After the island storm, unseasonably fair weather gave Lorens his chance. From dawn until dusk the yellow-haired prince taught journeymen the basics of Northern swordplay. Even Hassin came to the training sessions when he could, and a time or two Rasim caught Nasira watching them all from the captain's deck, an expression of angry satisfaction marking her thin features. It took him a while to understand, and when he did, he dropped his guard and took one of the blunt sticks they used for practice right in the gut, knocking the wind from him.
Desimi, wielding the offending stick, dropped his own guard in surprise, and though unable to breathe, Rasim lunged forward and slammed his own stick sword into Desimi's belly. They both collapsed, coughing and choking for air. Desimi's stomach unknotted first and he dragged in a breath deep enough make his eyes water before he wheezed, "What happened? I never get a hit in like that."
Rasim's eyebrows twitched in acknowledgment. For the first time in his life, being small was turning out to be an advantage. He moved faster than the bigger students, and made a smaller target. Swordplay felt natural, the rolling gait of a ship-bound sea witch translating easily to the light, bobbing footwork Lorens made them practice for hours at a time. Even when they pursued other duties, the journeymen ducked and weaved with each other, practicing without thinking about it. It felt like dancing to Rasim, and he loved it.
His stomach finally loosened and he gasped in a huge lungful of air before speaking. "I thought the captain would disapprove, but she doesn't. She's glad we're learning to fight. Because she's going to need us to be an army, when we hunt the slavers."
Surprise cleared all other expression from Desimi's face. He looked toward Nasira, who watched them. Then, as if she'd heard Rasim's deduction, she gave a short, sharp nod, and turned away.
"On your feet!" Lorens hauled them both up, scolding tone failing before curiosity. "What happened? I've never seen Desimi land a hit on you before, Rasim."
"Hah." Rasim rubbed his stomach, glad the last bruises from the island had faded in the weeks since they'd left it behind. "You haven't known us long enough, that's all. I got distracted."
"Distraction will get you killed. Good fight, Desimi, but you can't let yourself be surprised if your opponent stumbles. Press the advantage. You might have slain Rasim, but he took you with him at the end."
"Aye, Highness."
A whistle blast sounded, marking the shift change. Half a dozen eager journeymen dropped their duties and ran for Lorens' training deck. Rasim and Desimi gave up their mock swords to the newcomers and went to pick up the jobs they'd left off. Lorens waited for the new students to gather, then began the same lessons all over again.
"I don't know where he gets the energy." Sesin swung down from the mast to land neatly beside Rasim. "I don't know where you do, either. I think you only get four hours of sleep a day."
"Sometimes less. Milu's still sick and I still get to clean up after him." Rasim made a face, then smiled ruefully at Sesin. "But I sleep really well when I do sleep. How are your ribs?"
"Better. Usia says I'll be good as new by the time we dock in the North."
"Will you start training with Lorens then?"
Sesin shook her head. "I'm not like you or Kisia. I see the need, but I've no wish to put myself at either end of a sword." Slow hope built in her eyes. "But Master Usia says I may have a knack for his kind of witchery. When we get home I'm to study with him."
"Sesin," Rasim said in genuine admiration. Healers of moderate skill were common enough among the sea witches, but ones as skilled as Master Usia came along once in a generation. He hadn't taken a student in years, and the most recent one was the guild's master healer, a position Usia had given up for his own love of the sea. Rasim was, in fact, surprised that Usia had joined them on this voyage, given that the rugged old healer had been taking care of Guildmaster Isidri for the past weeks. Usia must believe the ancient Guildmaster really was fine, or he'd have never left her.
Sesin's cheeks rounded into apples with the size of her smile. "I know. I never even dreamed of it, Rasim, but it fills my heart. It's what I want."
Rasim's grin felt broad enough to split his face. "Congratulations. We're beginning to find our places, aren't we?" He gestured around the ship, at the journeymen becoming soldiers, at the captain readying herself to become a general, at the sailors whose whole beings were given over to sailing the Waifia. "I never knew how it happened, really. Not once we were assigned to ships or to the shipyard, anyway. I thought we'd be told where we belonged, but it's more that we discover it, isn't it?"
"If we're lucky. But you belong everywhere, Rasim. I see you with all of them. Even Sunmaster Endat, and don't think the captain doesn't know you're still studying with him."
