Jean’s strength failed. Pressed down by nausea that felt like a weighted harness, he tumbled foreward, and his chin hit the deck hard enough to bring back memories of his less successful alley brawls. He resolved to rest for just a handful of heartbeats; heartbeats became breaths became minutes.
Another of Patience’s cohorts pushed the cabin door open at last and came down the steps with a lantern. By that wobbling yellow light, Jean was able to take in the scene.
Patience and Coldmarrow were still standing, still conscious, but clutching one another for support. The two younger Bondsmagi were on the floor, though whether alive or dead Jean couldn’t muster the will to care.
“Archedama!” said the newcomer with the lantern.
Patience brushed the woman off with a shaky wave.
Jean rose to one knee, groaning. The nausea was still like ten hangovers wrapped around a boot to the head, but the thought that Patience was upright stung his pride enough to lend him strength. He blinked, still feeling a prickly inflammation at the edges of his eyes, and coughed. The candelabrum was charred black and wreathed in vile-smelling smoke. The woman with the lantern flung the stern windows open, and blessedly fresh lake air displaced some of the miasma.
Another few moments passed, and Jean finally stumbled to his feet. Standing beside Coldmarrow, he clung to the table and shook Locke’s left arm.
Locke moaned and arched his back, to Jean’s immense relief. The ink and dreamsteel ran off Locke’s pale skin in a hundred black-and-silver rivulets, forming a complete mess, but at least he was breathing. Jean noticed that Locke’s fingers were curled tightly in against his palms, and he carefully eased them apart.
“Did it work?” Jean muttered. When neither of the magi responded, Jean touched Patience on the shoulder. “Patience, can you—”
“It was close,” she said. She opened her eyes slowly, wincing. “Stragos’ alchemist knew his business.”
“But Locke’s all right?”
“Of course he’s not all right.” She extricated herself from the silver thread that bound her to Coldmarrow. “Look at him. All we can promise is that he’s no longer poisoned.”
Jean’s nausea subsided as the night breeze filled the room. He wiped some of the silvery-black detritus from under Locke’s chin and felt the fluttering pulse in his neck.
“Jean,” Locke whispered. “You look like hell.”
“Well, you look like you lost a fight with a drunken ink merchant!”
“Jean,” said Locke, more sharply. He seized Jean’s left forearm. “Jean, gods, this is real. Oh, gods, I thought … I saw—”
“Easy now,” said Jean. “You’re safe.”
“I …” Locke’s eyes lost their focus, and his head sank.
“Damnation,” muttered Patience. She wiped more of the black-and-silver mess from Locke’s face and touched his forehead. “He’s so far gone.”
“What’s wrong now?” said Jean.
“What you and I just endured,” said Patience, “was a fraction of the shock he had to bear. His body is strained to its mortal limits.”
“So what do you do about it? More magic?”
“My arts can’t heal. He needs nourishment. He needs to be stuffed with food until he can’t hold another scrap. We’ve made arrangements.”
Coldmarrow groaned, but nodded and staggered out of the cabin.
He returned carrying a tray. This bore a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, and several plates heaped with food. He set the tray on the table just above Locke’s head, then cleaned Locke’s face and chest with the towels. Jean took a pinch of baked meat from the tray, pulled Locke’s chin down, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Come now,” said Jean. “No falling asleep.”
“Mmmmph,” Locke mumbled. He moved his jaw a few times, started to chew, and opened his eyes once more. “Whhhgh hgggh fgggh igh hhhhgh,” he muttered. “Hgggh.”
“Swallow,” said Jean.
“Mmmmph.” Locke obeyed, then gestured for the water.
Jean eased Locke onto his elbows and held the pitcher to his lips. Coldmarrow continued to wipe the ink and dreamsteel away, but Locke took no notice. He gulped water in undignified slurps until the pitcher was empty.
“More,” said Locke, turning his attention to the food. The mage with the lantern set it down, took the pitcher, and hurried out.
The stuff on the tray was simple fare—baked ham, rough dark bread, some sort of rice with gravy. Locke attacked it as if it were the first food the gods had ever conjured on earth. Jean held a plate for him while Locke pushed the bread around with shaking hands, scooped everything else into his mouth, and barely paused to chew. By the time the water pitcher returned, he was on his second plate.
“Mmmm,” he mumbled, and a number of other monosyllables of limited philosophical utility. His eyes were bright, but they had a dazed look. His awareness seemed to have narrowed to the plate and pitcher. Coldmarrow finished cleaning him off, and Patience stretched a hand out above his legs. The rope that had bound him to the table unknotted itself and leapt into her grasp, coiling itself neatly.
The first tray of food—enough to feed four or five hungry people—was soon gone. When the attending mage brought a second, Locke attacked it without slowing. Patience watched him alertly. Coldmarrow, meanwhile, tended to the young magi who had collapsed during the ritual.
“They alive?” said Jean, at last finding a residue of courtesy if nothing more. “What happened to them?”
“Ever tried to lift a weight that was too heavy?” Coldmarrow brushed his fingers against the forehead of the unconscious young woman. “They’ll be fine, and wiser for the experience. Young minds are brittle. Oldsters, now, we’ve had some disappointments. We’ve set aside the notion that we’re the center of the universe, so our minds bend with strain instead of meeting it head-on.”
Coldmarrow’s knees popped as he stood.
“There,” he said, “on top of all our other services this evening, some philosophy.”
“Jean,” Locke muttered, “Jean, where the hell … what am I doing?”
“Trying to fill a hole,” said Patience.
“Well, was I … ? I seem to have lost myself just now. I feel gods-damned strange.”
Jean put a hand on Locke’s shoulder and frowned. “You’re getting warmer,” he said. He set his palm against Locke’s forehead and felt a fever-heat.
“Certainly doesn’t feel like it on my side of things,” said Locke. Shivering, he reached for the blanket on his legs. Jean grabbed it for him and draped it across his shoulders.
“You back to your senses, then?” asked Jean.
“Am I? You tell me. I just … I’ve never felt so hungry. Ever. Hell, I’d still be eating, but I think I’m out of room. I don’t know what came over me.”
“It will come over you again,” said Patience.
“Oh, lovely. Well, this may be a stupid question,” said Locke, “but did it work?”
“If it hadn’t, you’d have died twenty minutes ago,” said Patience.
“So it’s out of me,” muttered Locke, staring down at his hands. “Gods. What a mess. I feel … I don’t know. Other than the hundred tons I just shoved into my stomach, I can’t tell if I’m actually feeling any better.”
“Well, I’msure as hell feeling better,” said Jean.
“I’m cold. Hands and feet are numb. Feels like I’ve aged a hundred years.” Locke slid off the table, drawing the blanket more tightly around himself. “I think I can stand up, though!”
He demonstrated the questionable optimism of this pronouncement by falling on his face.
“Damn,” he muttered as Jean picked him up. “Sure you can’t do anything about this, Patience?”
“Master Lamora, you full-blooded ingrate, haven’t I worked enough miracles on your behalf for one night?”
“Purely as a business investment,” said Locke. “But I suppose I should thank you nonetheless.”