Anya, who had been watching from behind one of the smaller standing stones, chose this moment to step forward. Her heart quailed a little as she did so, but she knew it had to be done. On the way up the hill, she’d half seen a bird fly out of a tree, and it could have been a raven, and hence one of the Duke’s spies. So there was no time to waste.
“I have onions for sale,” she said loudly, brandishing the sack. “Best onions. Pungent and sharp.”
All the witches turned to look at her, including the ones who’d been staring at themselves in the mirrors. For a moment Anya felt herself skewered by their gaze, like some tiny kitchen mouse suddenly noticed by a cat. Then Shushu spoke, and the gaze was broken, everyone turning back to whatever they’d been doing before, or beginning new tasks.
“Well, isn’t that helpful,” said the head witch with a kindly smile. She wasn’t the oldest witch there, but she had to be at least in her seventies. Her hair was all white, cut fairly short, and her eyes were … Anya tried not to stare … her eyes were different colors. One was blue and the other green.
“You just happened to be passing with a sack of onions?” asked Shushu.
“Not exactly,” said Anya. She was glad she’d kept her hood up, shadowing her face. “I heard you might need onions.”
“Who from?”
“A Gerald the Herald,” said Anya. “He heard it from a raven.”
“Oh, from a raven!” exclaimed Shushu. She hadn’t stopped smiling. “There’s certainly enough of them about. What’s your name, then?”
“Uh … they call me Hood,” said Anya. She tapped the side of her head. “Because I like to wear my hood up.”
“Not your real name, though.” Shushu’s eyes were very penetrating, and she was peering intently at Anya’s face. The princess hoped her hood was low enough to shadow her features properly.
“No,” she replied. “Look, do you want these onions?”
“Depends what you want for them,” answered Shushu.
“I’ll give them to you. If you use these handkerchiefs when you’re cutting them, and give them back to me to wring out.”
“Oh, I see,” said Shushu. “It’s witches’ tears you’re after. You an alchemist’s brat? Or working for a sorcerer?”
“Neither,” said Anya. “I work for myself.”
“Going to make love potions, I suppose?”
“No!” said Anya indignantly. “I need them for something else. Do you want the onions or not?”
“Maybe,” said Shushu. “Where are you from?”
“East of here,” said Anya vaguely. “Does it matter?”
Both Trallonia and the Demesne of the Good Wizard were east, but then so were lots of other places, including Rolanstown.
“And you got the onions from the Good Wizard?”
“What?” asked Anya. She almost said no, but thought better of it. The witches might be able to tell if she was lying. Instead, she remained silent while she tried to think of an answer that wasn’t exactly a lie.
“Your sack,” said Shushu, “has Property of the Good Wizard stenciled on it.”
“Oh.” Anya held the sack out. Sure enough, those words were stenciled on the side of the sack she hadn’t looked at before. “Well, yes. I did get them from the Good Wizard’s kitchen.”
“Hmmm,” said Shushu. She was peering at Anya’s face again, looking thoughtful. “The Good Wizard doesn’t just hand over onions to anyone … Let’s see them.”
Anya lifted the sack to hand it over, but Shushu stepped back.
“We don’t want the sack. It might be enchanted. Just tip the onions onto the table.”
Anya undid the sack and poured the onions out onto the end of the table, catching the few that rolled off to put them back in the middle. They were very pungent onions, even before they were cut, their brown, papery skins crackling as Anya arranged them into a rough pyramid. When she was done, she folded the sack through the back of her belt to get it out of the way, though she doubted it was enchanted at all. The Good Wizard and the dwarves only seemed to make beautiful things, not sacks of rough hessian.
Shushu picked an onion up, tore away the crackling outer skin, and inspected the flesh beneath, holding it close to smell the sharp odor.
“We’ll take them,” she said. “And we will use your handkerchiefs so you can have them to wring out. Agreed?”
“If it is to be done immediately,” said Anya cautiously. She didn’t want to be waiting around anywhere long enough for the Duke’s spies to find her.
