Authors: Scott Lynch
“North-northeast, keep her steady, aye,” said a bored-sounding woman who detached
herself from the group breaking down the crane.
“Are we going to take on more crew?” said Jean.
“What ever for?” said Patience.
“Well, it’s just … the wind’s out of the north-northeast. You’re going to be tacking
like mad to make headway, and as near as I can see, you’ve only got seven or eight
people to work the ship. That’s barely enough to mind her in harbor—”
“Tacking,” said the man called Coldmarrow, “what a quaint notion. Help us get your
friend into the stern cabin, Camorri.”
Jean did so.
Sky-Reacher
’s aft compartment wasn’t flush with the main deck; Locke had to be carried down a
narrow passage with treacherous steps. Whatever the ship had been constructed for,
it wasn’t the easy movement of invalids.
The cabin was about the same size as the one Locke and Jean had possessed on the
Red Messenger
, but far less cluttered—no weapons hung on the bulkheads, no charts or clothes were
strewn about, no cushions or hammocks. A table formed from planks laid over sea chests
was in the center of the room, lit by soft yellow lanterns. The shutters were thrown
tight over the stern windows. Most strikingly, the place had a deeply unlived-in smell,
an aroma of cinnamon and cedar oils and other things people threw into wardrobes to
drive out staleness.
While Jean helped Locke onto the table, Coldmarrow somehow produced a blanket of thin
gray wool and handed it over. Jean wiped the rain from Locke’s face, then covered
him up.
“Better,” whispered Locke, “moderately, mildly, wretchedly better. And … what the—”
A small dark shape detached itself from the shadows in a corner of the cabin, padded
forward, and leapt up onto Locke’s chest.
“Gods, Jean, I’m hallucinating,” said Locke. “I’m actually hallucinating.”
“No, you’re not.” Jean stroked the silky black cat that was supposed to be long gone
from their lives. Regal was exactly as Jean remembered, down to the white spot at
his throat. “I see the little bastard too.”
“He can’t be here,” muttered Locke. The cat circled his head, purring loudly. “It’s
impossible.”
“What a myopic view you have on the splendors of coincidence,” said Patience, coming
down the steps. “It was one of my agents that purchased your old yacht. It lay briefly
alongside the
Sky-Reacher
a few weeks ago, and this little miscreant took the opportunity to change residences.”
“I don’t get it,” said Locke, gently tugging at the scruff of Regal’s neck. “I never
even liked cats all that much.”
“Surely you realize,” said Patience, “that cats are no great respecters of human opinion.”
“Kin to Bondsmagi, perhaps?” said Jean. “So what do we do now?”
“Now,” said Patience, “we speak plainly. What’s going to happen, Jean, will be hard
for you to watch. Possibly too hard. Some … ungifted cannot bear close proximity to
our workings. If you wish to go into the middle deck, you’ll find hammocks and other
accommodations—”
“I’m staying,” said Jean. “For the whole damn thing. That’s not negotiable.”
“Be resolved, then, but hear me. No matter what happens, or seems to happen, you
cannot
interfere. You
cannot
interrupt. It could be fatal, and not just for Locke.”
“I’ll behave,” said Jean. “I’ll bite my damn knuckles off if I have to.”
“Forgive me for reminding you that I know the nature of your temper—”
“Look,” said Jean, “if I get out of hand, just speak my gods-damned name and
make
me calm down. I know you can do it.”
“It may come to that,” said Patience. “So long as you know what to expect if you cause
trouble. Speaking of which, remove our little friend and take him forward.”
“Off you go, kid.” Jean plucked Regal up before the cat realized he’d been targeted
for transportation. The smooth bundle of fur yawned and nestled into the crook of
Jean’s right elbow.
Jean carried his passenger to the main deck, where he was surprised to find the vessel
already moving under topsails, although he’d heard no shouting or struggling from
above to get them down. He ran up the stairs leading to the quarterdeck, from which
he could see the rain-blurred lights of Lashain already dwindling behind the dark
shapes bobbing in her harbor. The boat they’d abandoned was barely visible, a tiny
silhouetted slat on the waves.
The woman who’d been at the crane was now at the helm, just abaft the mainmast where
it marked the forward boundary of the quarterdeck. Her face was only half-visible
within the hood of her cloak, but she seemed lost in thought, and Jean was startled
to see that she wasn’t actually touching the wheel. Her left hand was raised and slightly
cupped, and from time to time she would spread her fingers and move it forward, as
though pushing some unseen object.
