nyctasia slept for a day and a night, and woke feeling worse than ever. Not only was she stiff and sore in every limb, but she felt violently ill as well. Spasms of acute nausea racked her, and each slow roll of the boat was an agony. She was sure that she’d been poisoned.
Corson strolled in, chewing on a piece of fresh-cooked fish, “Time enough that you woke up,” she said. “I brought you some breakfast.” She held out a tin plate with half a steaming fish on it.
Nyctasia gasped and rolled to the edge of the berth, her empty stomach contracting painfully, her throat constricted. “Take that away!” she choked.
“Hmm, seasick,” Corson observed. She helpfully ate the rest of the fish.
Nyctasia lay back and shut her eyes. Her face was grey. “Is that all it is? But I’m dying!”
“That’s how it feels. It takes a few days to pass, but you’ll live.”
Nyctasia’s stomach began to heave again. She leaned over the side of the berth and groaned. “I don’t want to live.”
“Everyone says that. I’ll get you some water. And a bucket.”
“Days…?” whispered Nyctasia faintly. She tried holding her breath but it didn’t help.
“You should try to get some of this down,” Corson suggested. “It’s better to puke up water than your own insides.”
“I know. Leave me alone.”
Corson hesitated at the door. “Why can’t you cure this the way you healed that wound?”
“Must you always ask questions?” said Nyctasia feverishly.
“Must you always tell lies? You said healing was simple.”
“I’ve called on the vahn for so much already, Corson-to do it again so soon would violate the Balance… between the Dwelling and the Indwelling…”
The ship struck rougher water and Corson could see the sweat break out on Nyctasia’s face. Between fits of retching, the sorceress gasped, “There’s more than enough imbalance aboard this vessel!”
She was bedridden for the next three days and slept as much as she could. There was some relief when the Windhover docked at coastal towns to take on or deliver cargo. While they rode at anchor, the rolling of the ship was easier to bear, but the time between ports seemed endless to her.
Corson slept on deck, only coming in now and again to see that Nyctasia drank a mouthful of water, and to complain about her own lot.
“You’re just as well off without the swill they eat on this floating dung heap,” she grumbled, sitting on the edge of the narrow berth and crowding Nyctasia. “If not for you, I could be feasting at the Hare right now. Steifann has the best cook on the coast.”
“Will you please talk about something else, if you must talk?”
“There’s nothing else to talk about. I’ve never been so rutting bored.”
“Pity,” said Nyctasia drowsily. “Let me sleep.”
Corson wanted company-she missed Steifann. Nyctasia was an unsympathetic listener, and the crew regarded her with obvious suspicion. They were a close-mouthed lot who rebuffed her friendly advances, and she was certainly not willing to approach the captain. She chafed at the idleness and confinement she was forced to endure aboard ship-fishing was a poor pastime, and it was not yet safe for her to go ashore when they made port.
In desperation, Corson pulled over Nyctasia’s satchel of books and opened one at random. Dead languages! Why couldn’t Nyctasia have something that a person could read? The first passage that was intelligible to her seemed to be a recipe-but for what? What was bloodroot?
Corson hastily turned the page. She leafed through ballads, riddles, and puzzling verses that looked suspiciously like incantations. The rest of the book was blank. She chose another volume and began laboriously to spell out a long poem about a warrior’s encounter with a seductive demon. This was much more to her taste.
Before long, Nyctasia turned over and groaned fitfully.
“Are you awake?” Corson asked.
“Unfortunately.”
“What does lirihran mean?”
“It’s an old word for ‘twilight,’” Nyctasia answered dreamily. “But it means
‘half-darkness,’ you see, not ‘half-light’… It’s only found in poetry nowadays.” She suddenly sat upright, wide awake, “What are you doing? Leave that alone!”
“Why? I’m not reading your foul spells.”
“Well, what are you reading?”
“I’m cursed if I know-it’s about a demon, and it’s nothing I’d have thought a lady would write.”
“Oh, that,” said Nyctasia, relieved. “I only translated it. That poem was written centuries ago.”
“Really? Folk haven’t changed much, then.”
“Yes, that’s the lesson of it. Perhaps I’ll make a scholar of you yet.”
Corson snorted. “I could teach you a few things-this chart’s all wrong.” She turned to a map of the southern constellations. “Everyone knows you can only see the Wolf in winter, and the Chalice should be further over here. If you tried to travel by this, you’d never know where you were.”
“It’s hard to make accurate charts from old books and hearsay. Show me the right positions,” Nyctasia said eagerly.
“Surely,” said Corson, stretching, “As soon as I’ve finished this story.”
Nyctasia hadn’t the strength for an argument. “Please yourself, that’s harmless enough. But be careful how you meddle with my books, Corson. Words can be dangerous.”
“What does wisranupre mean?”
“Give me that,” laughed Nyctasia, “I’ll read it to you.” She found that she was feeling much better.
The Windhover was a small, single-masted merchantman with a crew of only six, including the captain. It was built for coastal trading but, as Corson soon discovered, the ship was more than a simple cargo-runner.
One night she awoke with the moon still high overhead. Some change that she could not immediately recognize had disturbed her sleep, and after a puzzled moment she realized that the Windhover was no longer moving-they must have dropped anchor. She soon heard the ship’s boat being lowered and the crew moving about, talking in low tones.
Surely they weren’t putting into port in the middle of the night? Curious, Corson stood and looked over the rail towards land, but she could see only an occasional flash of light on the beach. The boat was making silently for shore, the oars dipping without a splash.
Corson smiled complacently. Of course, a pack of smugglers! That’s why the crew was so wary of strangers.
“What are you doing here?” Destiver demanded in a harsh whisper. “Get below where you belong and stop your spying!”
Corson rounded on her angrily, keeping her voice low with an effort. “Don’t try me, you slinking water rat! Save your bullying for your crew! What’s it to me if you cheat the trade laws?”
“Listen,” hissed Destiver, “Steifann’s vouched for you, but there’s a fat price on your head-remember that, and forget what you’ve seen tonight.”
“And I remember that they still have gibbets for smugglers in the Maritime cities.”
“Then we understand each other,” said Destiver. “But while you’re on my ship you’ll do as you’re told.”
Before Corson could reply, one of the sailors came over to fetch Destiver, who went off muttering imprecations against Steifann for involving her in this affair.
For once, Corson agreed with her.