A darkness ahead, something reaching down from the canopy, straight and thin. A rope, as thick round as her wrist, and, resting on the needle-strewn humus of the floor, an anchor.
Directly in her path. Ah, so even as I sensed a presence, so it in turn sensed me. This is, I think, an invitation.
She approached the rope, grasped it in both hands, then began climbing.
Telorast hissed below, 'What are you doing? No, dangerous intruder!
Terrible, terrifying, horrible, cruel-faced stranger! Don't go up there! Oh, Curdle, look, she's going.'
'She's not listening to us!'
'We've been talking too much, that's the problem.'
'You're right. We should say something important, so she starts listening to us again.'
'Good thinking, Curdle. Think of something!'
'I'm trying!'
Their voices faded away as Apsalar continued climbing. Among thickneedled branches now, old cobwebs strung between them, small, glittering shapes scampering about. The leather of her gloves was hot against her palms and her calves were beginning to ache. She reached the first of a series of knots and, planting her feet on it, she paused to rest. Glancing down, she saw nothing but black boles vanishing into mist, like the legs of some giant beast. After a few moments, she resumed her climb. Knots, now, every ten or so armlengths. Someone was being considerate.
The ebon hull of the carrack loomed above, crusted with barnacles, glistening. Reaching it, she planted her boots against the dark planks and climbed the last two man-heights to where the anchor line ran into a chute in the gunnel. Clambering over the side, she found herself near the three steps leading to the aft deck. Faint smudges of mist, slightly glowing, marked where mortals stood or sat: here and there, near rigging, at the side-mounted steering oar, one perched high among the shrouds. A far more substantial, solid figure was standing before the mainmast.
Familiar. Apsalar searched her memory, her mind rushing down one false trail after another. Familiar… yet not.
With a faint smile on his clean-shaven, handsome face, he stepped forward and held up both hands. 'I'm not sure which name you go by now. You were little more than a child – was it only a few years ago?
Hard to believe.'
Her heart was thudding hard against her chest, and she wondered at the sensation within her. Fear? Yes, but more than that. Guilt. Shame. She cleared her throat. 'I have named myself Apsalar.'
A quick nod. Recognition, then his expression slowly changed. 'You do not remember me, do you?'
'Yes. No, I'm not sure. I should – I know that much.'
'Difficult times, back then,' he said, lowering his hands, but slowly, as if unsure how he would be received as he said, 'Ganoes Paran.'
She drew off her gloves, driven by the need to be doing something, and ran the back of her right hand across her brow, was shocked to see it come away wet, the sweat beading, trickling, suddenly cold on her skin. 'What are you doing here?'
'I might ask you the same. I suggest we retire to my cabin. There is wine. Food.' He smiled again. 'In fact, I am sitting there right now.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'It seems you have come into some power, Ganoes Paran.'
'In a manner of speaking.'
She followed him to the cabin. As he closed the door behind her, his form faded, and she heard movement from the other side of the maptable. Turning, she saw a far less substantial Ganoes Paran. He was pouring wine, and when he spoke the words seemed to come from a vast distance. 'You had best emerge from your warren now, Apsalar.'
She did so, and for the first time felt the solid wood beneath her, the pitch and sway of a ship at sea.
'Sit,' Paran said, gesturing. 'Drink. There's bread, cheese, salted fish.'
'How did you sense my presence?' she asked, settling into the bolteddown chair nearest her. 'I was travelling through a forest-'
'A Tiste Edur forest, yes. Apsalar, I don't know where to begin. There is a Master of the Deck of Dragons, and you are sharing a bottle of wine with him. Seven months ago I was living in Darujhistan, in the Finnest House, in fact, with two eternally sleeping house-guests and a Jaghut manservant… although he'd likely kill me if he heard that word ascribed to him. Raest is not the most pleasant company.'
'Darujhistan,' she murmured, looking away, the glass of wine forgotten in her hand. Whatever confidence she felt she had gained since her time there was crumbling away, assailed by a swarm of disconnected, chaotic memories. Blood, blood on her hands, again and again. 'I still do not understand…'