, we had to stick around to see who it was. You are the last person I expected to see come climbing up that rope, Missy. What are you doing nosing about the Wind’s Teeth in winter? Up to something interesting, I bet.”

  Her shoulders felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets as Scud’s men cruelly twisted her arms. She winced, but looked him straight in the eye with her chin up. “I’m on a geological expedition,” she said.

  She wasn’t a good liar, especially not when put on the spot.

  “Geological expedition, huh? Anybody with you?”

  “Just my father and a few of his men. They should be up here any minute.”

  This lie was slightly more convincing, at least to Scud’s men. They stepped back from the ledge, put their hands on their sword or dagger hilts, and looked anxiously at him. The men twisting her arms relaxed their grip. The wizard Radolphus of Spire was a powerful man. At the siege of Selestria, he’d single-handedly defeated an entire Gublin army. Even if he wasn’t really about to climb up that rope and leap among them, even if he was in fact very far away, still, mistreating his apprentice daughter was
a dangerous thing to do.

  But Scud never shied away from dangerous things, especially when his ego was involved.

  “Bullshit!” he spat. “We’ve checked out your ship. It’s a very interesting ship, by the way. It only has enough supplies for one. Ralston!” he called to one of his men. “Stick your head out over the ledge, give that rope a good tug and see if anybody else is climbing up here.”

  Ralston looked unhappy about being the one chosen to stick his head out and possibly confront an angry wizard, but he did as he was told. “Can’t see anyone climbing up here, but it’s pretty foggy down there. Don’t feel anybody on the rope,” he was pulling it up hand over hand. “Wait! There’s something on it. Feels too light for a person.”

  “Haul it up here,” Scud ordered. To Brieze he said, “Anybody who’s anybody knows all the wizards are at their summit. There’s a wizard’s war brewing over this business with the Dragonlord, or my nose has never sniffed the wind before. Your father is far away from here, and preoccupied.” He drew a dagger from his belt. It had a well-worn wooden grip and a bright, sharp-looking blade. He lay the tip of the blade against Brieze’s throat. “Now,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here?”

  She swallowed. The skin of her throat pulsed against the edge of the blade. She took a deep breath, and she lied better this time. She knew that all good lies had a grain of truth in them. “I was hunting treasure,” she said. “In an old wreck.”

  Scud chewed on this. “Find any?”

  “No. The wreck was already scavenged by Gublins when I got there.”

  “Huh. We’ll see about that.”

  Ralston had hauled her pack up. Scud ordered him to empty it. There wasn’t much there. A blanket. An empty water bottle. Some tools and toiletries. A fair amount of sand. And an old book with a cracked red leather cover.

  “Now that is interesting,” Scud sheathed his dagger. “Hand me that book.”

  Ralston handed it to him. He flipped through the pages. Some of his men crowded around to read over his shoulder. “This is all in Eastern gibberish,” he said. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just some light reading I brought to pass the time.”

  Scud snorted. She could see the thoughts churning behind his stormcloud-gray eyes as he glanced back and forth between her and the book. He was a smart man, and he guessed near enough to the truth.

  “Wizards don’t give a rat’s ass about treasure,” he said. “No wizard would risk his life in the Teeth for silver or gold. But knowledge, now that is something wizards value above all else! Something a young wizard would brave the Teeth in winter for.” Scud snapped the book shut. “This old thing obviously came from down there, from one of the wrecks. This is the treasure you were seeking. There’s some powerful knowledge in this book, I’m guessing.” He tossed it to one of the men behind him. “Have one of our Eastern friends give that a read when we get a chance. There’s something in it we might find extremely useful, I warrant.”

  Brieze faked a shrug. “You can have it. I don’t care. I’ve read it.” She put up a good front, but she was sick inside. She’d risked so much to find her father’s journal. A book is just a thing, she reminded herself. What’s important is the information in it. And I have that. They can’t take that away from me. She consoled herself with the thought of one of Scud’s friends poring over Kaishou Fujiwara’s purple prose and bad poetry, looking for arcane secret knowledge.

  “Now Missy,” Scud said, grinning. “What are we going to do with you?”

  NINETEEN

  Tak fretted on the trip to No-Man’s Crag, but not about their lack of water or the fact they’d soon be wandering around a town full of pirates trying to get some. He fretted about the vision he had of his father. He worried about what it might mean. He kept forgetting to keep an eye on the sail, so that when the wind shifted, the sail would have to flutter and flap loudly for attention before he noticed and adjusted the trim. And there was one other thing that was bothering Tak, too. Finally, he couldn’t stand keeping his thoughts to himself any more. He called to Jon. “Can you come here? I need to ask you something.”

