The harbor itself was a wide bay. Five docks extended into it. Two were for local fishing boats, empty at present: the boats were at work far out on the ocean.
It was the other docks that interested Ahl. Five deep-bellied freighters were tied along them. Shading her eyes, she surveyed each deck. All the sailors were black and white: members of her lineage or of closely allied families.
This was bad news, but it might not be the only news. Ahl reined her tsin at one of the taverns along the waterfront. These were the only structures in town that looked welcoming and pleasant. They were a kind of building that used to be common along the south coast. A wooden framework is anchored in large ceramic
pots. Vines grow out of the pots and over the frame, creating an arbor open on one side. The taverns all looked toward the harbor. What else would interest sailors?
Inside were benches and more pots, these with narrow mouths. Beerflies whirred around them or crawled on their lips. Ahl dipped beer into a cup, paid for it and sat down.
"Where are you from?" asked a black and white sailor.
"Sorg."
"You need a haircut, then."
"I've been traveling. I'll find a barber now that I'm home."
The sailors went back to their conversation, which was about ships, as are all conversations in a harbor town. A Batanin women's ship had left the day before,
early enough so the storm wouldn't have caught it close to shore; and there was a Taig ship outside the harbor, waiting for high water.
"It will be men," a male sailor added. Obviously he was Sorg or he wouldn't have been sitting with Sorg women, even in an arbor with an open front. "The Taig women don't travel. The ocean is dangerous, they say, and uncomfortable."
The other sailors -- all women -- grinned, tilting their heads in mocking agreement. The Taig women were right, of course, but there was more to the ocean than danger and discomfort. Let the Taig be timid, if they wished. The women of Sorg would sail, having confidence in their new ships and their family's traditional courage and strength.
No other foreign ships were expected.
Ahl drank her beer and left, riding home thoughtfully.
"Where have you been?" her mother asked.
"At Sorg Harbor."
"You are turning into a restless woman, and you still need to get a haircut."
"You're right that I've become restless," Ahl said. "I think I'll pay another visit to the marshes."
"Better that than the ocean," her mother said. "But I expect you to settle down soon."
The next day Ahl took her questions to the marsh witch and found Leweli visiting. Her cousin's fur -- like her own -- had not been cut recently, though for a different reason. The marsh was full of bugs, Leweli said. She wanted as much protection as she could get. "And Merhit, in spite of all her skills, is
not a barber."
The fur had grown to its full length and was as gray as fog. The baby nursing at Leweli's upper left breast was the same color, though dappled.
"I've never seen anything like this before," Leweli said, sounding worried.
"It's common among the island folk," said Ahl. "Baby spots they call the condition. The spots usually fade, though now and then a person remains dappled. I have seen old grandmothers with spots and venerable men as well."
Her cousin frowned, looking at the child, who had finished eating and gone to sleep. "I hope they fade. Though I don't suppose it will matter, if she spends her life in a marsh."
"She won't," Merhit said firmly.
At this point Ahl explained her problem. How could she take Leweli and the baby south, if there were no ships in port except those belonging to relatives? "I could make up a story, explaining why we need to go south. But I have never been
a good liar."
"This is true," said Leweli.
"And you know that any Sorg captain would check the story with my mother."
"You will have to go in disguise," said the witch. "How fortunate that both of you have uncut fur. You can pass as foreigners."
"Until we open our mouths and Sorg voices come out," Ahl said. "In any case, it's too late in the season. I don't think any of our family's ships will be going out again."
The witch frowned and was silent for a while. Finally she said, "The Taig ship will be leaving. Go with them."
"Two women and a child, traveling alone? How likely are they to take us?"
"This plan is doomed," said Leweli. "I'll have to stay here with you, Merhit."
"First of all, the marsh is unhealthy," the witch replied. "Secondly, I have visitors. Sooner or later you will be discovered. Imagine the trouble we'll be in then. Finally, I know the child belongs with her father's kin. I have seen
that."
No way to argue with a witch who's had a vision. Ahl was silent. Leweli placed the baby in a basket lined with vegetation. The tiny hands were closed. Ahl couldn't see the bare skin of the palms. But the soles of the feet were visible and dark gray. So were the four nipples, emerging from the fog-gray fur like buds. Even the dappling seemed lovely to Ahl, since it reminded her of the Helwar and Ki.
"Tell me everything that has happened to you since you left my house two days ago," Merhit said finally. "Maybe there's something that will help me find a path out."
Ahl complied. After she finished Leweli said, "Would the actors take us north with them? It sounds as if they're in trouble already; they might not mind a bit more trouble, especially if we paid them."
Ahl realized she hadn't thought about money. "Do we have any?"
"I do," Merhit said. "So does your mother."
"Are you suggesting that I rob my mother?" Ahl asked, horrified.
"One thing at a time," said Merhit. "I want to answer Leweli first. You shouldn't go north. There's a war on, as you ought to remember, and it has gotten so bad that even women aren't entirely safe. I've heard stories of bandits --" She paused, apparently unwilling to continue. "The child belongs in the south."
The child opened her eyes, revealing sea-gray irises. It was a southern color. Leweli had blue eyes, as did Ahl and Merhit and almost all the Sorg.
"Have you named her?" Ahl asked, remembering Ki's gray eyes.
"Not yet. When I need to call her something, it's Darling or Dapple. A real name will come later, if she lives."
"I'm going to meet with the actors," Merhit said. Moving quickly, as witches do when they have made up their minds, she saddled her tsin and rode off. This was
not the animal we know in modern times, descended from chargers used by warriors on the Great Central Plain. Instead this was a swamp tsin: short, stocky, thick-legged and broad-footed. Its coat was greenish-tan with pale, thin, vertical stripes which enabled it to blend with the marsh reeds. No breed of tsina is better over dubious ground. No breed is harder to find if it doesn't want finding.