Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-seven
The fall of the Salt Goddess, while a great battle, was almost quiet compared to the deaths of their siblings. The waves did not rage, the tides kept their schedules. It was only after—once days, weeks, months had passed—that the mark they left became conspicuously, gruesomely clear.
—FROM THE DIVINE DEFEATS, BY THE NOTED HISTORIAN ANAIS (RESTRICTED TEXT)
IN THE GALLEY, THE cook is chopping vegetables into a large pot. He’s not alone—the balding passenger from the deck is there too, sitting quietly at one of the tables bolted to one wall, where the crew takes meals. He smiles widely when he spots me. “Special tea?”
“Special tea.” I crook an eyebrow at the cook.
“Yeah, I can brew you up a pot.” He’s surprisingly skinny for someone who handles food all day, but as weathered as a sailor should be. “Have a seat, you can wait.”
“Thank you.” I head for the other passenger, who gestures for me to join him, and slide onto the opposite bench.
“You’re an unfamiliar face on the Squid.
” The man cradles a mug of coffee. He’s wearing at least a dozen rings, a mix of metals braided together.
They glint and glitter as he taps his fingers on the pottery restlessly.
Otherwise there is nothing notable about him, no clues to give away where he hails from from or what he’s doing here. “First time on board?”
I nod warily and say nothing more. Captain Cleophas promised privacy. A man who asks questions is one to be careful about.
The message is received. “Of course, of course.” He leans back, grinning. “I won’t ask about your business, simply remarking that I hadn’t seen you before.”
By the way he speaks, it sounds as if he has made this passage many times. Interesting. “I wouldn’t have much to say even if you did ask.” I spread my hands innocently. “I’m a mere bodyguard, here to protect my employer on his travels.”
“Ah yes, the sickly young man. A stranger as well, and one I’d surmise hasn’t had much seafaring experience.”
“I haven’t been in his employ long enough to know.”
“Oh?” The man turns serious. “You must be quite brave to take on a dangerous voyage like this. So many of the people I cross paths with on this ship… well, I see them once and never again.”
I lean forward. “Really? What happened to them?”
The man’s face darkens, then softens as he lets out a laugh. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m only playing with you.” He’s mistaken my interest for uneasiness. “The truth is Cyprene is rarely more harrowing than any other city within the Devoted Lands.”
“It isn’t?”
“Of course not. The Goddess may rule, but commerce has its share of worshippers no matter where you go. And anything that interrupts that doesn’t last for long, including the sorts of dangers so often rumored to be found there. Ridiculous propaganda… well, most of it.”
I’m hardly surprised. We were taught Cyprene was a city filled with heretics, pirates, and the lowest dregs humanity had to offer.
A city that willingly turned away from the light and warmth of the Goddess and fed on itself, barely surviving.
A place undeserving of the presence of Tempestra-Innara’s Chosen.
(That none seemed to be able to manage there was conveniently left out.)
“Where are my manners?” says the man suddenly. “My name is Tychus. And you are?”
“Lys,” I reply automatically.
“It’s nice to meet you, Lys. I do hope your employer recovers shortly.
Seen it before, though—landlocked lads full of youthful ambition and the idea to make their fortune outside of the usual confines.
” One eyebrow rises in question. “At least, that’s what I assume his plans are.
Trade can be quite brisk in Cyprene… for jewels, rare dyes, all sorts of items closely regulated on the mainland. ”
For not asking about Nolan’s business, Tychus is being quite curious. “Can’t speak to it.” I make a show of picking at my nails, as if the conversation is beginning to bore me. “All I’m concerned about is keeping him in once piece.”
“Fair enough.” Tychus knows better than to press for more details.
He leans back in his seat, twists one of his many rings around and around.
“At least he was smart enough to bring some level of protection. Cyprene rarely treats the foolish or unprepared well. There are plenty of… unpleasant elements happy to make a quick meal of the ignorant.”
I hope he means figuratively, but after the Renderers, who knows? “I’ll make sure to keep a close eye on him.”
The cook comes over, delivering a tray with a pleasantly steaming teapot. “Thank you,” I say to him, “and you too, sir” to Tychus. Then I stand, taking the tea quickly so I can report back to Nolan about what I’ve learned.
The special tea does not work. At least, not as much as Nolan—or I—would have liked.
