Page 8 of Fate Promised
“Sorry, that’s it for today, and not many oysters for you this week either, I’m afraid, it’s festival time, and I’m not working.”
With a scolding chatter, Al launched himself back into the air and took off.
Triska grabbed her coffee and wove through the crowd, scanning for the man wearing the brown sou-wester hat. It matched the one she wore, except her father’s had a small tear in the brim from where he’d once snared it on a fishing hook. Few other fishermen and women wore their fishing hats today since everyone remained landside for the week of the Autumn Festival, but she’d put hers on out of habit and knew her father had, too. He never went without his hat.
She found him near the front and elbowed her way to his side, the steaming mug of coffee in her hand sloshing and burning her palm. When she reached him, she handed it over. “Here. When I stopped by yesterday, I saw you still haven’t gotten more coffee. I’ll pick you up some today. I brewed it strong, the way you like it.”
He grunted but plucked it from her, taking a sip. That meant he was pleased.
“I stopped at the house this morning and put your dinner in the icebox. I cooked up something new last night, a fish pie recipe Cleary down in the bakery said—”
“Probably eat at the tavern tonight. We’re all heading for a pint after this nonsense is over.” He nodded toward the make-shift stage and the mayor. “Our festival was just fine before he became mayor. Now we have strangers taking over the town and the streets lined with flowers. It’s butter on bacon. Too much.” Last year the old mayor retired, and only one person, Archibald Burr, stepped up for the role in his place. Ever since, he’d become obsessed with making Ryba a tourist destination, and judging by the overcrowded inn, he’d brought a lot of visitors this week. She disagreed with her father on one particular though; she didn’t think it was too extravagant to have the streets lined with sunflowers.
She glanced at the tourists. Were they peltwalkers? Magicwielders? Humans? It was impossible to tell at first glance, and Ryba was one of the few places where all the different non-immortals lived and mingled.
“Share the fish pie with Emil when he comes tomorrow.” Her father took another sip. “I’m going to have him stay at the house with me. The inn’s full.”
She inwardly groaned. Emil was an eagle peltwalker—eaglewalker—from the clan of Hork, and he and her father had united their fleets to set up a new trade route. So far, it had proven quite lucrative. Emil was handsome with a quick wit, and when he sailed to Ryba, he always asked Triska out for a meal. She’d gotten the impression he was interested in uniting more than his fleet, but so far, he hadn’t pushed their relationship past a few meals in the tavern.
“That’s fine.” Although it wasn’t. In Ryba, having her loner father allow Emil to stay at his home would signal to the busybodies that her father supported Emil’s courtship, and they’d consider her married soon. They’d been after her to marry for years.
She sniffed. She was only one hundred and eighty-seven; there was no reason to hurry things along. Magicwielders and peltwalkers lived long lives—and she had a touch of peltwalker blood on her father’s side. It was like she was still in her twenties, and her father barely appeared over forty years old, a trim, powerful man with only a few streaks of gray at his temples, yet he was in his third century.
Her father shot her a quick look, the corner of his mouth upturned. “I know that tone. You’re not pleased.”
“He asked me about staying at my house, but I only have the one bedroom. And I don’t want the gossip.” Imagine sharing her private cottage and its single bedroom with someone she hadn’t gotten to know well yet? She’d never let anyone spend the night, kicking any past lovers—which did not include Emil yet—out after any romantic interludes so she could sleep alone. The way she liked it.
He pulled his hat off and scratched his brow. “He’ll learn you’re not interested soon enough.”
A familiar ache strummed in her chest, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Once, she’d wanted a mate and a family more than anything. But her father knew she would never marry. He knew what she kept secret. What she kept locked away in the closet of her bedroom.
Of course, she’d also wanted adventures and travel, but now all she wanted was to live quietly and enjoy Ryba. If she was more a spectator than a participant … it was better that way.
A warm breeze blew off the ocean, adding a hint of salt and seaweed to the air. Winter was approaching, but so far, it hadn’t turned cold. Despite the warmth, Triska shivered as if ocean water had dripped down her spine.
She turned and scanned the scrum of the crowd with all the unfamiliar faces to study, but it was the field with its crisp, long shards of grass that held her attention.
They shouldn’t have gathered here. Rumors had trickled in that the mayor hadn’t moved his horses only because he wanted extra cash selling the salt marsh hay. There were whispers that his favorite mare became possessed by an evil spirit, never to be ridden again, and late on a moonless night, if light flickered across the marsh, a wise person stayed far away. It wasn’t men making their way across the marsh but something … else.
Triska shivered again.
The mayor raised his hands, and a hush fell over the crowd. “Today is the kickoff of our weeklong Autumn Festival, and we have more in store this year than ever.”
As the mayor droned on about the wonders of the Ryba markets and the locations of each event, Triska tuned him out until he boomed across the marsh, “I can announce a great secret I’ve kept for the past few months. Ryba is now the only town approved to sell the rare cheese, Goats Got Your Tongue made by the eaglewalker clan up north in Hork. Trust me, you will not want to miss it!” The mayor puffed out his chest. “I’ve worked for five years to develop trade with the Hork peltwalkers, and this is only the first of many special relationships for Ryba. We’ll be the best place to live and eat in all of Ulterra!”
Her father grunted. “Oh, he did all the work, did he?”
As if he’d heard him, the mayor waved at her father. “A special thanks to our eaglewalker friend Emil up in Hork and his collaboration with Remi Sekelsky.” Her father touched his thumb to the brim of his hat. The mayor plowed on, “You can purchase some of this delicious cheese for only two obols down at No Whey, our cheese monger shop.”
Triska’s father grunted. “Two obols? Who’d spend that kind of money?”
Triska remained silent. She’d tried some of the cheese several days ago and immediately purchased one of the small wheels for herself. Not much remained.
Mayor Burr’s gaze skipped through the crowd, then skimmed back and rested on her. He beamed as if giving some kind of benevolent blessing. “By the way folks, sweetest oysters in all of Ulterra down at the Salty Mizzen, all caught by our local oyster fisher Triska Sekelsky. An obol for all you can eat on Tuesdays, and of course, from those oysters, we also have the famous Ryba black pearls, the most magnificent jewels in all of Ulterra. I’m afraid those are only sold by special appointment, so if you’re interested, see me.”
Triska snorted. “He has nothing to do with it. The three I’ve found were all purchased by Fergal, and he’s not selling them.” Fergal had paid an exorbitant fee for each one. The first pearl she’d sold was why she could buy her home. She wasn’t sure about all the properties of a black pearl, but she knew they were powerful when used by a skilled magicwielder.
Her father shrugged. “That’s the mayor for you.”