Felisin rose.
The corporal watched her approach with sleepy eyes.
'When did you last lie with a woman?' Felisin asked him.
It was not Gesler who answered, however. The cross-bowman's – Stormy's – voice drifted out from the shadow beneath the sailcloth: 'That would be a year and a day, the night I dressed up as a Kanese harlot – had Gesler fooled for hours. Mind you, he was pretty drunk. Mind you, so was I.'
The corporal grunted. 'That's a soldier's life for you. Too thick to know the difference .. .'
'Too drunk to care,' the crossbowman finished.
'You got it, Stormy.' Gesler's heavy eyes slid up to Felisin. 'Play your games elsewhere, lass. No offence, but we've done enough rutting to know when an offer's got hidden chains. You can't buy what ain't for sale, anyhow.'
'I told you about Heboric,' she said. 'I didn't have to.'
'Hear that, Stormy? The girl took pity on us.'
'He'll betray you. He despises you already.'
The boy named Truth sat up at that.
'Go away,' Gesler told her. 'My men are trying to get some sleep.'
Felisin met Truth's startling blue eyes, saw nothing but innocence in them. She threw him a pouty kiss, smiled as colour flooded his face. 'Careful or those ears will catch fire,' she said.
'Hood's breath,' Stormy muttered. 'Go on, lad. She wants it that bad. Give her a taste.'
'Not a chance,' she said, turning away. 'I only sleep with men.'
'Fools, you mean,' Gesler corrected, an edge to his tone.
Felisin strode down to the beach, walked out until the waves lapped her knees. She studied the Ripath. Flashburns painted the hull black in thick, random streaks. The front railing of the forecastle glittered as if the wood had been studded with a hail of quartz. The lines were frayed, unravelled where knives had cut.
The sun's reflection off the water was blinding. She closed her eyes, let her mind fall away until there was nothing but the feel of the warm water slipping around her legs. She felt an exhaustion that was beyond physical. She could not stop herself lashing out, and every face she made turn her way became a mirror. There has to be a way to reflect something other than hate and contempt.
No, not a way.
A reason.
'My hope is that the Otataral entwined in you is enough to drive away that insane mage,' Kulp said. 'Otherwise, we're in for a rough voyage.' Truth had lit a lantern and now crouched in the triangular forecastle, waiting for them to set out for the reef. The yellow light caught reflective glimmers in Heboric's tattoos as he grimaced in response to Kulp's words.
Gesler sat leaning over the steering oar. Like everyone else, he was waiting for the ex-priest. Waiting for a small measure of hope.
The sorcerous storm raged beyond the reef, its manic flashes lighting up the night, revealing tumbling black clouds over a frothing sea.
'If you say so,' Heboric eventually said.
'Not good enough—'
'Best I can do,' the old man snapped. He raised one stump, jabbed it in front of Kulp. 'You see what I can't even feel, Mage!'
The mage swung to Gesler. 'Well, Corporal?'
The soldier shrugged. 'We got a choice?'
'It's not that simple,' Kulp said, fighting to stay calm. 'With Heboric aboard I don't even know if I can open my warren – he's got taints to him I wouldn't want spreading. Without my warren I can't deflect that sorcery. Meaning—'
'We get roasted crisp,' Gesler said, nodding. 'Look alive up there, Truth. We're heading out!'
'Yours is a misplaced faith, Corporal,' Heboric said.
'Knew you'd say that. Now everyone stay low – me and Stormy and the lad got work to do.'
Although he sat within arm's reach of the tattooed old man, Kulp could sense his own warren. It felt ready – almost eager – for release. The mage was frightened. Meanas was a remote warren, and every fellow practitioner Kulp had met characterized it the same way: cool, detached, amused intelligence. The game of illusions was played with light, dark, texture and shadows, crowing victory when it succeeded in deceiving an eye, but even that triumph felt emotionless, the satisfaction clinical. Accessing the warren always had the feel of interrupting a power busy with other things. As if shaping a small fraction of that power was a distraction barely worth acknowledging.
Kulp did not trust his warren's uncharacteristic attentiveness. It wanted to join the game. He knew he was falling into the trap of thinking of Meanas as an entity, a faceless god, where access was worship, success a reward of faith. Warrens were not like that. A mage was not a priest and magic was not divine intervention. Sorcery could be the ladder to Ascendancy – a means to an end, but there was no point to worshipping the means.