Twice the water was cloudy; twice he reapplied heat. More puzzling was how the water eventually turned clear again after the first two ingredients. He took this as a sign of correctness for all others that followed ... until the last two.
Chane glanced at those two still wrapped in folded paper. Opening the first, he uncovered the dried Muhkgean, strange gray mushrooms with caps that spread in branched protrusions. Though now withered, each branch’s end splayed and flattened in a shape like a tiny leaf. He powdered the mushrooms with a pestle and mortar.
Quantities for ingredients were another guess, and so far with measures, he had assumed all ingredients were added in equal quantities. He did the same with a pinch of powdered Muhkgean. But no matter how often he checked and reboiled the mixture ... something had gone wrong.
Chane sat staring at the cloudy, slightly grayed water, caught between panic and anger at failure. Had he used too much or too little of the mushrooms? Had he done so with one or more of the other ingredients? There was not enough left of some to try again. And how much longer could Ore-Locks keep Chap from returning to the cabin?
Panic and frustration turned into desperation as Chane stared down.
The tiny leaf-shaped petals of dried Anamgiah had lost almost all of their opalescence, though they were still pure white. There was nothing he could do now but finish.
He took out a pair of small tin tweezers from among Welstiel’s tools and carefully pinched dried petals to grind with mortar and pestle. Even dried, he dared not touch them with his own flesh, so measuring an “inch” on the tip of a knife made him freeze up for an instant.
Chane tilted the knife’s tip over the copper bottle. And just before he placed the copper vessel back upon the tripod above the flame ...
Hope failed him, and neither fear nor rage could bring it back. There had been too many variables in the process.
All he could do was continue.
Up on deck, Chap strolled about in the fresh air. It was far better than being cooped up with his traveling companions. Eventually, he elicited one too many annoyed glances from the crew members rushing about in their duties, so he turned back from the bow.
Then he noticed Ore-Locks was alone, and he paused. Chane often spent some of his waking time belowdecks, but not usually so early in the evening. Where had he gone? Ore-Locks was turned away to the near rail, looking out to sea, and Chap decided to go below and see what Chane was doing. He headed toward the aft doorway.
“Majay-hì.”
Chap halted and looked to the dwarf. Ore-Locks rarely spoke to him, and he had little idea what to even think of the young stonewalker.
In a few overheard conversations with Chane, Ore-Locks had sounded displeased when he learned they would be stopping at the city of the Lhoin’na before the long trek to Bäalâle Seatt. It seemed the stonewalker had a deep mistrust of anything he considered to be “elven.” Worse, Ore-Locks’s attitude made it plain that he considered Chap to belong in that category.
Chap watched as the dwarf left the rail and came toward him.
“Majay-hì,” Ore-Locks repeated, “my master said that you spoke into his thoughts with words out of his own memories, and in the voices of others in his past. Can you do so ... with me?”
Chap’s surprise—and suspicion—grew as the dwarf continued.
“Chane said you cannot speak to him because of the ring he wears. Is this also true?”
That Chane and Ore-Locks had discussed this was another surprise. Chap had never spoken directly to the vampire and did not wish to do so, ever. He could only imagine what atrocities Chane had committed in the past that might rise out of his memory. The cries of his past victims were the last thing Chap wished to use for a voice—of words—with that thing.
Or did Chane ever even think of the slaughter he had left in his passing?
Still, Chap did not answer Ore-Locks.
Until recently, Chap preferred to keep his new ability to himself. His way of communicating with Wynn was unique. He had limited the other, newer method to Magiere, Leesil, and Wayfarer. Only desperation had pushed him to use “memory-words” with Cinder-Shard and reveal himself as more than he appeared to be.
He did not like letting that secret out.
“As we will travel,” Ore-Locks went on, “with other challenges to meet and who knows what else ... perhaps it is best if you and I could speak? Or you with me, that is.”
Chap sighed, for it was certainly sensible and practical. And in this case, there was no secret left to be kept, though he wondered why Ore-Locks had waited until now.
—What ... would you like ... me ... to say?—
Ore-Locks’s eyes widened, blinking rapidly, until he swallowed and cleared his throat.
Chap wanted to roll his canine eyes. But someone knowing he could do this and experiencing it firsthand were worlds apart.
“By the ancestors!” Ore-Locks whispered.
—Did you think ... your master ... lied ... about me?—
“No, no ... but ...” and then came a furtive glance toward the aftcastle door.
Chap stiffened. After this mostly one-sided conversation, something else occurred to him.
—Where ... is ... Chane?—
And again, Ore-Locks appeared startled, but not in the same way.
Chap turned and dashed for the aftcastle door.
In the cabin, Chane heated and reheated and visually tested and retested the concoction. Each time he poured the tiniest drop through a piece of silk as filter and into the glass, it was still clouded. He had then rinsed the glass bottle and tried again—and again.
He knew he had been down here alone for too long. Soon enough, Chap would notice and become suspicious.
If Chane was caught, he would have to explain, though Chap would not believe anything he said. There was too little—or rather no—personal trust between them.
Chane studied the next droplet in the glass flask ... still faintly gray.
Very well, if the majay-hì caught him, so be it.
He poured as much of the droplet as he could back into the copper bottle, stoppered it, and set it on the tripod to heat again. This time, he did not watch, dropped his head and closed his eyes, and silently counted off the time. He listened for the warning soft hiss to make certain the fluid did not come to a full boil.
A snarl and slam shuddered the cabin floor.
Chane stiffened upright as it happened again. He watched the door buck and heard its bolt rattle. Heavy bootfalls quickly grew louder in the passage outside. Then the growling, rolling snarl turned to a half howl.
He knew that sound. He had heard it more than once in being hunted by Chap.
“Enough!” Ore-Locks shouted out in the passage. “You will draw the entire crew!”
Chane snatched up the brass bottle as he rose and snuffed the burner. He could do nothing about the smell of smoke in the cabin. He heard and then felt the sizzle of his own flesh from the scorching copper bottle and swung it behind his back as he stepped to the door. Just before he grabbed the bolt, the door bucked so hard, he heard its planks start to crack.
“Please desist!” Ore-Locks snapped, and then said more loudly, “Chane, it is over. Open the door!”
Chane pulled the bolt, and the door slammed into him. He barely righted himself in retreat. Chap lunged in, fur on end, ears flattened, jowls pulled back, and teeth exposed in a long rumbling hiss. And Chane set himself for a fight.