"Not sunwitchery." Rasim shuddered. "None of us are, not even Pynda and Daka. Just diplomatic stories. It's boring. I'd rather climb the rigging in a storm."
"Well, what about the Stonemasters? You spend a lot of time with them."
"I spent a lot of time cleaning up after Milu." Rasim made another face. "Stonemaster Lusa doesn't want to have a thing to do with me, after I got her onto a rowboat in that storm. I'm busy with all of them all the time," he agreed, "but I don't think I belong with any of them, or with all of them, Sesi. I belong here." He put his hand on the Waifia's main mast. "Your heart's with the healers. Mine's with the sea. It's all I ever wanted."
"Sometimes we're lucky enough to get what we want." Sesin smiled, leaving Rasim a little uncertain of what she meant. He swung up the mast to take his lookout point, and caught Hassin's amused glance while on his way up. His ears heated, though he wasn't sure why, and he climbed into the crow's mast feeling somewhat disgruntled.
The mood fell away, though, up in the cold crisp air. He'd told Sesin the truth: the Waifia was all he'd ever wanted, and if Kisia didn't want her captaincy ambitions spoken aloud, well, Rasim knew his were no secret. They weren't ever likely to make shore, but he would hold on to the hope and work for the dream until someone took it away.
A playful breeze whisked up the mast, wrapping around it and tugging at the ropes before fading away. Not a natural breeze, either. Rasim felt the light, laughter-like touch of skymastery in it, and peered toward the base of the mast. One of the sky witch journeymen, Zara, walked by it, trailing her fingers against the wood as she passed. The trill of witchery was probably as thoughtless and instinctive to her as making eddies in still water might be to a sea witch. Rasim smiled and settled back down, watching the busy ship below. What with sword lessons and his own duties and stone witches to care for and also trying to stay out of the captain's way, he'd never managed to talk to Skymaster Arret about whether there were guild members who left Ilyara; about whether there could be a rogue guild out there. Nor had he thanked them for lifting his voice during the worst of the storm. There never seemed to be a moment, between his own duties and theirs.
Not that their duties looked all that impressive. The Skymasters always took up a place at the stern, to best guide winds into pushing the ship along. Most of the time, they did nothing visible but sit, straight-backed and swaying with the ship's rock. Wind was finicky stuff, gusting and blasting where it wished. Any sea witch knew that, and any sea witch worth her salt knew how to tack the sails to get the most out of the dancing air. They did it constantly, even with sky witch help, and when no Skymasters were there to shape the wind, the sailors persevered without them.
But since the storm, Rasim had been paying attention to the Skymasters, even if he hadn't had time to speak with them. Their magic was constant, far more constant than any sea witch. It almost always had that light soft feeling to it, not the weight of sea or stonewitchery, though in the heart of the storm even skymastery had carried weight. But they were always doing something. Rasim didn't know why, but he was reluctant to interrupt, fearing the consequences. He could talk to Master Arret, and thank them all, once they made port in the Northern capital of Ringenstand.
A familiar yelp rose up from the deck. Rasim grinned down at Kisia, who hopped and swore as she nursed a bruised hand. Seawitchery might come naturally to the baker's daughter, but swordplay did not. It made her all the more determined to learn. Lorens seemed to like her for that, and he'd given her a few lessons alone after she pestered him enough.
That had been the cycle of days since leaving the storm island: study, fight, work, sleep. And clean up after Milu, of course. As Rasim watched, Milu stumbled down to the training deck and picked up a stick himself. He was using the swordplay to distract himself from his sickness, and although he hadn't yet made it through a whole training session, and was still just as sick after, for a little while every day, at least, he was able to think about something else. He'd regained strength in the past few days, and that, given how fragile he'd become, was a lot.
Moreover, the stars said it was another three days to Ringenstand and there were signs of nearby land: birds wheeling in the sky, smudges on the horizon, wood floating in the water. Someone had pointed those signs out to Milu, and now he stayed on deck as much as he could, gripping the ship's rail and staring at the distance like he could hurry landfall through will alone. There was a ship-wide wager going on whether he'd stay in the North or walk home once they made land. Rasim had put coin down on the Stonemaster journeyman braving the ship's journey once more, and reckoned he would win big if he was right.