  Jon sat sullenly in the bow of the Arrow, wrapped in his cloak, hunched against the cold. The puffs of his breath fogged on the wind like steam from a simmering pot. He was still angry about the incident in The Wind’s Teeth. He hadn’t spoken the past few days. He stared warily at the Teeth, which glimmered off in the distance directly east as the boys flew north to find their way around them. But the worry in Tak’s voice prodded him to stand up with a sigh and make his way aft, climbing over the thwart benches. He plopped down in the stern next to Tak and shrugged to say, “What?”

  Tak told him about seeing his father standing in the bow of the Arrow. About how his father seemed surprised to be there. About his sweat-soaked nightshirt and wild red eyes. About the look of warning he gave. Jon frowned as Tak told the story.

  “What do you think it means?” Tak asked.

  Jon considered for a while, chewing the beard under his lower lip. “Well,” he finally said. “It’s not good.”

  Tak had been dreading that answer. “Do you think he’s dead?”

  Jon shrugged. “Could be. Or could be he’s hovering between this world and the next. Or could be you’re starting to lose your mind. Ever had visions before?”

  Tak told him about the ghosts of dead Gublins that haunted him after the siege of Selestria.

  “Hmmmm…” Jon said.

  “What?”

  “Sounds like your mind’s been a little lost already.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jon leaned back and sighed. “Some people have visions, or dreams, or even strong feelings, like premonitions, and they turn out to be true.”

  “Yeah…?”

  “But mostly they don’t.”

  They were quiet for a while, their breath steaming on the wind.

  “I hope mine don’t,” Tak said. “Because for the past couple days, I’ve also had the awful feeling something bad has happened to Brieze.”

  “Oh,” Jon said. “I bet that’s true. Wizards are always in some kind of trouble or other.”

  Tak gritted his teeth and leaned forward as if he could make the Arrow fly faster with the force of his will. “We need to get water as quick as we can,” he said. “And find her."

  EPILOGUE

  Admiral Adamus Strake, former captain of the flagship Dragonbane, sat chained up in the dark. He sat on a cold stone floor with this knees drawn up to his chest. He circled his arms around his knees and rested his chin on them. He rocked back and forth and muttered to himself. “You can do it,” he said. “Just a few more days old boy. Stick with it.”

  A heavy iron door swung open, its rusty metal hinges grinding. Two guards stepped into the room. One carried a tray of food, the other a small torch, which he held aloft. The torch revealed a cave-like chamber, crudely carved from the rock. Sets of chains and manacles were bolted to the stone walls at regular intervals. The room was designed to hold many men, but at the moment Strake was the only occupant. A heavy iron manacle circled his right ankle. His hands were free, and he raised them to shield his eyes against the torchlight, squinting and blinking and cursing at the guards.

  His hair had grown long and ratty, his beard bushy and wild. The blue coat of his admiral’s uniform was rumpled and ripped, its seams fraying. His once white breeches were so stained with grime that they were no longer any identifiable color. They had taken his boots. His feet were bare and filthy. His toenails…well, best not to describe those.

  The one guard set down the tray of food. He lit a small candle and placed it on the tray. Then the guards left, pulling the door closed behind them. It closed with an iron clang that echoed in the room.

  Strake gazed at the little flickering candle. That was different. And then he realized why. Instead of the usual slop they tried to make him eat, there was a steaming bowl of savory chicken stew on the tray. He took a big
breath, taking in the scent of onions and herbs, of tender meat and carrots and potatoes. He groaned. His mouth watered. And instead of the chipped wooden cup of stale water, there was a glass carafe of wine! Real, honest-to-goodness ruby-red wine, beckoning to him with the scent of grapes. And there was a glass goblet. And a folded linen napkin. And a silver spoon.

  “Damn you!” Strake shouted hoarsely.

  His stomach rumbled desperately, frantically. His body begged him to eat.

  He crawled on his hands and knees over to the tray. He was weak, and his arms trembled with the effort. The chain of his manacle clinked.

  He picked up the bowl of stew. Savored the heavenly scent.

  He summoned up all his strength and hurled the bowl across the room.

  The carafe of wine followed. It shattered against the stone wall.

  The tray and candle followed that. The candle went out. The room went dark again.

  Strake made a sound like a little sob. “Good job, old boy,” he said in a shaky voice. “Stick with it. Not much longer.” He crawled feebly back to his former spot, folded up his knees, wrapped his arms around them, rested his head on them, and resumed rocking back and forth.

  Someone lit a torch in the corridor outside. It glimmered dimly though the grate in the door. The iron door creaked open again. A man entered. He was no more than a shadowy figure in the dim light that leaked in from the corridor. He was short, very short, and he moved slowly. He carried another tray of wine and chicken stew. Strake smelled it. The man set it down in the dark, just out of reach. “I hate seeing you suffer like this,” he said with a sigh. “Won’t you please eat?” He had the voice of a gentle, kindly old man. It was the voice Strake heard in his head the day the dragons destroyed his ship and killed his crew.