Three: Water

It poured rain the entire boat ride to the capital. I spent the hour near the prow, watching smoke slip across the forest canopy of Thuja—thinking about Mother. She had been proud of her profession. I was proud of her profession. I was proud of her, just not proud to follow her, but really, none of that mattered because her woodcutting legacy was smoking to charcoal.

By the time I disembarked from the long-tailed canoe, well after the rest of the passengers, I looked more like a sodden wharf rat than a guilder. The rain had washed off most of the dirt and blood but left me chilled. I had no cloak to protect my clothes, for I’d lost it amongst the cart’s many jolts through the woods, and the garments stuck to my skin like shellac. I ran flat palms down my front, trying to smooth the wrinkles and prevent bunching, but the cotton clung to my binder and accentuated my breasts.

I scowled, then wrapped my arms around my chest and stepped from the boat onto the soft sand of the west dock, taking long, calculated breaths that weren’t slowing my heart at all. I cursed the water and the cotton binding. It was looser, now that it was wet, and I could breathe easier, but I’d have to walk through the city like this, to get to the square where the other potential apprentices were being interviewed. I didn’t care about the stink or the dried, caked blood, or looking like a waif, but I wasn’t sure how long I’d make it, looking like a girl.

I tried to ignore the gathered fabric and the shivering that was from more than the cold. Ahead of me, the access road swarmed with fishmongers and fruit peddlers, all with their wooden pushcarts. The smell of Sorpsi’s river and lake ports was distinct, each of them, but this one was by far the most fragrant. I’d played here often as a child, while mother delivered marquetries or had meetings I was not allowed to attend. Today, it looked…busier?

I squinted into the distance, down to the next row of pilings where three more long-tailed canoes floated, tethered and heavy with passengers. No, not just any passengers—guild passengers, although there were a fair few dock workers and sailors as well. But there was at least one guild family on that boat, and while I couldn’t make out the guild tattoos on the necks of the adults, I could see enough of a dark smudge to know they were there.

A group of four people dressed all in leather boarded the first boat. The person in front scoured necks and forced each passenger to look at them in turn, but ignored the scruffier hands—the dock workers, the tattered children, the beggars.

I took a few steps forward, then stopped when the family was led from the boat, surrounded by the leather-clad people, and marched in a line toward the palace.

“What?” I said to myself but apparently loud enough to attract the attention of an old woman standing next to me.

“For-hires,” she said. “They’re rounding up guilders, though all that are around anymore are apprentices. Did you want some pineapple? I have some leatherwork, too, in the bottom of the cart if you’re interested. Get it now before the price goes up.”

None of that made any sense. “Before the price—why?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

The woman sniffed and crossed her arms.

It took me a moment to realize what she was waiting for. Wasting her time answering my questions would cost her sales. I fished in my pocket and took out the first stone I had, not even looking at its value.

The woman eyed the stone, and me, then waved dismissively. “Just keep it. I’m talking about relocating. Insurance. The woodcutters just lost their grandmaster. Dead. The same thing happened to the River Guild, but their grandmaster just straight up quit, I heard, ’cause of the steamboats moving in from the west. The other guilds of Sorpsi probably aren’t far behind, and it is a census year, after all. Where have you been, especially looking like this?” She frowned. “You do look kind of like the master woodcutter, from Thuja. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“What?”

“Yeah.” She made a circling motion with her finger around my face. “Same curly black hair, same funny little dimples. Same body shape. You got that curled bow lip thing my husband thinks is beyond attractive.” She snorted.

Guild problems seemed really far away, all of a sudden. I looked down at myself, dripping muddy water, my clothes torn, my brown skin scratched and welted from the wood cart. The binding under my shirt was only sodden, not unraveling, but with my shirt clinging so close, I looked unquestionably female. I’d pass easily enough for a dockworker, but I couldn’t be seen like this. I could not. They would know, the fishmongers and the fruit vendors and the tailors with their treadle machines. They wouldn’t see the woodcutter’s daughter, for I was too covered in grime, but they would see a woman—a girl—and that was wrong.

I’d be a witch before I’d be a woman.

But I couldn’t go to the alchemy fair looking like this, or I’d spend the whole time huddled in a corner, trying to mash my chest down. I needed clothes, and I had a few stones in my pocket—enough to buy the high-quality cotton that had the correct tautness of fabric. I knew where to go—I’d always enjoyed the capital’s textile district back when Mother had let me travel. It was still morning, and the masters wouldn’t leave until sunset. That was plenty of time. I could do this.

With my arms still crossed high—for I would crush my damn breasts if I had to—I thanked the fruit vendor and walked as confidently as I could onto the access road. She called after me with more things to buy, but I forced myself to keep walking. I had to, or I’d spin to shavings. I passed yet more vendors. Some were stationary, and these I could weave around and ignore the calls to purchase, but the ones with pushcarts dogged my heels despite my appearance.

“Fresh pineapple!”

“That shirt! Let me repair it for you! Ten minutes! I’m the finest trade tailor in Sorpsi!”

