“Maybe that’s exactly it,” Nathan said.
Disturbed by what she had seen, Nicci wondered what might be bothering the wizard. Nathan had lost his gift of prophecy with the shift in the world, but his core magic should have remained unaffected. Still, a fire spell was supposed to be quite simple.
“I’m retiring to my cabin.” Nathan turned away, trying to keep his dignity and balance on the rocking deck. “If I am hungry, I may go to the galley for supper when it’s ready.”
Nicci decided to take shelter in her own cabin as well. She didn’t want to distract the superstitious sailors by staying out in the worsening weather.
* * *
Despite the sorceress’s cold beauty, Sol had known that she was evil and dangerous from the moment he first saw her. His companions noticed only Nicci’s shapely figure, her long blond hair, and a face even more attractive than carvings of the Sea Mother.
When stuck alone on a ship, long at sea, sailors tended to lower their standards of beauty, but there was no denying that this Death’s Mistress was more beautiful than the most expensive whore in the cleanest brothel in Serrimundi. And Nicci was right here for the taking. Whenever the woman flaunted herself on deck, her black dress clung to her curves and rippled around her in the breezes, tightening against her full breasts. Sol imagined the breasts would be soft and pliable, just waiting to be squeezed. He tried to picture her nipples, wondering whether they were dark or pale pink, whether she would gasp if he pinched them.
The other two divers wanted to lay claim to her, but Sol was their leader, and he would have to be first. Their two comrades were dead, and the survivors deserved something. The sorceress owed them all a few rounds of gasping, squirming pleasure. In fact, she owed them the lives of their murdered friends, Pell and Buna. She had somehow used her magic to summon underwater monsters to kill them. Nicci had taunted the divers for days, rebuffed their attentions, insulted them—and now two of his comrades were dead. It was her fault.
Back home in Serrimundi, Sol and his fellow wishpearl divers were treated as heroes. From the time he was a young boy, his parents had taught him to dive deep, and then they had sold him to a mentor for a portion of Sol’s pearl harvest over the next five years. The mentor had trained him—and such training consisted of him trying to drown young Sol over and over, tying heavy weights to his ankles, sinking him to the bottom of a deep lagoon and counting out minutes. The mentor did not pull any of the apprentice divers back into blessed air until he decided they had been down there long enough. Over a third of the trainees came up dead, their lungs filled with water, their eyes bulging, their mouths open and slack.
Sol himself had drowned once, but he had coughed up the water and come back to life. That was when he knew he would be a wishpearl diver. He could have any Serrimundi woman he wanted, and he usually did. His lovers all expected wishpearls as gifts, which he freely gave. Sol could always find more.
Out in the southern reefs, the supply of folded-hand shells seemed inexhaustible, but Captain Corwin paid him in more than wishpearls. It was a lucrative arrangement, giving Sol and his companions power and status whenever they returned to port.
But Pell and Buna would not be coming back home. Because of Nicci. The aloof sorceress thought that she was untouchable, that she would not be held to account for killing his friends, but the Sea Mother demanded justice, and Sol knew how to deliver it.
After he whispered his plan to Elgin and Rom, the three met on deck where the sailors had piled discarded wishpearl shells. Most had already been thrown overboard, but these last few remained, unnoticed after the disaster and the rapid escape from the reefs.
Now, the divers used their knives to pry loose the inedible and worthless meat inside, but Sol knew more about these particular shells. A gland inside the flesh of the shellfish contained a toxin—a poison potent enough to incapacitate even a sorceress.
The three men worked quickly to gather the extract, because the cook would soon be preparing supper.
* * *
Bannon had first watch in the thickening night, and he was nervous. On Chiriya he had seen many terrible storms roar across the ocean, hurricane-force winds that whipped the flat island and tore the roofs off of houses. Fishing boats in the coves had to be tied securely or dragged to safety up on the shore.
He had never been through a storm at sea, but he could smell danger in the air. Sharp bursts of breezes tried to rip the breath from his lungs. He didn’t like the look of the clouds or the feel of the winds.
The off-duty sailors had gone belowdecks to play games in the lantern-lit gloom. Some men swung in their hammocks, trying to sleep as the Wavewalker lurched from side to side; others puked into buckets, which they emptied out the open ports.
Bannon was startled when three shapes loomed up beside him on the deck, lean men who stood shirtless even in the blowing wind and pelting droplets of cold rain. Sol, the leader of the wishpearl divers, held a pot covered with a wooden lid. “The cook is finished serving supper.”
Though he was queasy from the rocking deck, Bannon’s mouth watered. He hadn’t eaten all day. “Is that for me?”
Rom scowled at him. “No, you’ll get your own meal when your watch is over. But the cook wanted to make sure the sorceress ate.”
Bannon frowned. “He’s never done that before.”
“We’ve never had a storm like this before,” Elgin said. “Best for the two passengers to stay in their cabins. If the fools walk around in the rain and wind, they might fall overboard, and the captain wants to be sure they pay him a bonus when we get into port.”
Bannon nodded. That made sense.
“We already delivered a meal to the wizard, but the sorceress…” Sol looked away, as if in shame. “She knows we’ve been unkind to her, insulted her.” He thrust the pot into Bannon’s hands. “Better if you deliver dinner personally.”
Rom nodded. “Yes, it would be awkward if the three of us did it.”
“Awkward,” Elgin agreed.
Bannon was skeptical. He’d never seen the wishpearl divers run errands for the cook before. But most of the sailors were belowdecks, after all. And the divers rarely did any work, so he was glad to see them cooperate. Maybe the deaths of their comrades had given them a change of heart.
Besides, Bannon was glad for the opportunity to bring Nicci her dinner. “I’ll take it,” he said.
CHAPTER 13
As the ship rocked in the sway of the increasing storm, Nicci looked at the pot Bannon had delivered to her cabin. She lifted the wooden lid and sniffed.
“It’s fish chowder,” Bannon said, happy to be of service. He caught himself against the door of her cabin as the ship lurched, but his smile didn’t fade. “The cook wanted to make sure you ate.”
“I will eat.” Nicci had not intended to venture out into the wind-lashed night to make her way to the galley. The young man was so eager, so solicitous; if she did not accept the food, she knew he would only continue to pester her. “Thank you.”
“I’m on watch. I have to get back to my duties.” Bannon obviously wanted to chat with her, hoping she would ask him to stay for a few more moments.
“Yes, you have to get back to your duties.” Nicci took the pot in a swirl of savory, fishy aromas, and when the young man awkwardly retreated, she closed the flimsy cabin door.
Her room had plank bulkheads, a washbasin, a narrow shuttered porthole, and a tiny shelf. A hard narrow bunk with a woolen blanket served as her bed, and a small oil lamp illuminated her quarters with a flickering flame.
Sitting on the bunk, Nicci lifted the pot’s lid and used a splintered wooden spoon to stir the milky broth. Chunks of fish floated amid wilted herbs, gnarled tubers, and pieces of onion. She ate. The taste was sour, flavored with unfamiliar spices.