candlenuts.
“Where did you steal these?” he asked, and the look he gave was as hard as the nutmegs and the cinnamon sticks Ardhi still had concealed in his pack.
“Not steal,” Ardhi said firmly, submerging his annoyance under a veneer of polite neutrality. If the man wanted a reason to justify his purchase, the truth would suffice. “Bring from island mine. Er, from my island.”
Splinter it, I need to practise this pesky language more.
The suspicion in the merchant’s eyes didn’t vanish, but the tension across his shoulders eased. “Five guildeens for the lot.”
It was an insulting offer, but Ardhi hid a smile. In the Chenderawasi Archipelago, children learned to bargain the moment they picked up their first cowrie shell from the reef. “Five guildeen, one piece,” he said, knowing that price was just as ridiculous.
When he left the merchant’s much later, coins were jingling in his purse, and the rueful tone of the man’s farewell was satisfying.
Outside in the street again, he paused as needle-sharp pain lanced his eye, as real as the jab of a sea urchin’s spine. He knew that pain. It was the prick of the kris, coming from a long way off. Usually it was faint, tantalising, a reminder of all that was familiar – then suddenly it would jab him, becoming a reminder of the horror that had sent him halfway around the world.
And always, always he asked the question: why had it left him? He hadn’t thrown it. It had
abandoned
him. Flung itself at that unknown man in the warehouse.
Why?
He still had no idea.
And he had no idea if he’d done the right thing after he’d fooled the warehouse guards with a child’s bambu trick. His first actions – to swim ashore and retrieve his pack – were obvious enough, but to decide to follow the traces the kris had scratched into the air, instead of seeking the stolen regalia on his own without its help? That was a dubious decision.
Until the warehouse, the kris had been leading him like a villager leading his pig on a string; afterwards, he was lost and lonely, with panic perched on his shoulder like a mischievous
gawa
spirit uttering teasing whispers in his ear.
He sighed, and the bitterness of bile rose into his throat, searing him with the memory of his splintering failure. He’d grabbed the empty bambu instead of the contents. So close, so very close, and he’d bumbled it, bleached bonehead that he was! And he hadn’t even realised it until it was too late.
The ultimate dilemma was still lodged somewhere in his gut, a churning, sickening quandary he had no way of resolving: he couldn’t find the regalia without the kris, and the kris had deserted him because he’d failed to seize the one opportunity he’d had.
I
have
to find that man and the kris.
The man’s name he didn’t know, but by the time he’d reached the port of Gort, he’d discovered that the medallion the fellow had worn meant that he was Ardronese. If necessary, he’d follow him all the way to Ardrone. He’d kill him to obtain the kris if he must, then start his hunt for the regalia all over again.
He had no choice. Failure not only meant his eternal exile; it would mean the end of the Chenderawasi Islands.
5
Gift of Glamour
“T his weather is ridiculous! We should have stayed in Twite.” Lady Mathilda, Princess of Ardrone, glared at her elder brother where he sat opposite her in the coach. She was irrationally irritated that he was there at all. The moment it started to rain, he’d abandoned his horse for the interior of the lumbering vehicle. A sensible decision, for though the coach might lurch and sway, at least it was dry, but his presence annoyed her anyway.
“This trip,” she continued, knowing she was whining and not caring, “has been a disaster from beginning to end. I mislike it when Father decides we’re to do our royal duty and display ourselves to the Kingdom.”
“Like a pair of well-bred whelps being shown to the houndmaster to see if they’re
“Where did you steal these?” he asked, and the look he gave was as hard as the nutmegs and the cinnamon sticks Ardhi still had concealed in his pack.
“Not steal,” Ardhi said firmly, submerging his annoyance under a veneer of polite neutrality. If the man wanted a reason to justify his purchase, the truth would suffice. “Bring from island mine. Er, from my island.”
Splinter it, I need to practise this pesky language more.
The suspicion in the merchant’s eyes didn’t vanish, but the tension across his shoulders eased. “Five guildeens for the lot.”
It was an insulting offer, but Ardhi hid a smile. In the Chenderawasi Archipelago, children learned to bargain the moment they picked up their first cowrie shell from the reef. “Five guildeen, one piece,” he said, knowing that price was just as ridiculous.
When he left the merchant’s much later, coins were jingling in his purse, and the rueful tone of the man’s farewell was satisfying.
Outside in the street again, he paused as needle-sharp pain lanced his eye, as real as the jab of a sea urchin’s spine. He knew that pain. It was the prick of the kris, coming from a long way off. Usually it was faint, tantalising, a reminder of all that was familiar – then suddenly it would jab him, becoming a reminder of the horror that had sent him halfway around the world.
And always, always he asked the question: why had it left him? He hadn’t thrown it. It had
abandoned
him. Flung itself at that unknown man in the warehouse.
Why?
He still had no idea.
And he had no idea if he’d done the right thing after he’d fooled the warehouse guards with a child’s bambu trick. His first actions – to swim ashore and retrieve his pack – were obvious enough, but to decide to follow the traces the kris had scratched into the air, instead of seeking the stolen regalia on his own without its help? That was a dubious decision.
Until the warehouse, the kris had been leading him like a villager leading his pig on a string; afterwards, he was lost and lonely, with panic perched on his shoulder like a mischievous
gawa
spirit uttering teasing whispers in his ear.
He sighed, and the bitterness of bile rose into his throat, searing him with the memory of his splintering failure. He’d grabbed the empty bambu instead of the contents. So close, so very close, and he’d bumbled it, bleached bonehead that he was! And he hadn’t even realised it until it was too late.
The ultimate dilemma was still lodged somewhere in his gut, a churning, sickening quandary he had no way of resolving: he couldn’t find the regalia without the kris, and the kris had deserted him because he’d failed to seize the one opportunity he’d had.
I
have
to find that man and the kris.
The man’s name he didn’t know, but by the time he’d reached the port of Gort, he’d discovered that the medallion the fellow had worn meant that he was Ardronese. If necessary, he’d follow him all the way to Ardrone. He’d kill him to obtain the kris if he must, then start his hunt for the regalia all over again.
He had no choice. Failure not only meant his eternal exile; it would mean the end of the Chenderawasi Islands.
5
Gift of Glamour
“T his weather is ridiculous! We should have stayed in Twite.” Lady Mathilda, Princess of Ardrone, glared at her elder brother where he sat opposite her in the coach. She was irrationally irritated that he was there at all. The moment it started to rain, he’d abandoned his horse for the interior of the lumbering vehicle. A sensible decision, for though the coach might lurch and sway, at least it was dry, but his presence annoyed her anyway.
“This trip,” she continued, knowing she was whining and not caring, “has been a disaster from beginning to end. I mislike it when Father decides we’re to do our royal duty and display ourselves to the Kingdom.”
“Like a pair of well-bred whelps being shown to the houndmaster to see if they’re
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