“Whatever Enzi considers a proper favor in return, it had better be good,” Sebo complained, her voice muffled by the cloth. “I’m too old for this.”
Their globe popped free of the water, next to the boat. The two mortal crocodiles slapped the river with their tails until their many-times-great-grandfather bellowed for them to calm down. They braced the boat at his command, while he braced the far side of the globe, jamming it against the boat so it would not drift away.
Arram climbed out first, then gently took the dead woman’s bound feet. When he tugged, the body slid out of the globe. Arram’s gut clenched. He swallowed the sudden mouthful of saliva that warned he was about to vomit, and pulled again, lifting as he did. Hand over hand he drew in the corpse of his former teacher by fistfuls of burlap and chain, using all of his strength. As he worked, he prayed for the Black God to heal her wounds.
Once Faziy was aboard, Arram slid her onto the boat’s floor. He would have to remember the feet of the corpse would be near his own feet. Quickly he glanced at the far rail. The crocodile grandsons were clinging to it with their jaws and forepaws, weighing down the rail with the top halves of their bodies.
“Thank you,” he said, and hurriedly reached for Sebo. She held both bony hands out through the globe. Carefully Arram took them and lifted her aboard. Close overhead, thunder boomed. He cursed.
“Can’t be helped,” Sebo murmured.
Arram swore to himself. Rain meant that the master’s arthritis had burdened her for hours—it always came on when the skies were still clear. She had said nothing, had made no sign that she was in pain. “You should have told me you were hurting.”
“Quiet,” Sebo ordered. “Pull in the globe like fishermen pull in their nets. Leave enough room at the last for the vile magics that hid Faziy.”
“I can’t see them,” Arram said, puffing as he hauled on the globe. Handful by handful he forced the air out of it. What if he got a faceful of those ugly spells?
Light, bright and even, spread over everything. He looked back. Sebo held up a small crystal globe. Touching it with a whisper of his power, Arram felt Yadeen’s Gift, as plain as if his master shared the boat with them. Looking at Sebo, he noticed something else. “Where’s your puddle?”
“My what?”
“Your puddle, the one that was in your lap.”
Sebo grinned. “I let the puddle, as you call it, go free when I got into the boat.” She held the glowing ball up again. “If you would finish? I’m glad I borrowed it, but it’s heavy.”
At last Arram held a bag the size of his head. All of it that he’d already rolled into his fists had dissolved, its purpose done.
“Now pinch what you have closed, firmly. Give it a rune of sealing with as much of your Gift as you can.”
Arram wanted to tell her that if he reached far enough, he could replenish his stores of power completely, but he decided not to. She looked weary, and the first splashes of rain were speckling the water within the light of the globe. She would want to know how he could tell, and when he had learned this. While he could answer the first question, the answer to the second was nebulous. He only knew that as he got older, as he developed hair in spots previously hairless, his awareness of how far he could reach for power had grown. He had tested it, and found his awareness was correct. He wasn’t sure what he could do with it, or what might happen to him if he did, so he used it only on special occasions, when no one was watching.
Instead of saying this to his loved and trusted master, he pinched the opening to the magical globe shut with one hand. With the other he made the sign requested, pouring enough of his Gift into it that the opening was secured. The shadowed magics within the globe whirled and pressed, but they could not get out.
As soon as it was closed, Preet flew up to his shoulder and began to scold. “Hush,” he told her softly. He looked at Sebo. “Are we still being quiet?” Rather than wait for her answer, he told Preet, “Hush, hush. All’s well and we are going back. Sebo, we’re going home, aren’t we? Preet is worried. So am I, a little. Only a little. I’m not questioning you, mind, only Preet wants to know. And me. I do, too. It’s raining.” He rubbed his face for a moment to freshen himself, then reached into the earth, feeling for the sense of water running off of rock. Once he had it, he drew it into his Gift and spread it over the boat.
While he worked, Enzi’s descendants gripped their ropes and took their places at the bow. As the rain rolled away the invisible shield over the boat, the young crocodiles towed and Enzi pushed it upstream. Their speed was far quicker than their journey downstream, even though they swam against the current. The waves parted at the bow, but they did not slop inside. Arram decided Sebo or Enzi must have done something about that—more likely Sebo, because what would a crocodile care about getting wet?
“Put those disgusting magics next to Faziy,” Sebo ordered.
Arram flinched slightly. “Sorry, Master. I forgot I was holding them.” He gently placed the globe of magics next to the corpse. Sebo was rubbing her temples and watching the riverbanks as they passed. The hippos and crocodiles were beginning to stir. It was late afternoon, and the sun was setting. He and Sebo had been underwater far longer than he realized.
“Why would anyone go to such trouble to kill and bury a mage?” he asked her.
“Every mage has enemies,” she murmured.
“These must have been really angry ones, then.”
“For your own good, lad, you should forget this ever happened. Ask no questions. Never mention Faziy’s name, understand?” Sebo was digging in her workbag. “Whoever they were, whoever she offended, they wanted her forgotten. As forgotten as if she’d abandoned her obligations and run off beyond the reach of anyone who cared. Anyone who asks questions will doubtless get the same treatment she did. Mind me, Arram!”
“Yes, Master,” he replied softly.
Sebo bent her head and whispered to her mirror. Despite the boat’s small size, Arram could not hear her over the drumming rain and splashing river. Finally he gave up and folded himself in a kind of human tent over Preet, his elbows on his knees. His hair came loose from its rawhide tie and streamed down his forehead and back.
“You’re lucky you weren’t down there,” he told the bird. She stared up at him, her eyes glowing in the darkness of the shelter made by his curled body.
Who would kill a lightning mage? he asked himself. He’d suggested they were angry, but what if they weren’t? What if they wanted to hide something that Faziy had seen—or done?
Like summon the lightning snakes, he thought suddenly. Like calling all of them to her from a really large storm.