Lightning broke overhead, and by the sudden flash Jean could see the other members
of the crew scattered across the deck, also cloaked and hooded, standing at silent
attention with their hands similarly raised.
As thunder rolled across the Amathel, Jean walked over to stand beside the woman at
the wheel.
“Excuse me,” he said, “can you talk? What’s our current heading?”
“North … northeast,” said the woman dreamily, not moving to face him when she spoke.
“Straight on for Karthain.”
“But that’s dead into the wind!”
“We’re using … a private wind.”
“Fuck me sideways,” Jean muttered. “I, uh, I need somewhere to stow this cat.”
“Main deck hatch … to the middle hold.”
Jean carried his fuzzy comrade to the ship’s waist and found an access hatch, which
he slid open. A narrow ladder led six or seven feet down to a dimly lit space, where
Jean could see straw on the floor and pallets of some soft material.
“Perelandro’s balls, little guy,” whispered Jean, “what ever gave me the idea I could
get the best of people who make their own fucking weather?”
“Mrrrrwwwww,” said the cat.
“You’re right. I am desperate. And stupid.” Jean let Regal go, and the cat landed
lightly on a pallet in the semi-darkness below. “Keep your head down, puss. I think
shit’s about to break weird all over the place.”
“
CLOSE THE
door firmly,” said Coldmarrow when Jean returned.
“Bolt it?”
“No. Just keep the weather out where it belongs.”
Patience was pouring pale yellow liquid from a leather skin into a clay cup as Jean
came down the steps.
“Well, Jean,” said Locke, “if nothing else, at least I get a drink before I go.”
“What’s that?” said Jean.
“Several somethings for the pain,” said Patience.
“So Locke’s going to sleep through this?”
“Oh no,” said Patience. “No, he won’t be able to sleep an instant, I’m afraid.”
She held the cup to Locke’s lips, and with her assistance he managed to gulp the contents
down.
“Agggggh,” he said, shaking his head. “Tastes like a dead fishmonger’s piss, siphoned
out of his guts a week after the funeral.”
“It
is
a rather functional concoction,” allowed Patience. “Now relax. You’ll feel it take
hold swiftly.”
“Ohhh,” sighed Locke, “you’re not wrong.”
Coldmarrow set a bucket of water beside the table. He then pulled Locke’s tunic off,
exposing the pale skin and old scars of his upper body. It was obvious that vigor
had fled from every slack strand of muscle. Coldmarrow dampened a cloth and carefully
cleaned Locke’s chest, arms, and face. Patience folded and resettled the gray blanket
over his lower half.
“Now,” said Patience, “certain requirements.” She retrieved an ornamented witchwood
box from a corner of the cabin. At a wave from her hand, it unlocked itself and slid
open, revealing nested trays of small objects, rather like a physiker’s kit.
Patience took a slim silver knife out of the box. With this, she sliced off several
lengths of Locke’s damp hair, and placed them in a clay bowl held out by Coldmarrow.
As the bearded man moved, his sleeves fell back far enough for Jean to see that he
had four rings on his left wrist.
“Just a few deductions,” said Patience. “The outermost flourishes. Surely he could
use the trimming.”
Coldmarrow held another bowl under Locke’s right hand as Patience whittled slivers
from his nails. Locke murmured, rolled his head back, and sighed.
“Blood, too,” said Patience, “what little he can spare.” She pricked two of Locke’s
fingers with the blade, eliciting no response from him. Jean, however, grew more and
more anxious as Coldmarrow collected red drops in a third bowl.
“I hope you’re not planning to keep any of that, after this … thing is finished,”
said Jean.
“Jean, please,” said Patience. “He’ll be lucky to be alive after this
thing
is finished.”
“We won’t do anything untoward,” said Coldmarrow. “Your friend is a valuable asset.”
“Is he now?” growled Jean. “An asset? An asset’s something you can put on a shelf
or write down on a ledger, you spooky bastard. Don’t talk about him like—”
“Jean,” said Patience sharply. “Command yourself or be commanded.”
“Hey, I’m calm. Placid as pipe-smoke,” said Jean, folding his arms. “Just look at
how placid I can be. What’s that you’re doing now?”