“Apples and blood oranges and limes! A bounty to bring home to your family!”

There were too many voices. Too many people looking at me and making assumptions. I broke into a run as their words chased after me and battered my ears. They weren’t being specific. It didn’t matter.

“We have the best price here! No need to go down the road! We can even beat guild prices!”

“Your family will love the mangosteen! We guarantee it!”

It was hard to swallow. My throat burned as I dodged arms and elbows on the crowded street. Women in bright hats and dresses turned their exasperated eyes on me, tsking my haste. Men stepped from my path and looked past me, trying to discern the manner of the disturbance. I pushed children away with my hips and nearly collapsed onto an insect cart coming into the access road as I turned left, off the main street.

Here, it was quieter. Shoppers still milled about, of course, and several meters away, another cart vendor, this one selling smoked meat on sticks, didn’t even look up from his cart as I pressed myself into the side of a brick building and tried to breathe.

I dug my fingernails into my palms and forced myself to look at the overcast sky, then to the plaza a few streets away. I had to get a new binding before attending the fair, so melting into a puddle of tears and scratched skin was not an option. I pushed from the wall and wrapped my arms back against my chest. This time, I positioned them high enough that the front of my shirt flattened. That looked better. It looked right, or, at least, right enough to get me through town.

When my heart still pounded and my breathing made me feel dizzy, I shut my eyes and remembered the last time I’d been in the plaza. I’d been eight or nine at the most. Magda and I had been playing on the old limestone statue of Sorpsi’s last king that sat in the center of the plaza—the one of him abdicating his throne to the peasant woman who had defeated him. Magda and I had been fighting with bamboo swords, wearing identical white linen dresses, her long black curls braided with ribbons, and me with the dress’s blue sash tied around my face so I looked like a bandit. Or something.

I remembered how uncomfortable the dress made me. Not because I didn’t like it, but because of how everyone looked at me in it. How their eyes became soft and mushed. And then I remembered how much Magda hated the dress, too, because she hated frills and constricting fabric, and how there was the perfect puddle at the base of the statue, filled with thick mud, that was so satisfying to jump in.

I remembered the mud, and the laughter, and the mischief in Magda’s eyes and took a deep breath. I smiled at the memory, and it was enough to center me. I started walking again, through the narrow streets that widened as the spires of the castle became visible. Three blocks later, the city centered bloomed—a stonework plaza peppered with fountains and the old king’s statue. It wasn’t nearly as crowded as I’d expected, which was puzzling, but it was the second day of the festival.

Closer to the plaza, the road was cobblestone, with wood footpaths raised a good handspan from the surface. I passed two stores, one selling silk bolts and the other tailored suits, before I stopped. The Tailor’s Wench, while not the most attractive of names, should have been bustling this time of day. I often shopped here with Mother as it had the best quality cotton for binders, but it was closed and the door locked.

I frowned and rubbed my arms. It wasn’t a holiday. Guilders and traders alike had to make a living. The queen gave neither handouts nor sponsorships. Why would they be closed?

“Out of business. They couldn’t keep up with the water frame that’s being tested a few countries over. I heard it can spin more than one hundred threads at a time. For cotton, they just couldn’t compete.”

I turned to the short gentleman behind me. His gaze flicked only briefly over my personage, and then he gave me a friendly nod. I relaxed, but my arms stayed high. The drape of his shirt was caught, only slightly, near the top of his chest where a binder would have started. We weren’t exactly the same, he and I, but his presence was a comfort nonetheless.

I pulled my shirt away from my body. “I don’t know where else to go.” I smiled halfheartedly.

He stroked his chin, which was smooth and free of stubble. “You weren’t going to walk around the city like that, were you?”

He wasn’t referring to my clothes, although with the damp leather smell mixed with the blood and wet, he had every right to do so. Instead, his eyes grazed my bandolier and the three pouches that hung there.

My brow furrowed. “The alchemist fair?” I asked, stuttering on the words. “Isn’t everyone wearing them?” Although now that he mentioned it, I hadn’t seen anyone during my walk from the pier with a bandolier, or the long alchemical coats some wore. This close to the main plaza, we should have been swarmed by both guild masters and apprentices. Where was everyone?

“The fair?” He clasped his hands and rocked back on his heels. “It’s been cancelled, order of the royal daughter. You’ll run into Queensguard, soon enough, who will ask you to take your bandolier off as well. There’s just too much suspicion. Too many people are on edge.” He pointed back toward the docks. “Guessing you came from that way? Surely you saw the for-hires?”

My shoulders sagged. My mouth gaped. Something dropped, too, deep in my stomach, and tears stung my eyes. “Cancelled? But…but why?”

The man picked a piece of lint from his jacket. “Because the queen’s gone missing, country mouse. Three weeks now. And when things like this happen, you know it’s always the unbound guilds that get blamed. The consort is at his wit’s end. The queen has to meet with the Triarchy of Puget and the King of Eastgate in four days to reestablish the border treaty. This is the first time it’s come due since Queen Iana took the throne. I’m sure you can infer what no attendance would mean. Her daughter isn’t exactly jumping up to help either. But it boils down to not needing a bunch of alchemists about when you’re trying to find a missing royal.”