“We need to cook them for our feast tonight, so that’s no problem,” said Shushu. “We’ll cut them up straightaway. Is it agreed?”
“I’d like to borrow a bowl to wring the handkerchiefs out over,” said Anya. “And I need your promise that I won’t be harmed.”
“A bowl, certainly,” agreed Shushu. “And despite some stories about witches, we do not eat children. If we make gingerbread, we eat it ourselves; we don’t make houses out of it to lure children to their deaths.”
“I always did think that was a silly story,” said Anya. “I mean, if it rained, the house would fall apart.”
“You could make an icing that was proof against rain,” said one of the other witches. Shushu glared at her, and she fell silent.
“Is it agreed?” asked the head witch again. “Your onions in return for our tears?”
“And my safety,” said Anya.
“We will take every care that you will be safe while you are with us in the sacred grounds of our meeting place,” said Shushu. “Does that satisfy you?”
Anya thought about it for a moment. She wasn’t entirely sure the head witch was to be trusted, and there seemed something slightly tricky about those words. But she didn’t have time to waste. If a raven spy had seen her, it might already be winging its way to report to the Duke. She needed to get the tears and get out.
“It is agreed,” she said.
“Excellent,” said Shushu. “We will cut the onions at once. Who will help me?”
All the witches who were not engaged with uglifying themselves hurried over, then picked up the onions and sniffed them, rubbing their fingers to make the outer skins shred, and generally seeming very pleased with the quality of the produce. They quickly lined up along the table, selected glittering sharp knives, and began their work.
“Here are the handkerchiefs,” said Anya, handing them out to the witches. Only six witches were cutting the onions, so she gave them two each and kept the thirteenth back with the extra one that had the hand-drawn map.
One of the younger witches came over as Anya watched the onion cutting. She had just fixed on a particularly horrendous wart in the middle of her forehead, but the glue wasn’t dry, so it was very slowly sliding down towards the bridge of her nose.
“Want a cup of tea while you wait?” she asked. “My name’s Etta, by the way.”
“No thank you,” said Anya. She didn’t think it would be safe to eat or drink anything the witches made, even if they had guaranteed her safety.
“Suit yourself,” sniffed Etta. She blinked back some tears as a waft of cut onion passed by. “My, those onions are powerful.”
“Yes, they are,” agreed Anya. The witches were already wiping their eyes busily, and the first lot of handkerchiefs was looking fairly sodden. “I’d better get a bowl ready.”
“Under the table, there,” said Etta, pointing. She shook her head against the onion fumes, and retreated from the kitchen tent, back to the mirrors. Unfortunately, her wart flew off with her last head shake, went flying through the air, and fell onto the ground just outside the smiling arc of standing stones that gave the hill its name. Muttering curses, the witch got down on her knees and began to search for it, circling around and around, running her hands through the grass and dirt.
Anya got a large wooden bowl and began to collect the first round of handkerchiefs. By the time she’d wrung them out, the second lot was ready for collection, and the bowl was a quarter full. The
princess hurried along the line of witches, swapping the damp first handkerchiefs for the completely saturated second set.
Within fifteen minutes, she had a full bowl of witches’ tears and was feeling very pleased with herself as she poured it into her pint bottle. It was completely full, and there was even a little left over. Anya offered the bowl back to Shushu, but the witch held up her hands in horror.
“We never use our own tears!” she exclaimed. “The idea!”
“You want a cup of tea now?” asked Etta.
“That’s very kind,” said Anya hurriedly. “But I have to be going. Thank you once again.”
She gave them all a short bow, which was not returned. The witches were looking at her again, with that same fixed stare. Now there seemed to be reddish glints in those eyes, somehow reflected from the fire pit.
Anya turned, her back prickling as if a dagger might suddenly sprout between her shoulder blades. She forced herself to ignore it and walked beyond the stones.
