Surly rounded on her. ‘So? Take care of it.’
Shrift’s dark brows rose. ‘Okaaay.’ She cuffed Grinner and he grunted, straightening. He checked his belted knives, and the two bowed out.
Surly swung her attention back to Cartheron and set her fists on her narrow hips. She studied him, her eyes slit, and he knew her well enough to wonder: What’s she thinking now?
‘You’ve left me no choice,’ she said, nodding to herself as though she had reached some sort of decision. ‘We’ll have to do it.’
‘Ah … do what?’
‘Take the Twisted out.’
Choss, who had been silently taking all this in at the bar, nearly fell off his stool. ‘You’re joking! It isn’t ready.’
She gave him a scowl. ‘What can be ready for the raid?’
‘You mean the one in two weeks? The secret one that the whole island knows about?’
Surly just stared. ‘Yes. That one.’
He steadied himself on the stool, considering. ‘Well … if I focused on the hull I could finish there – but that’s all! The canvas is all old, the lines are worn and rotten in places, and of course the—’
She raised a hand to silence the litany. ‘It’ll float. Fine.’
‘I wouldn’t trust the rigging even in a moderate blow.’
‘We’ll manage.’ She turned on Cartheron. ‘There. We’re going.’
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Mock won’t allow it.’
She returned to her pacing. ‘What can he do? We’re free raiders like everyone else. The vessel is ours. He can’t stop us.’
Cartheron went to the bar to pour himself a tankard of weak beer and sent Choss a glare. The man scratched his chin for a moment, thinking. ‘We don’t have the crew,’ he produced.
‘Send out the word.’
‘None will join with us Napans,’ said Cartheron.
‘Do it anyway.’
Choss gave Cartheron a shrug. Cartheron sighed, turned to put his back to the bar, and sipped his beer. ‘Fine. We’ll put out the word.’
Surly gave a curt nod and stopped pacing. She brushed her hands together. ‘Very well. I guess we’re done.’ She pointed to Choss. ‘What’re you doing here? Get to work.’
Tocaras let out a muffled laugh; Choss straightened from his stool and regarded him. ‘What’re you laughing at? You’re comin’ with me.’
Tocaras stood as well. ‘Did I tell you I hate the sea?’
‘Every damned day.’ Choss looked to Cartheron. ‘You too. Finish your beer.’
‘Hey! I just finished a full day on the Avarice.’
‘In which you did fuck all.’ Choss motioned him onward. ‘Now c’mon. It’s time to do some actual work.’
Cartheron downed his beer and wiped his mouth. ‘Wonderful. I hate this job.’
*
By Dancer’s reckoning it had been close to a month and he was beginning to wonder if perhaps enough was enough. The lad was wasting away before his eyes and there hadn’t been much of him to begin with. He looked parched and pinched and wrinkled and that wasn’t just the glamour of his frail oldster fa?ade: he was beginning to fit the part.
As he limped back to the cave from yet another exhausting day breaking rock in the mines Dancer wondered what he could do: pull him along on a kind of sledge? Carry him? Make that mage, Hairlock, share the carrying? Maybe the Falari had a donkey or a mule up there with them. That would solve the problem. He’d have to ask around.
He pulled aside the tattered cloth hanging and froze, staring: Kellanved’s ledge was empty.
Those Hood-damned sons-a-bitches.
Though ragged from the day’s work, he headed for the dirt ramp that led up to ground level. Even before he reached the top he started yelling: ‘Where is he! What’ve you done with him, damn you!’
The Falari guards stared down at him, appearing rather confused.
‘Where’s Puller?’ Dancer yelled. ‘Get Puller!’
The guards exchanged looks, then one laughed. ‘You don’t go round demanding things, y’damned fool.’
‘Fine, then,’ Dancer snarled under his breath. ‘I’ll just come up there, shall I?’
‘Wait!’ a gruff voice shouted behind and he turned; it was Hairlock puffing up after him. ‘What’re you doing?’
A crossbow bolt slammed into the dirt between Dancer and Hairlock. Both slowly raised their gazes to the top of the ramp. Puller was there, flanked by two female Falari guards, both holding crossbows.
‘Now let’s just calm down here,’ Puller called out. He pointed at Dancer. ‘You. What’s this all about, then?’
‘My friend – the one I came in with – the mage taken by Otataral – he’s gone!’
‘Well, it’s about time,’ Puller said. ‘You tellin’ me that feller was still alive?’
Dancer cut a hand through the air. ‘No. I mean, yes, he was. But he’s gone now. Disappeared. What have you done with him!’
Puller raised his open hands. ‘Hey, we ain’t touched no rotten body, I can tell you that.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘Damned if I know.’ Puller waved them away. ‘Now fuck off. Both a’ ya.’
Hairlock urged Dancer back down the ramp. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, lad. Don’t you worry. I’ll ask around.’
A crowd of inmates had gathered at the foot of the ramp. Just before they reached them, Dancer slipped an arm around Hairlock’s neck and jabbed a thumb deep into his neck, up against his carotid artery. His mouth next to the man’s ear, he whispered, ‘Did you take him?’
‘No,’ the man gasped, his eyes bulging and his face reddening to deep crimson. Please … he mouthed, his breath gone.
The crowd parted and Eth’en now stood before them. ‘He may still be here,’ the old scholar said. Dancer released Hairlock, who collapsed to the earth, gasping for breath, hands at his neck.
‘Show me,’ he said.
Eth’en led him back to his dwelling. Hairlock followed, limping, massaging his neck. ‘I still sense him,’ Eth’en explained.
‘Through the Otataral?’ Hairlock growled, his voice even more hoarse. ‘That’s impossible.’
Eth’en glanced back to him. ‘You know only of the refined finished product. It does suppress magic. But here we move through the raw ore. It is different. It can do other things. It can … transform … change those who would dare manipulate the Warrens in its presence. We Spiritwalkers have been experimenting with this for ages.’
Hairlock grunted, impressed. ‘Well … he ain’t no Spiritwalker.’
‘Exactly. It is possible that he has set out on such a journey completely unprepared, unguided, and only now is beginning to master this new path.’
Dancer thrust aside the rotten cloth hanging revealing the empty ledge. He felt strangely disappointed, as if he’d fully expected to see the fool sitting up and laughing at them. ‘He’s still not here.’
‘Yet I sense his life force, his spirit. He is not dead. I am certain of it.’
Dancer faced him; his fists yearned to grip cold sharp iron. ‘So what do we do?’
‘We wait. If he masters his new … condition … he should return soon.’
Dancer stared off across the empty main pit, the purpling night sky above. Scarves of sand blew through the heated air, rising, as if the naked earth was exhaling. ‘I’ve waited too long as it is.’