Storm fumbled at her neck, drew forth her money pouch and held it out to the woman with shaking fingers. “It is not nearly enough,” she said in a sad voice. “You are an artist without equal.”

“Ha.” Nimble fingers snatched the pouch from her. “Stop bowing, girl. You are a witch and should not bow to the likes of me. The Weather-witch of Yanlin, in fact.”

Storm realised her mouth was open and quickly shut it.

“Gossip is what Bellum trades in most of all.” The old woman raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “And my art comes from a lifetime learning through hard work and mistakes.” She poured out the contents of the money pouch on to the table, counted out the pieces of metal with a thin, crooked finger. “As it happens, this is exactly the price of the boat. I will wrap it in rice paper for you. Mind you look after it until you get it back to Yanlin.”

“Thank you! And I will, I promise! You are kind.”

“Nonsense!” The woman busied herself, grumbling as she wrapped the stiff paper around the boat and tied it up with string. Storm had to stop herself bowing again in thanks.

“This boat was made with love and will be given with love,” said the woman, tying the last knot. “That is more important to me than how many silver coins you pay. How much is my soul worth?” She pushed the parcel into Storm’s hands. “I believe that when you make something good and true, you put a part of yourself inside it that stays there forever.”

Storm gasped.

“Now what is the matter?”

“Nothing. Only … someone else said that to me.”

“And they are dead.”

Storm, staring into the past, saw her mother’s face.

“Live for them then, child. And for me. For all of us.” And she held out the boat. Storm took it, turned and walked away down the narrow twisting street, carrying a piece of the old woman’s dreams with her.

12

She slipped and slid over the pavement, clutching her boat. The street grew even more crowded. Strangers pushed close, blocked her path. Carts trundled; street sweepers darted, swinging brooms like weapons; stallholders shouted; buyers scolded. Storm realised she had lost her way.

She didn’t know this small, dirty square or even which wrong turn had led her here. The houses wore peeling paint and holes in their tiled roofs. The townsfolk were equally patched and stained. She saw beggars crouching in doorways, men and women loitering in alleyways. Crew on shore leave crowded the streets, some obviously drunk. The townsfolk stared at her in surprise – her face paint and silken robes marking her as a daughter of the Pact – before looking quickly away, but a few sailors called to her with words that made her blush and hurry on.