She had only gone a few paces, when smoke suddenly erupted under her feet, strange-smelling, saffron-colored smoke that wound around her knees and circled up towards her face. Anya got the slightest whiff of it and immediately felt faint. She instantly held her breath, turned her face into the inside of her cloak, and pressed the material against her mouth and nose.
“Wait till she drops,” said Shushu, somewhere behind her.
Anya kept holding her breath, her mind racing. The smoke was some sort of curse, created by Etta when she’d been pretending to look for her lost wart. The witches had promised not to harm her on their hill, but evidently outside the stones didn’t count. If she ran now, who knew what they might do?
Better to play along and act unconscious, Anya figured. At the worst, Ardent and the others would come to rescue her at nightfall. Or they would try, at least … Anya couldn’t help but fear they might not be the best rescuers around.
The princess fell to her knees, put one hand out as if she was trying to push herself back up, then slowly subsided to the ground, still holding her breath.
Anya held her breath for as long as she possibly could, and then when she absolutely had to suck in some air, tried to do it very slowly and carefully through the material of her cloak. She could hear the witches moving around, but no one had touched her yet.
A minute later, Anya felt hands on her arms. As they heaved her up, she shut her eyes and let her head hang limp, but clutched the bottle of witches’ tears more tightly, hoping that they would think this was just some sort of unconscious grip.
“Put her over by the drinks table, against the flour sacks,” instructed Shushu. “Who’s got a Far-Speaking Pomander?”
“I don’t like this,” said another voice. “It’s sharp practice, and she’s a princess who’s come from the Good Wizard.”
“Who’s head witch tonight?” asked Shushu. “Who cares about a no-account princess of a nothing kingdom that is already under the sway of Duke Rikard? Besides, he’s a member of the League of Right-Minded Sorcerers, and you know what good customers they are.”
“What about the Good Wizard?” asked yet another voice. “She’s not to be trifled with, nor those dwarves neither.”
“Bah! Good Wizards aren’t allowed to interfere, or so they always say,” said Shushu. “Who’s got a Far-Speaking Pomander? We need to call the Duke and get that two-hundred-gold-noble reward.”
“Two hundred? That much?” said someone greedily. “Equal shares?”
That was Etta. Anya recognized her voice. She was one of the witches holding the princess under the arms, dragging her backwards so her heels dug little furrows in the dirt. Not very carefully, they put her down against a big sack of flour. Anya let her head loll forward, then opened her eyes to the barest slits.
She was near the fire pit, and all thirteen witches were arrayed in a semicircle around it, most of them facing Shushu, who looked cross.
“I demand a vote,” said one of the older witches. “Head witch or no head witch. I don’t like promising safety and then doing the dirty one step outside the stones. I say she bought her tears fair and square and we let her go.”
“I say she’s worth two hundred gold nobles and we tell Duke Rikard right away,” said Shushu.
“Put it to the vote,” said the other old witch. “All those who favor letting her go?”
She raised her hand. Four others followed immediately, and then one very slowly.
“All those against,” said Shushu, baring her teeth in a horrible grimace.
Seven hands went up, including the head witch’s.
“That’s settled, then. Who’s got a pomander? Must I ask for everything three times?”
One of the witches produced an orange-like ball from inside her kirtle. Anya knew about pomanders—they were balls of spice and herbs and ambergris that smelled nice, and in New Yarrow and sophisticated places like that people would lift them to their nose so they wouldn’t have to smell unpleasant things like open sewers or stables that hadn’t been cleaned in ages.
Presumably, a Far-Speaking Pomander was something else.
Shushu grabbed it, held it up to her nose, took in a deep sniff, then threw it down at her feet. The pomander exploded into a cloud of highly perfumed smoke. The witch gestured at this cloud and called out.
“Duke Rikard! Duke Rikard! Duke Rikard!”
Nothing happened. Shushu grimaced with annoyance, then called out again.
“Duke Rikard! Duke Rikard! Duke Rikard!”