“The last thing I need,” said Patience, “is a wisp of breath.” She held a ceramic
jar at Locke’s mouth for some time, then capped it and set it aside.
“Fascinating, I’m sure,” said Locke groggily. “Now get this shit
out
of me.”
“I can’t just will it so,” said Patience. “Life is far more easily destroyed than
mended. Magic doesn’t change that. In fact, you shouldn’t think of this as a healing
at all.”
“Well, what the hell is it?” said Jean.
“Misdirection,” said Patience. “Imagine the poison as a spark smoldering in wood.
If the spark becomes flame, Locke dies. We need to make it expend itself somewhere
else,
destroy
something else. Once that power is drawn from it, the spark goes out.”
Jean watched uneasily for the next quarter of an hour as Patience and Coldmarrow used
a strange-smelling black ink to paint an intricate network of lines across Locke’s
face and arms and chest. Although Locke muttered from time to time, he didn’t appear
to be in any greater discomfort than before.
While the ink dried, Coldmarrow fetched a tall iron candelabrum, which he set between
the table and the shuttered stern windows. Patience produced three white candles from
her box.
“Wax tapers, made in Camorr,” she said. “Along with an iron candle-stand, also from
Camorr. All of it stolen, to establish a more powerful sympathy with your unfortunate
friend.”
She rolled one candle back and forth in her hands, and its surface blurred and shimmered.
Coldmarrow used Patience’s silver knife to transfer Locke’s blood and hair and nail-trimmings
to the surface of the wax. There, rather than running messily down the sides as Jean
would have expected, the “certain requirements” vanished smoothly into the candle.
“Effigy, I name you,” said Patience. “Blood-bearer, I create you. Shadow of a soul,
deceiving vessel, I give you the flesh of a living man and not his heart-name. You
are him, and not him.”
She placed the taper in the candelabrum. Then she and Coldmarrow repeated the process
exactly with the two remaining candles.
“Now,” said Patience softly, “you must be still.”
“I’m not exactly fuckin’ dancing,” said Locke.
Coldmarrow picked up a coil of rope. He and Patience used this to bind Locke to the
table by a dozen loops of cord between his waist and his ankles.
“One thing,” said Locke as they finished. “Before you begin, I’d
like a moment alone with Jean. We’re … adherents of a god you might not want to be
associated with.”
“We can respect your mysteries,” said Patience. “But don’t dawdle, and don’t disturb
any
of the preparations.”
She and Coldmarrow withdrew from the cabin, closing the door behind them, and Jean
knelt at Locke’s side.
“That slop Patience gave me made things fuzzy for a moment, but I think I’ve got some
wits back,” said Locke. “So—have I ever looked more ridiculous?”
“Have you ever looked
not
ridiculous?”
“Fuck you,” said Locke, smiling. “That end-likt-ge-whatever—”
“
Endliktgelaben
.”
“Yeah, that
Endliktgelaben
shit you brought up … were you just trying to piss me off, or were you serious?”
“Well … I
was
trying to piss you off.” Jean grimaced. “But did I mean it? I suppose. Am I right
about it? I don’t know. I really hope not. But you are one gods-damned
miserable
brat when you decide to feel guilty about everything. I’d like that read into the
record.”
“I have to tell you, Jean … I don’t really want to die. Maybe that makes me some kind
of chickenshit. I meant what I said about the magi; I’d sooner piss in their faces
than take gold from their hands, but all the same, I don’t want to die … I don’t!”
“Easy there,” said Jean. “Easy. All you have to do to prove it is
not
die.”
“Give me your left hand.”
The two of them touched hands, palm to palm. Locke cleared his throat.
“Crooked Warden,” he said, “Unnamed Thirteenth, your servant calls. I know I’m a man
of so many faults that listing them here would only detain us.” Locke coughed and
wiped fresh blood from his mouth. “But I meant what I said … I don’t want to die,
not without a real fight, not like this. So if you could just find it in your heart
to tip that scale for me one more time— Hell, if not for me, do it for Jean. Maybe
his credit’s better than mine.”
“This we pray with hopeful hearts,” said Jean. He rose to his feet again. “Still scared?”
“Shitless.”
“Less chance you’ll make a mess on the table, then.”
“Bastard.” Locke closed his eyes. “Call them back. Let’s get on with this.”