Барб Хенди - Of Truth and Beasts

The thought of Drist pleased him. It was a place where the rule of law depended upon the power to enforce it or to ignore it. He could feed there to his heart’s content, as no one would give much notice to another corpse in an alley. There were so many who died or vanished in the free ports without a clue as to why.

He winked into dormancy, preparing to awaken on the outskirts of Drist, a place he knew well enough for that. In that brief instant on the edge of eternal dreams, an oppressive presence clawed at him.

Sau’ilahk ...

He could not help but answer. Yes, my Beloved.

Do you follow the sage?

Yes, your ... servant obeys .

Shortly before dawn, Chane sat on the bunk in his cabin, which was hardly bigger than a walk-in closet. He had passed the night playing cards with Wynn under Shade’s watchful gaze. Not that he cared about the game or Shade’s scrutiny, and he did not mind indulging Wynn in a harmless pastime. But fear of his own limitations never left his thoughts.

Chane stared at Welstiel’s pack on the floor beside his bunk. With a slight shudder, he finally reached inside it. He drew out a leather-bound box, longer and narrower than the walnut one that held the brass cup. Opening it, he looked upon six glass vials with silver screw-top stoppers, couched in velvet padding. All but one was empty, and that one was filled with murky fluid like watery violet ink.

Chane took it out and rolled it between his fingers. A thin, fishy-sweet odor lingered around it as he watched the fluid swirl. He had recognized that scent the very first time he had seen this box.

The fluid’s primary component were the petals of a special flower, yellow at the tips and deepening to violet nearer the pistils. Dyvjàka Svonchek —“boar’s bell” in Belaskian—was named for the belief that only wild boars and heartier beasts could eat it. It had other old names with meanings like “flooding dusk,” “nightmare’s breath,” and “blackbane.” Premin Hawes had called it corpse-skirt in Numanese. In other words, poisonous—toxic, and even mind altering if smelled too deeply by the living.

Welstiel had found another purpose for it, one that Chane suspected but had not put to the test.

In their time together in the healers’ monastery, it seemed Welstiel had not fallen dormant during the days. Only later had Chane uncovered clues to some concoction that Welstiel had been making in the monks’ medicinal chamber. Its smell, which revealed one thing that was in it, and its unnatural implications had kept Chane from trying it on himself. All he truly knew was that he had once seen a vial half full, implying the possible dosage.

Now he was desperate. He needed to know if it would serve him, and thereby help him in protecting Wynn. If so, he would need more of it—much more, if this journey could not be cut short. There would be no foreseeable safer time.

Chane unscrewed the stopper. He steeled himself, pouring half the vial as far as he could into his throat.

After a breakfast of biscuits and dried fish, Wynn didn’t feel like sleeping just yet. She walked the decks with Shade in the cold air, but the rising sun promised a bright day. She’d grown accustomed to her upside-down world, sleeping part of the day and staying awake part of the night with Chane. She often headed off to bed midmorning, under the curious eyes of Ore-Locks, and then woke in late afternoon, doing the same between midnight and dawn.

She’d given the captain their old excuse about Chane’s skin, the same that Ore-Locks had heard. She told the captain that due to this condition, Chane had his own food, as well. While this captain had been less concerned than the last one, he grunted acknowledgment. At least no one expected Chane to appear for meals or daylight hours.

Sailors were busy all around, preparing to set sail, but none seemed to mind Wynn’s presence. She settled on a deck chest beside Shade, one hand on the dog’s back and the other on the rail wall.

“Rail,” she said, patting it for Shade’s attention.

Shade curled one jowl in annoyance at another vocabulary lesson.

—sleep—

The word rose in Wynn’s mind without warning, in the sound of her own voice.

“You’re tired?” she asked.

—Wynn ... sleep—

“Yes, I probably should.”

She got up and headed for the aftcastle and down the narrow stairs just below it. But her tiny quarters could hardly be called a cabin. There was barely room to walk in beside the fold-down bunk supported by chains on one wall. And the mattress was hard enough to please a dwarf, though she was suspicious of sharing it with possible insect life.

As she passed Chane’s cabin door, she heard a loud thump, and she stopped. The thump came again, followed by a groan. Chane should’ve been long dormant by now, and Wynn reached for the door latch. It wouldn’t open—wouldn’t even turn.

Their cabin doors didn’t have locks, yet somehow his was barred shut. She tried harder and couldn’t budge it.

“Chane, are you all right?”

There was only silence but for the sound of the wind and waves above deck that carried down the passage.

“Chane?” When no answer came, she tried the door again. “Open up.”

Heavy footsteps thudded in the passage behind her, and she glanced back.

Ore-Locks had stepped halfway out of his cabin, turning sideways to squeeze through the overly narrow doorway. He wore only breeches and a black shirt, and his long, red hair hung loose.

“What is going on in there?” he asked.

So far, Ore-Locks had held his tongue regarding Chane’s eccentricities. His doubt concerning Wynn’s story was plain, but he hadn’t openly questioned it. The three of them maintained a sort of unspoken state of limbo on the matter. No matter what Ore-Locks might speculate about Chane, he could never be told the truth.

In Dhredze Seatt, the Stonewalkers had shown their hatred for anything undead, and, admittedly, Wynn understood and agreed. But where Chane was concerned, she couldn’t take any chances.

“Nothing,” she replied. “He’s a heavy sleeper. Perhaps he just rolled out of the bunk.”

Ore-Locks rumbled almost like Shade, and then frowned and glanced into his own cabin. Likely he slept on the floor. A dwarf would never fit on one of the bunks, even if it didn’t break under that much weight. Then he looked back at her hand upon the latch—both hands, actually—and stepped closer.

“I can open it,” he said, his tone suggesting a genuine assistance.

Shade growled at him in warning. Wynn turned quickly, taking a step and cutting him off.

“It’s all right.”

Ore-Locks looked into her face, eye to eye. His expression shifted to a rare flash of frustration.

“What does he eat?” he asked suddenly, leaning slightly to gaze around her toward Chane’s door. “He has not joined us for a single meal, nor do I believe he has touched our meager stores.”

“Why were you looking in our stores?”

Her response gave him pause. Dwarves were a communal people.

“We take this journey together,” he answered.

“No, I take this journey. You’re here only by my unwilling consent.”

She’d been looking for a chance to make it clear who made the decisions here. She also wanted to know what real reason he had to demand following her.

What did he really want at Bäalâle Seatt?

He’d never tell her outright, but she hoped he might slip up and let some hint leak out. So she didn’t antagonize him further.

“Chane will be fine,” she said. “I’ll check again later.”

Most dwarves were open and forthright. Ore-Locks had proven himself otherwise. He crossed his arms, his gaze intently shifting back to her, but no hint of emotion showed on his broad features. With a slow breath, he returned to his cabin.