I found Thick on the afterdeck, holding onto the railing and staring dolorously back at Buckkeep. The black castle on top of the rocky cliffs was dwindling behind us. Civil stood near the little man, his hunting cat at his heels. Neither he nor the cat looked pleased to be there, and as Thick leaned out over the railing and made retching noises, the cat flattened his ears.
‘Here’s Tom Badgerlock, Thick. You’ll be fine now, won’t you?’ Civil gave me a brief nod, nobleman to guardsman. As always, he stared at me searchingly. He knew I was not what I seemed. I’d saved his life from the Piebalds back in Buckkeep Town. He had to wonder at how I’d suddenly appeared and come to his aid. He’d have to keep wondering, just as I had to wonder how much Laudwine had told him about Lord Golden and me. We’d never spoken of it, nor did I intend to now. I made my eyes opaque and bowed.
‘I’m here to assume my duties, sir.’ My tone was neutrally respectful.
‘I’m very glad to see you. Well, farewell, Thick. You’re in good hands, now. I’m going back into the cabin. I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.’
‘I’m going to die,’ Thick replied dismally. ‘I’m going to puke my guts out and die.’
Civil gave me a sympathetic look. I pretended not to see it as I took my place at the railing alongside Thick. He leaned far out again, forcing gagging sounds from his throat. I held onto the back of his jacket. Ah, yes. The adventure of travel by sea.
SIX
Voyage of Dreams
… despised beast-magic’s other uses. The ignorant believe that the Wit can only be used to give humans the power to speak to animals (words obscured by scorching) and shape-changing for evil intent. Gunrody Lian, the last man to admit openly at Buckkeep Court that he had (large fragment burned away) also for healing the mind as well. From beasts, too, he claimed they could harvest the instinctive knowledge of curative herbs, as well as a wariness against (this portion ends here. Next scorched fragment of scroll begins:) … set hands to her head and held her steady and looked in her eyes. So he stood over her while the ghastly surgery was done, and she never looked away from him, nor cried out in agony. This I myself saw but … (again, into the scorched edge of the scroll. The next three words may be:) dared not tell.
Fallstar’s attempt to recreate the Wit-scroll by Skillmaster Leftwell, from the burned fragments discovered in a wall of Buckkeep Castle
I managed to get all the way to the next morning before I vomited myself. I lost count of how many times I held onto Thick while he leaned far over the railing and retched hopelessly at the sea. The taunting of the sailors did not help matters, and if I had dared leave his side, I’d have taken some satisfaction from one or two of them. It was not congenial mockery of a landsman with no stomach for the sea. There was an ugly undercurrent to it, like crows drawn to torment a single eagle. Thick was different, a dimwit with a clumsy body, and they gleefully delighted in his misery as proof that he was inferior to them. Even when a few other miserable souls joined us at the railing, Thick took the brunt of their teasing.
It diminished briefly when the Prince and Chade took an evening stroll out on the decks. The Prince seemed invigorated by the sea air and his freedom from Buckkeep. As he stood by Thick and spoke to him in low tones, Chade contrived to set his hand on the railing touching mine. His back was to me and he appeared to be nodding to the Prince’s conversation with his man.
How is he?
Sick as a dog and miserable. Chade, the sailors’ mockery makes it worse.
I feared as much. But if Dutiful notices and rebukes them, the captain will come down on them as well. You know what will follow.
Yes. They’ll find every private opportunity to make life hell for Thick.
Exactly. So try to ignore it for now. I expect it will wear off once they become accustomed to seeing him about the ship. Anything you need?
A blanket or two. And a bucket of fresh water, so he can wash his mouth out.
So I remained at Thick’s side through the long and weary night, to protect him lest the taunting become physical as well as to keep him from falling overboard in his misery. Twice I tried to take him inside the cabin. Each time we did not get more than three steps from the railing before he was retching. Even when there was nothing left in his belly for him to bring up, he refused to go inside. The sea grew rougher as the night progressed, and by dawn we had a wind-driven rain soaking us as well as the flying spray from the tips of the whitecaps. Wet and cold, he still refused to budge from the railing. ‘You can puke in a bucket,’ I told him. ‘Inside, where it’s warm!’
‘No, no, I’m too sick to move,’ he groaned repeatedly. He had fixed his mind on his seasickness, and was determined to be miserable. I could think of no way to deal with it, except to let him follow it to its extreme and then be done with it. Surely, when he was miserable enough, he’d go inside.
Shortly after dawn, Riddle brought food for me. I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the na?ve and affable young man truly was in Chade’s employ and assigned to assist me. If so, I wished he wasn’t, yet I was grateful for the pannikin of mush he brought me. Thick was hungry, despite his nausea, and we shared the food. That was a mistake, for the sight of it leaving Thick shortly after that inspired my own belly to be parted from what I had eaten.
That seemed to be the only thing that cheered Thick that morning.
‘See. Everyone’s going to be sick. We should go back to Buckkeep now.’
‘We can’t, little man. We must go on, to the Out Islands, so the Prince can slay a dragon and win the Narcheska’s hand.’
Thick sighed heavily. He was beginning to shake with the cold despite the blankets that swaddled him. ‘I don’t even like her. I don’t think Prince likes her either. She can keep her hand. Let’s just go home.’
At the moment, I agreed with him but dared not say so.
He went on. ‘I hate this ship, and I wish I’d never come.’
Odd, how a man can become so accustomed to something that he no longer senses it. It was only when Thick spoke the words aloud that I realized how deeply they echoed his wild Skilling-song. All night it had battered my walls, a song made of flapping canvas, creaking lines and timbers and the slap of the waves against the hull. Thick had transformed them into a song of resentment and fear, of misery and cold and boredom. He had taken every negative emotion that a sailor might feel for a ship, and was blasting it out in an anthem of anger. I could put my walls up and remain unaffected by it. Some of the sailors who crewed the Maiden’s Chance were not so fortunate. Not all were sensitive to the Skill, yet for those who were, the unrest would be acute. And in the close quarters, it would quickly affect their fellows.