He puts in a solid effort at pretending he doesn’t feel as sick as he does, but he barely manages a few hours on his feet each day.
And there’s the ever-present bucket of vomit.
I do my best to ignore the retching sounds, but daylight hours find me above deck, leaving him with an adequate supply of cold tea and dry crackers to nibble.
He’s miserable, which was amusing to begin with but becomes very tedious, very quickly.
Turns out that a questionable but capable partner is preferable to a ridiculously incapacitated one.
A slow week passes, during which I am left to ponder whether our mission still matters.
Are the heretics already setting up a second strike?
Has Tempestra-Innara taken a new avatar and locked themselves away beyond either of our reaches?
I try to pass the time with Jogue’s diary but glean little else from it.
And I can’t risk anyone catching me with the Renderers’ book.
So, to distract myself from the unanswerable anxieties, I watch: the waters, the creatures we share it with, the sailors at their tasks.
I even enjoy it, if not as much as I’d like.
As Lumeris grows farther and farther away, so does my ache for it.
It’s worse than on the mainland and triggers in me a new sort of irritation—that I can’t take in any new wonders without that shadowing them.
“How far out are we?” I ask Mishael as he scurries by me one afternoon.
He peers up at the sails with a knowing eye. “No more than two days. Maybe closer, if this wind holds.”
Back in the cabin, I give a fetal Nolan an almost-gentle kick in the backside. “Two days away. Time to get your shit together.”
He makes a sound like a wounded cow. His mood hasn’t improved any more than his constitution has. In fact, it’s gotten worse; the more time has passed on the ship, the sourer and more irritable he’s become. “As soon as we are off this godsforsaken ship…”
“Sooner than that.” I am in no mood for whining. “We need to figure out what to do once we arrive. From what Tychus said, there will be folks trying to fleece us at every opportunity.”
Nolan rolls himself into a sitting position. He’s lost weight over the last the last few days, but not an ounce of stubbornness. “And you intend on letting them?”
“Of course not.” I take one of the dry crackers from a plate on the desk and mindlessly break it into crumbs. “But given that tone, I’ll take it you’ve thought of a sure way to find the heretics during all your long, solitary hours of careful contemplation?”
His mouth flattens. “Remember when I was just pretending to be continually annoyed by you?”
“Don’t get mad at me for doing the hard work while you hide out in here.”
“I’m not—”
“I knoooooowwww. Remember when you pretended to have a sense of humor?” I toss a cracker at him. “Eat. Drink. If it takes imagining Mommy Tempestra-Innara feeding you to get fit again, do it. I expect to see you on your feet before we reach Cyprene.”
Nolan answers with a glare. But he picks the cracker up from his lap and takes a bite.
The city appears before Nolan does, a dark speck on the horizon that gradually grows bigger. At first, I’m a little disappointed at how unremarkable it is, this stretch of sea that garners such fear.
Then I glance into the water, and see a face staring back.
In a heartbeat, it’s gone, carried away by the waves, and it takes me a moment to realize what it was—a ship’s figurehead, floating free. More debris appears, bits of wood and sail, and other things I can’t identify.
“We’re entering the graveyard now.” Captain Cleophas comes up to where I’m leaning on the rail. “I’d suggest heading below if you’ve got a weak stomach.”
I snort. “Do I strike you as someone like that?”
The captain doesn’t share my amusement. “No. But there are places in this world where fortitude fails even the most seasoned soul. This is one of them.”
A whistle sounds.
“That will be for me,” she says, heading for the ship’s wheel.
I gaze back out over the water, chills running down my arms. It’s not the captain’s warning, though; the wind has changed, turned cooler.
The debris increases. Masts poke from the water like sodden bones, whole boats appearing on either side of our path.
There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands, all shapes and sizes, caught on the massive reef that surrounds the island.
But not by accident. Centuries ago, the other gods came for the Salt Goddess, Astris.
Like Novena, the battleground of their fall remains unnaturally intact, so much so that I can’t pick out which ships might have come from the ancient battle and which were more recent.
Captain Cleophas steers us carefully through the field, but even so, flotsam bounces off the hull.
Another figurehead appears in the water, pale skinned, empty eyed.
My breath catches. Not a body of wood. Flesh. Another appears, and another, all looking as if they’ve been dead maybe hours. But I quickly understand that’s not the case.
This is what the captain was warning me about.