“But Mag—” I stopped myself before saying her full name, and the sound died, bitter, in my mouth. He didn’t know the royal family like I did. Like Mother did. It was a lot to filter all at once—watching the dream I’d finally decided to chase summarily squashed right in front of me, while I dripped fetid water onto the shoes of possibly the only person in town I wasn’t embarrassed to be around.

Cancelled. The fair was cancelled.

I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream. I wanted to take one of my pouches and toss it onto the roof of The Tailor’s Wench just to watch the straw explode in a shower of red crystal flowers.

“Cotton for binding?” My eyes went down to the stone, down to my sodden boots. My hand went to my pocket and pulled out the stones—the largest stamped with the parrot of the queen’s crest, the other three with aspen leaves to denote their low value—and held them flat on my palm. “I can’t do anything without a new one, whether the fair is happening or not.”

“Nowhere around here. Not anymore. Has to be imported from factories outside the three countries, and the quality is low. The three countries are the only ones left on the continent with guilds now, what few remain. Everyone else has traded quality for quantity. I can give you my cloak if you like?”

Everything was too tight, from the wet clothing to my binding to my bandolier. I took the cloak—thin brown wool with a deep hood—and offered my stones.

“Keep them,” he said, his tone soft and apologetic.

I couldn’t respond. My throat and eyes burned. Instead, I bowed and turned sharply back toward the plaza. I’d always been stellar at running away from things.

So I ran to the only place in the capital I knew would be empty of people. To the last place I had ever been able to just be me.

I ran through the streets, around the king’s statue. I ran past the guildhalls I knew too well, past pubs I recognized from Mother’s stories. I ran past the palace courtyard, the spires of the building looking like they might pierce the sky, the clouds, and spill yet more rain onto my pathetic form.

I ran past the palace itself, and behind it, stables where people called to me to stop, to wait, that I wasn’t allowed. I had attached the cloak around my neck but would not take off the bandolier. Without my extracts, what was I? Without alchemy, without an apprenticeship…I would not remove the last part of my dream, and damn everything for taking this from me!

I didn’t pause as dirt and stone gave way to trees and sedge. When the humid air of Sorpsi’s tropical rainforest hit my face and further curled my hair, I took deeper breaths, daring the air to choke me. As the ferns grew wider and scaled the trees, as the sounds of insects and the rustling of foragers overpowered the crashing of my feet, I kept running. I stopped only when I could no longer see the castle’s spires, and when the trees grew so densely together that I could see the pale-blue glow of foxfire fungi at my feet. I stopped when I could no longer hear the voices of the people calling after me. All around me, only insect hums. Bird calls. The digging and rustling of some unseen rodent.

Here, on the prone trunk of a massive cedar tree, I knelt and dug my hands into the decay, a patch of green-glowing foxfire pressed around the edge of my boot.

I sobbed—for who was around to hear? Did it matter? I sobbed and coughed and nearly vomited on feelings too long buried. I’d have to go back to the capital before dark. I knew where Mother was at least. The death of the grandmaster woodcutter meant she was likely at his guildhall, now hers, for she was next in line. I would have to tell her about our house. We’d have to go back and rebuild, and really, there was no reason for me not to go back. I had nothing here, not with the alchemical fair cancelled.

So much for finally breaking away.

I pushed my fingers into the rotten wood and tore off a chunk, letting bits crumble down my hand. Stupid. This whole thing had been stupid! I tossed the wood as hard as I could at a funny-looking stump in the distance, hoping to hear the satisfying explosion of brown, brittle wood on a hard surface.

“Ahhhhhhh!”

The stump expanded into a very short, graying man in a brown cloak. He swung his head in my direction, looking, no doubt, for the source of the wood missile, and in doing so, slipped on the wet sedge. The plants he’d picked flew from his hand. He landed on his back in a thick blanket of fog. The sedge engulfed him, and through the patches of gray and green I could only make out the brown of his cloak.

“Sorry!” I called out, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. The queen’s forest was no place to come alone. What was he—

I saw movement in the mist. I hopped the log and moved to the edge of a small clearing. The sedge grew knee-high here, and the ferns arched over my head. Sunlight flitted down but pierced the mist only in fragments. The man sat up, muddy and scowling, but there was movement behind him that I was more concerned with.

A slender form emerged from the fog.

I stumbled. My heart pounded.

Nothing human moved like that.

The fog fell away and revealed a spindly trunk and a thick halo of wide leaves. The magic thing pulled itself across the ground with flapping, piercing roots toward the man still just sitting on his backside! A collection basket lay upended to his left, with bits of herbs and mushrooms spilled across the sedge.

I took another step forward before I could stop myself. My boot crunched down on some unseen twig, and it was only then that the man turned toward me, his lips bunched tightly together and his brows furrowed into rebuke.

His face snapped into my memory, and I choked back a yell.

Master Rahad.

The queen’s royal alchemist.