“No, you’re not.” Jean stroked the silky black cat that was supposed to be long gone from their lives. Regal was exactly as Jean remembered, down to the white spot at his throat. “I see the little bastard too.”
“He can’t be here,” muttered Locke. The cat circled his head, purring loudly. “It’s impossible.”
“What a myopic view you have on the splendors of coincidence,” said Patience, coming down the steps. “It was one of my agents that purchased your old yacht. It lay briefly alongside the Sky-Reachera few weeks ago, and this little miscreant took the opportunity to change residences.”
“I don’t get it,” said Locke, gently tugging at the scruff of Regal’s neck. “I never even liked cats all that much.”
“Surely you realize,” said Patience, “that cats are no great respecters of human opinion.”
“Kin to Bondsmagi, perhaps?” said Jean. “So what do we do now?”
“Now,” said Patience, “we speak plainly. What’s going to happen, Jean, will be hard for you to watch. Possibly too hard. Some … ungifted cannot bear close proximity to our workings. If you wish to go into the middle deck, you’ll find hammocks and other accommodations—”
“I’m staying,” said Jean. “For the whole damn thing. That’s not negotiable.”
“Be resolved, then, but hear me. No matter what happens, or seems to happen, you cannotinterfere. You cannotinterrupt. It could be fatal, and not just for Locke.”
“I’ll behave,” said Jean. “I’ll bite my damn knuckles off if I have to.”
“Forgive me for reminding you that I know the nature of your temper—”
“Look,” said Jean, “if I get out of hand, just speak my gods-damned name and makeme calm down. I know you can do it.”
“It may come to that,” said Patience. “So long as you know what to expect if you cause trouble. Speaking of which, remove our little friend and take him forward.”
“Off you go, kid.” Jean plucked Regal up before the cat realized he’d been targeted for transportation. The smooth bundle of fur yawned and nestled into the crook of Jean’s right elbow.
Jean carried his passenger to the main deck, where he was surprised to find the vessel already moving under topsails, although he’d heard no shouting or struggling from above to get them down. He ran up the stairs leading to the quarterdeck, from which he could see the rain-blurred lights of Lashain already dwindling behind the dark shapes bobbing in her harbor. The boat they’d abandoned was barely visible, a tiny silhouetted slat on the waves.
The woman who’d been at the crane was now at the helm, just abaft the mainmast where it marked the forward boundary of the quarterdeck. Her face was only half-visible within the hood of her cloak, but she seemed lost in thought, and Jean was startled to see that she wasn’t actually touching the wheel. Her left hand was raised and slightly cupped, and from time to time she would spread her fingers and move it forward, as though pushing some unseen object.
Lightning broke overhead, and by the sudden flash Jean could see the other members of the crew scattered across the deck, also cloaked and hooded, standing at silent attention with their hands similarly raised.
As thunder rolled across the Amathel, Jean walked over to stand beside the woman at the wheel.
“Excuse me,” he said, “can you talk? What’s our current heading?”
“North … northeast,” said the woman dreamily, not moving to face him when she spoke. “Straight on for Karthain.”
“But that’s dead into the wind!”
“We’re using … a private wind.”
“Fuck me sideways,” Jean muttered. “I, uh, I need somewhere to stow this cat.”
“Main deck hatch … to the middle hold.”
Jean carried his fuzzy comrade to the ship’s waist and found an access hatch, which he slid open. A narrow ladder led six or seven feet down to a dimly lit space, where Jean could see straw on the floor and pallets of some soft material.
“Perelandro’s balls, little guy,” whispered Jean, “what ever gave me the idea I could get the best of people who make their own fucking weather?”
“Mrrrrwwwww,” said the cat.
“You’re right. I am desperate. And stupid.” Jean let Regal go, and the cat landed lightly on a pallet in the semi-darkness below. “Keep your head down, puss. I think shit’s about to break weird all over the place.”
2
“CLOSE THE door firmly,” said Coldmarrow when Jean returned.
“Bolt it?”
“No. Just keep the weather out where it belongs.”
Patience was pouring pale yellow liquid from a leather skin into a clay cup as Jean came down the steps.
“Well, Jean,” said Locke, “if nothing else, at least I get a drink before I go.”
“What’s that?” said Jean.
“Several somethings for the pain,” said Patience.
“So Locke’s going to sleep through this?”
“Oh no,” said Patience. “No, he won’t be able to sleep an instant, I’m afraid.”
She held the cup to Locke’s lips, and with her assistance he managed to gulp the contents down.
“Agggggh,” he said, shaking his head. “Tastes like a dead fishmonger’s piss, siphoned out of his guts a week after the funeral.”
“It isa rather functional concoction,” allowed Patience. “Now relax. You’ll feel it take hold swiftly.”
“Ohhh,” sighed Locke, “you’re not wrong.”
Coldmarrow set a bucket of water beside the table. He then pulled Locke’s tunic off, exposing the pale skin and old scars of his upper body. It was obvious that vigor had fled from every slack strand of muscle. Coldmarrow dampened a cloth and carefully cleaned Locke’s chest, arms, and face. Patience folded and resettled the gray blanket over his lower half.
“Now,” said Patience, “certain requirements.” She retrieved an ornamented witchwood box from a corner of the cabin. At a wave from her hand, it unlocked itself and slid open, revealing several nested trays of small objects, rather like a physiker’s kit.
Patience took a slim silver knife out of the box. With this, she sliced off several lengths of Locke’s damp hair, and placed them in a clay bowl held out by Coldmarrow. As the bearded man moved, his sleeves fell back far enough for Jean to see that he had four rings on his left wrist.
“Just a few deductions,” said Patience. “The outermost flourishes. Surely he could use the trimming.”
Coldmarrow held another bowl under Locke’s right hand as Patience whittled slivers from his nails. Locke murmured, rolled his head back, and sighed.
“Blood, too,” said Patience, “what little he can spare.” She pricked two of Locke’s fingers with the blade, eliciting no response from him. Jean, however, grew more and more anxious as Coldmarrow collected red drops in a third bowl.
“I hope you’re not planning to keep any of that, after this … thing is finished,” said Jean.
“Jean, please,” said Patience. “He’ll be lucky to be alive after this thingis finished.”
“We won’t do anything untoward,” said Coldmarrow. “Your friend is a valuable asset.”
“Is he now?” growled Jean. “An asset? An asset’s something you can put on a shelf or write down on a ledger, you spooky bastard. Don’t talk about him like—”
“Jean,” said Patience sharply. “Command yourself or be commanded.”
“Hey, I’m calm. Placid as pipe-smoke,” said Jean, folding his arms. “Just look at how placid I can be. What’s that you’re doing now?”
“The last thing I need,” said Patience, “is a wisp of breath.” She held a ceramic jar at Locke’s mouth for some time, then capped it and set it aside.
“Fascinating, I’m sure,” said Locke groggily. “Now get this shit outof me.”
“I can’t just will it so,” said Patience. “Life is far more easily destroyed than mended. Magic doesn’t change that. In fact, you shouldn’t think of this as a healing at all.”
“Well, what the hell is it?” said Jean.