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Pietro nodded. “I don’t even know who or what I’m looking for. So that seems like a fine place to start.”
They spent the day gliding along an invisible channel through the ruined lands. Pietro was so fascinated he delayed going belowdecks to begin his cooking chores. Sometimes their way seemed to be nothing but water, and any islands that were nearby were barely blots to the north or south. Other times, their ship passed close enough to the variable clumps of land that Pietro could see the nests the seabirds built along the sand. Now and then they spotted figures standing on the beaches or along the terraced slopes of the higher hills, watching them; here and there they passed smaller crafts riding the waves, hugging the shore or darting across the narrower channels. Sometimes the men in the other boats shouted and waved, but other times they just stared.
“We’ll be there by morning,” Danner predicted after dinner, so Pietro made himself seek out his bunk instead of standing at the railing through the whole night, trying to make out ghostly shapes. By now, he had come to find the rocking of the boat comforting, and it lulled him to sleep just as surely as the sound of Stollo’s even breathing.
He was awakened by a series of gentle bumps and splashes, then an unnerving feeling that the world had come to a halt.We must have dropped anchor,he thought. The boat still tipped and righted with the incessant waves, but there was no sense of continual motion. Pietro wondered what it would be like to stand again on obdurate ground.
He woke Stollo with a kiss. “I think we’re here,” he said, “whatever that means.”
Chapter Twenty-seven:
Pietro
One of Danner’s sons stayed with the boat, but the rest of them crammed into a dinghy that had hung off the starboard side until they dropped it into the water. During the fifteen minutes it took for Danner and his son to maneuver the craft to the beach, Pietro studied the prospect before them. They had arrived at a small natural harbor, a deep curve in the coastline sheltered by an overhanging cliff that might have been thirty feet high. To the left, the plateau above the cove stretched out in acres of rough black rock; to the right, fronds of greenery dripped down from the lush stretches of the higher ground. A narrow but well-trodden path wound its way up from the beach to the fertile land on the right. A few small rafts and skiffs dotted the sand, pulled up close enough to the walls of the cliff to be safe from the hungry pull of high water.
A group of people stood at the edge of the path, watching the dinghy come ashore. They looked poised to run in either direction, as the situation dictated—down to the water to offer help, or up the hill to seek safety. They were simply dressed, in loose tunics of light-colored fabric. Pietro supposed there must be some kind of plant life here that yielded fibers that could be beaten or woven into cloth. As they got closer, he could tell that most of the tunics had been ornamented with dyes or beads or shells or braided fringe. For some reason, that detail heartened him. Whether they lived in a fancy mansion on Council Row or camped on an island in the middle of an ocean, people couldn’t resist the urge for self-decoration. They were driven always by the desire to distinguish themselves from their neighbors by color or shape or pattern. They invariably sought to make themselves unique.
The dinghy scraped against sand, and the four of them jumped out. Danner and his son grabbed a pair of ropes and hauled the craft up to the beach, Stollo and Pietro following, all of them splashing mightily. The water was cold and Pietro was shivering when they made it to land.
Danner dropped his rope and held his hands before him, palms up, clearly a gesture designed to show he offered no threat. The other three copied his movements. Then, moving slowly, Danner pulled a knapsack off his back and let it drop to the damp ground. Whatever its contents were, they clinked merrily when they landed. Pietro guessed Danner had brought tools or knives, things it would be hard for someone in this part of the world to mine or smelt. High-value items for barter.
The gesture seemed to reassure the onlookers, for the waiting group moved closer. Danner stepped forward, still keeping his hands out, and said something in a language Pietro didn’t know. One of the others came close enough to respond—a woman who looked to be about middle age. She had freckled skin and ginger hair that reminded him of Aussen, and the small, trim build he associated with islanders.
That was interesting, he thought. Maybe before Cordelan started moving bits of the world around, all the islands had clustered closer together; maybe they had been peopled by a single race. He listened more closely to Danner’s halting conversation with the native woman, wondering if he could pick out any words he recognized. If he’d had a better grasp of Zessin, he might have been able to do so.
He studied the woman talking to Danner. She had festooned herself with ropes of beads—around her throat, around her wrists, around her ankles. They were small and irregularly shaped, mostly white but streaked with gradations of color from citrine to snow.
Cherloshe,Pietro thought, wondering if these people worshipped some incarnation of Zessaya. It seemed likely.
The tenor of the conversation changed—now the woman was pointing at Danner’s companions, clearly asking who they were and why they should be trusted. Danner introduced them one by one, then the woman called over her own entourage and did the same.
“Does this mean we’re all friends now?” Stollo murmured.
“I think so,” Danner’s son said.
“This is Cossi,” Danner told them. “She’s the head of the families who live here. She’s willing to do business with us, but doesn’t want us to venture any farther than the beach. She’ll send her sons back to their village for items to trade.”
Pietro was disappointed. If he never saw more than this small sliver of land, he wouldn’t be able to find what he was looking for—whatever it was. But maybe after a successful exchange of merchandise, Cossi would be more welcoming.
Two of the islanders ran lightly up the hill; two others produced thin blankets and spread them over the sand. The city folk knelt on one blanket, the islanders on the other, and Danner opened his bag.
Pietro’s guess had been right—Danner’s bounty consisted of a dozen knives of assorted sizes and uses, a hammer, nails, an awl, needles, a length of chain, and other items that he produced ceremoniously one by one. Cossi and her companions picked up each piece to examine it, then whispered amongst themselves. They seemed pleased, not astonished, so Pietro assumed they had seen similar tools in the past.
It wasn’t long before her sons returned carrying heavy cloth bags that they placed on the blanket before Cossi. She began pulling out an assortment of rocks that looked a great deal like cherloshe studded with coin-sized deposits of some blue material. Pietro guessed these might be rare minerals that could be cut and polished into exquisite jewels. Worth the trade.
Danner had gone through about twenty good-sized rocks when Stollo leaned over to whisper in Pietro’s ear. “Who’s this?”
Pietro looked up to see another stranger carefully negotiating the sloped right-hand path. A man, maybe Pietro’s age—and not an islander. So dark-haired and dark-skinned he might almost be a pureblood Cordelano. He was dressed in the simple tunic of the island folk, but gold bracelets gleamed on both of his wrists.
A Corcannon man. How unexpected.
Cossi glanced over her shoulder at the Cordelano’s approach, then said something to Danner, who translated for the others. “This is Jino, he lives here, he wanted to meet the strangers. I can’t tell what his status is,” Danner added. “She spoke his name with respect, but not fear.”
“Jino,” Stollo said, and looked at Pietro.
Pietro nodded, and he and Stollo came to their feet. Many people bore names that ended in o, buteverypriest had such a name—and this man bore himself with the authority and serenity that clerics cultivated from an early age.
“I don’t recognize him,” Pietro said.