Slowly, a face formed in the smoke: the unpleasant, deathly pale face of Duke Rikard. He was wearing a high-collared black jacket that accentuated his pallor, and there were red rings around his eye sockets, which might or might not have been from the application of rouge.
“What?” he asked testily. “I’m busy. Who calls?”
“The witches of Brokenmouth Hill. I am Shushu, head witch. Greetings.”
“What do you want?” Rikard’s image was becoming clearer in the smoke. From the look of it, he was on top of the south tower back in Trallonia castle, which Anya found odd. Right on top, as in standing on the roof. Why would the Duke be on the roof of the south tower?
“We are calling to claim your offered reward,” said Shushu evenly. “The two hundred gold nobles for the location of your runaway princess.”
“You know where she is?” asked the Duke. He was getting that supposedly secret smile again, the corner of his thin-lipped mouth twitching up.
“We have her here,” said Shushu. She gestured towards Anya. “You can see for yourself, if the vision is clear enough.”
“It is,” purred the Duke. He started rubbing his hands together and cackled a little bit before continuing. “Keep her there. I will come and collect her within the hour.”
Anya suppressed the panicked leap that suddenly sparked up inside her. The Duke coming to get her? Within the hour?
“What?” asked Shushu, startled. “But you’re in Trallonia, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” replied the Duke. He cackled again, and spread his arms wide. “But I have a new means of travel. You have called me at a most suitable time, for my power grows by the day, and my labors bear many fruit. Um, many fruits! Such as this one!”
The vision grew clearer around the Duke, colors and lines becoming sharper in the smoke. He wasn’t standing on the roof of the tower at all, but on the deck of a strange little ship, a slender, sharp-prowed ship, all white, with a peculiar bare mast that had many kinks, as if it was made of lots of short poles stuck atop each other. Two patchwork sails made from thousands of feathers somehow woven together were furled vertically against the mast. From their position they would unfold as wings.
The little ship was perhaps thirty feet long and six feet wide, and floated in the air as easily as if it lay upon the water. It was moored to the lightning rod on the tower’s roof by a thin rope that glittered in the sun like spun gold, which it very well might have been.
“Make sure you bring the money,?
?? said Shushu. But even as she spoke, the vision faded. The pieces of pomander on the ground blackened and curled, and the sweet scent of ambergris, orange, and peppermint was replaced with the foul stench of rotting food.
“I don’t like this at all,” said the older witch. “He’s made a bone ship. And did you notice? He wasn’t breathing.”
“What’s a bone ship?” asked one of the younger witches. At the same time another asked, “Not breathing?”
“Bah!” said Shushu. “He’s a very powerful sorcerer, that’s all. We were right to deal with him.”
“A bone ship is made from the bones of myriad birds,” said the older witch heavily. “He would have had to kill or organize the killing of a thousand or more birds, of all different sizes. The mast alone requires the femurs of thirty-nine great eagles. It is an evil construction, to make a flying craft in such a way. And if he’s not breathing, he has grown totally cold, devoid of any human feelings. He has given himself completely to his own ambition, without care for anyone or anything else. That is truly evil.”
“You know we do not make such judgments,” said Shushu. “Business is business. We do not question whether our customers are ‘good’ or ‘evil.’ ”
“Once we did,” said the older witch. “When the Bill of Rights and—”
“Oh hush!” snapped Shushu. “The Bill is long gone! Gone and forgotten! Think of the two hundred gold nobles. Why that’s … fifteen gold nobles, two shillings, and sixpence each!”
“Little enough if word gets out we sell our customers to evil sorcerers,” said the old witch, with a very telling sniff. For a moment it seemed like she might spit on Shushu’s feet.
Then she did. She hawked up a huge gobbet of spit and sent it straight at the head witch’s clogs. It spattered on her toes with a sound like bacon hitting a hot frying pan.
Shushu howled and reached inside the pocket of her apron, drawing out a crystal potion sphere that she lifted to throw. At the same time the other witch reached in her apron and pulled out a black bottle that she uncorked and raised to pour down her own throat.