“Fools who know where Benedict is.”
“What of our next commission?We cannot ignore it.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t have time to receive it.We would have to hare off after Monna, who’s fleeing to Mere.And if we vanish for a week or two… well, I’m sure we can come up with a fine story.”
Samuel paused at his last button and stared at me.“You are a brigand,” he accused, disapproval and fondness edging his tone.
“One of us needs to be.”
His expression grew heavier.“Mary, I know you hate Benedict and I appreciate that you are… trying.But all that we know right now is Monna is a desperate woman, willing to say anything to escape.And Ben is alive.”
“How could she know about him if she hadn’t met him?”I pressed.“She knew about Josephine.”
“Monna is known for peddling secrets.”Samuel fetched his hat from the table, wedging it onto his head and casting a glance out the gallery windows, where night had almost completely fallen.“We wait until Tithe.I will make my inquiries.As I said,Star of the Seais not likely to be in port—we will have a few days before they claim her.”
“And if not?If they seize her right away and our choice is gone?”
Samuel reached out to cup the side of my face, the barest brush of cool skin.I resisted the urge to lean into his touch, even just a little, savoring the rare contact—here, alone, in the dark.Where the crew and the world could not see.
“Then all is as it should be,” he said, dropping his hand.“I cannot fight the tide.”
THE GHISEAU—A ghiseau consists of the united soul of a human and a ghisting inhabiting one body and mind.Though rarely successful, the union benefits both parties in various ways.For the spectral ghisting, they are given physical form and a root in the human world.For the human host, even those without the benefit of magecraft may be gifted with uncanny ability, long life, vitality, and insight into that Other world from which ghistings derive their life and power.Mages will be subject to a vast increase in power, as the ghisting within them acts as an open conduit between themselves and the power of the Other.
—FROMA HISTORY OF GHISTLORE AND THE BLESSED: THOSE BOUND TO THE SECOND WORLD AND THE POWER THEREIN,TRANSLATED FROM THE MEREISH BY SAMUEL I.ROSSER
THREE
A Tithe to the Sea
MARY
The ghisting trees of Tithe stood vigil over a quiet churchyard, where rows of graves swept down to the bay.Their leaves, unseasonably green beneath a mantle of late-winter snow, rustled as I made for the largest, oldest tree: an ash, vibrant despite the season.My boots punched through the crust, my cheeks flushed with the cold, and a coin nestled warm in my palm.
At my back, the port spread in a network of homes and yards.Women beat frozen clothes on laundry lines, children played and hens clucked.Smoke rose from chimneys and men loitered in the churned streets, gossiping.
Down towards the docks, the settlement condensed into taller, narrower buildings: warehouses, shops, inns and offices.Samuel would be there, sitting across from the port mistress with a cup of hot coffee, wheedling out the latest news and trying to learn as much as he could about Benedict.
A chorus of bells drew my gaze to the masts in the harbor, anchored beyond the reach of the ice-scaled shores.I could pick outHartby feel, if not by sight.He and every other ship in harbor had a ghisting in their figureheads, each spectral creature unique and sentient—just like the ones in the trees around me now.Just like the one within me.
I laid an open palm on the trunk of the ash.Instead of raspy bark, I felt coins of every possible make and origin hammered into thewood.Some had been absorbed entirely into the tree, swallowed by time and growth, while others stood out clean and new.
I found a free sliver of bark and, taking a small hammer from an iron hook, gently tapped my own tithe into place.
Mother.
The voice came through the tree, slipping into the tips of my fingers.The answer came from me, but not from my own mind.
Child, the ghisting called Tane whispered.
“Mary Firth?”a man called.
I turned to find a man in his mid-twenties standing in the snow, bedecked with an overflowing blond beard and a thick knitted cap.His oiled brown greatcoat was open to reveal a knee-length waistcoat and loosely tied scarf, as if he’d dressed in a hurry.His eyes were blue, bright and surprised, and a grin chased the nervousness from the corners of his mouth.
I let out a short, startled laugh.“Charles!What are you doing back north?”
Charles Grant, former highwayman, fellow convicted criminal and the man who had once sold me to a Whallish crime lord, beamed at my recognition and rubbed self-consciously at his beard.“I feared you would not recognize me.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him.“Well, you may look like a fisherman, but you still stand like a dandy.”
