Deadhouse Landing

She threw herself forward to wrap her arms round a stunned Tattersail, sobbing. ‘Don’t blast me into nothingness! He made me do it! Threatened to sell me into slavery to the Dal Hon if I didn’t! Please.’

Tattersail pulled at the girl’s arms, trying to extricate herself. All she could manage were single soothing words such as, ‘Quiet. Yes. Fine.’

The side door to the wash chamber opened and Mock walked in, fiddling with his untucked shirtings. ‘Get a move on…’ he began, and then he looked up. His brows rose, then he suddenly, inexplicably, laughed. He waved to the bed. ‘She was scared by the storm so I let her sleep here, that is all. Nothing more, dearest.’

Viv gaped anew, making choking noises. Her face blazed a red to match her hair. Tattersail gestured for her to leave, and after one look up at her mistress she gathered together a handful of the sheets and scuttled off.

Mock went to a sideboard and poured a glass of wine. ‘Please, dearest. It looks bad, yes. But what would I want with another, really, when I have you?’

She just shook her head – her aching, pulsing, reverberating head. ‘I’ve been a fool, Mock. But I’m not that much of one.’

He leaned back against the table, opened his arms. ‘Please! That girl? A dalliance. Nothing more. Nothing serious. Really.’ And he tossed back the wine, but she noticed his hand shaking.

She realized with a shock that right now he was very scared of her. She merely shook her head. She simply felt tired. So very tired of it all. ‘I’m not going to do anything, Mock. We’re just finished.’

She went to an armoire, dug around and found a travelling bag. Into this went shirts and trousers and skirts and her Deck of Dragons. While she packed Mock kept speaking, but she ignored him.

‘What do you mean, finished?’ he was saying. ‘You would throw away being a marquessa for this? Show some judgement, child. Some sense of proportion. Really. I do think it is time that you grew up. We make a great team shipboard, we really do. But, fine, if we don’t get along in private that need not be a problem. We need not share a room. You can have the pick of any you should choose – benefits of being a marquessa, yes? Or even a queen.’

She was pushing her toiletries into the bag when he made this last comment and she had to stop herself from raising her Warren to show him what she thought of that loathsome idea.

When she reached the door he finally lost his temper. ‘Fine!’ he yelled. ‘You’ll never be anyone! You lack the backbone. Go back to your farm or your fisher parents or whatever! You’ll be a nobody!’

She paused at the door, eyed him, standing flushed and dishevelled. ‘I’d rather be what you call a nobody than contaminated by this.’

Walking away, she heard the glass burst against the door.

*   *   *

Later, in town, she knocked on another door. A sturdy one of thick oaken blanks, a garland of rare herbs strung across its front, fragrant and colourful.

The door opened and she stared into the face of her old patron and teacher, Agayla. The woman looked to be sharing the same headache Tattersail still nursed. She appeared pale, her eyes red and sunken, her hair rather frazzled and unkempt. But she opened her arms wide and gave her visitor a warm hug, drawing her within.

The shop looked just as it had before. As if no time had passed at all, and Tattersail cleared her throat. ‘I’ve been a—’

Agayla raised a hand for silence. ‘No need,’ she murmured. ‘Would you like some tea?’

Tattersail felt as if an immense weight had been lifted from her and she dared an attempt at a smile. ‘Thank you. That would be … yes. Thank you.’

Over tea – Agayla’s wonderful reviving herbal tea – the older woman eyed her as if attempting to take her measure. ‘What did you make of the storm?’ she asked, perhaps trying for neutral conversation.

Tattersail laughed weakly. ‘I was unconscious almost all night. I fell and hit my head.’

‘Ah.’ Agayla nodded. ‘So what do you plan now? As I said, there are schools in Kan that would take you in an instant. I will write a letter.’

Tattersail shook her head. ‘No.’

Agayla raised a brow. ‘Really? No?’

‘No. I was wondering about those old-style mage academies in Tali. Are any of those still taking students?’

Agayla sat back. She raised her gaze to the ceiling, which was cluttered with sheaves of hanging drying herbs and clusters of leaves and bundled desiccated flowers. ‘Old imperial style battle-magics? Really? Obsolete, I should think.’

But Tattersail was nodding. ‘That’s the training I want.’

Her slim, bird-like mentor studied her tea. ‘It just so happens that two such academies still exist. They are small, however. Without prestige among the courts…’

‘I don’t care about that. I want that training.’

Agayla finished the tea. ‘Well, if that is what you want, I will write you a letter of introduction, of course. You can take the first ship out to the mainland.’