As the sun fell, a sharp whistle caught Rasim's attention. He swarmed down the mast again and took the meal Usia had prepared down to Missio in the brig. Her expression went flat and cold when he opened the door, but she didn't quite refuse the food. "I'll leave the door open for some air, if you want," he offered. She curled her lip and turned her back on him, hunching on the uncomfortable bunk to eat her food. Rasim sighed and sat beside the door, leaving it open because he couldn't bear the idea of her breathing the same thick, smelly air all the time. The brig would be better off with bars, not a door, but no one expected it to be used for weeks on end, and a solid door gave the ship's prow just that much more strength. Still, if Missio was to sail home in there too, Rasim thought he might suggest to Hassin that they temporarily replace the door for the other leg of the journey.
"I've made a rope of my trousers." Missio spoke suddenly, her voice rough and angry. "I could strangle you with it, the way you're sitting with your back to me. Why shouldn't I?"
Rasim's heart jumped, though he tried not to show the thrill of fear when he spoke. "For one thing, the captain would put you off the ship with your feet in chains if you did, and you know it."
"Maybe that would be better than dying in here by inches."
"For another," Rasim said more quietly, "I can protect myself."
Missio snorted. "You're not much of a witch."
"I'm not." But Kisia had seized the very blood in a man's body, had seized the water of it, and used it to squeeze a man's heart until he almost died, like a healer working backward. Rasim found the idea repugnant, but he liked the idea of dying even less. "But I survived the sea serpent and two assassination attempts, including the one you tried. Do you really want to make me mad, Missio? I'm not your enemy. I'm just...in the wrong place a lot."
"Northerners are the enemy."
Rasim groaned. Guildmaster Asindo should have checked the sentiments of everyone on the Waifia before sending them North. Anybody who thought as Missio did—as Nasira did, for that matter—should have stayed home. Maybe Asindo was trying to teach them that Northerners were people too, but as a boy with Northern blood, Rasim felt strongly Asindo had chosen a bad way to do it.
"Northerners," he said with a little too much emphasis, "lost somebody too, in the Great Fire. Queen Annaken was Prince Lorens's aunt, did you even know that? He knew her. His older sister, who remembers Annaken better, is still broken-hearted over her death. If there's an enemy, Missio—" Rasim pressed his lips shut, suddenly remembering that the suspicions he'd shared with Captain Asindo and King Taishm, were not widely known. The last thing he needed to do was set someone like Missio, who already embraced unreasoning hatred, onto the idea that there might be an internal enemy in Ilyara.
She didn't notice his hesitation, filling it with her own answers. "Someone sent five ships of Northern witches to Ilyara. You can't tell me they're not the enemy, and anybody with Northern blood is more likely one of them than one of us."
"I was raised Ilyaran," Rasim protested. "Why would I choose the Northlands over my friends and guild?"
"You're friends with Lorens," Missio spat. "Maybe he's promised you gold, or a crown."
Rasim opened his mouth and shut it again. There was no point in arguing, no more than there had ever been in fighting with Desimi. When her taunts failed to get a response, Missio shoved her empty bowl back toward Rasim and turned her back again, dismissing him as if she wasn't the prisoner. Rasim collected the bowl with a sigh, locked the door behind him, and went back to his duties, glad that tomorrow it would be someone else's turn to bring Missio her evening meal. He just hoped she wasn't spewing her poison into everyone else's ears too.
Getting even the most mild fish stew into Milu took well past sunset. The poor stone witch had recovered enough to be apologetic for his illness, but not enough to keep food down easily or eat quickly. Rasim brushed off the apologies, his sympathy for Milu greater than it had been at the beginning of the journey. He'd complained very little, given how sick he was, and every day struggled to overcome his weakness. Rasim admired that, even if he still had messes to clean up several times a day. He was still relieved when exhaustion claimed the other journeyman, after which Rasim collapsed onto deck himself, asleep before he could count to three.
He dreamed of sickeningly sweet smells and difficulty breathing. His head ached, even in the dream, and when he came awake it was with a sharp inhalation that drew a cloying scent deep into his lungs. Dizziness swept him. A wet cloth covered his nose and mouth, pressing the sweet smell into him.
Wet. There was something about wet—he should be able to push it away—send the dampness elsewhere—but his thoughts softened, turning to mush, impossible to follow. He lifted a hand to claw the cloth away and his arms wobbled like the soft dough that Kisia's family made into hearty bread. He dragged another breath, trying to clear his mind, but the sweet scent overpowered him. Consciousness whirled away.
He woke when icy water closed over his head.