that night nyctasia could not fall asleep. The cabin seemed more dank and close than ever, and she understood why most of the crew slept on deck in mild weather. “Why should I suffocate in here?” she asked herself. “Even a lady has to breathe.” She went above and moved about silently, stepping over sleeping sailors, until she found Corson sprawled by the windlass.
“Oh, it’s you,” said Corson sleepily. “What did it mean, what you called me?”
Nyctasia lay down beside her. “Go back to sleep.”
“Rutting bitch,” said Corson. She threw one arm over Nyctasia and promptly fell asleep again.
But Nyctasia was still wakeful. She lay for a long time looking up at the stars and listening to the mysterious creaking and sloshing sounds of the ship. The strong smell of resin and brine was almost as soothing to her as the scent of Maegor’s spices, but sleep did not come, and finally she detached herself from Corson and rose. Corson mumbled an incoherent protest and turned away, sighing in her sleep.
Nyctasia wandered restlessly up to the bow and climbed into the forecastle to look out across the sea, A horizon unbounded by city walls was a novelty she never tired of contemplating.
Someone was there before her, leaning on the rail, watching the water. Nyctasia wondered what the night watch on board ship kept guard against. “A fine night,” she said politely. “May I join you?”
He turned toward her and bowed. “I should be honored, Rhaicime.”
Nyctasia was startled to be addressed by her title of rank-the crew knew who she was, then. But she had paid well for their silence, and Corson claimed they could be trusted.
She stood her ground but remained wary. “You have the advantage of me, sailor,” she said evenly.
“Oh, I am but a passenger like yourself, my lady. We have met once before in Rhostshyl, though you’ve no doubt forgotten.”
She could not see his features clearly in the darkness, but it was this very obscurity which seemed somehow familiar. And his voice… of course, this was Erystalben’s messenger! Now completely at her ease, she joined him at the rail, leaning into the fresh breeze. “Certainly I remember. Have you another letter for me?”
“No, but I bring you a riddle. I am told that you enjoy them.” He paused. “Which is the greater power, Lady Nyctasia, the Indwelling or the Invited?”
Nyctasia smiled, thinking of the hours she and ’Ben had spent in arguing this question, trying to reconcile the two. “I will tell you that,” she said, “if you can tell me which is the greater-wind or water.”
He nodded thoughtfully, “A good answer.”
“It is the only answer.”
“No question has only one answer. You who are Mistress of Ambiguities must know that.”
It was one of ’Ben’s nicknames for her. Hearing it, Nyctasia was pierced with longing for him.
“A hand without a weapon may be weak,” she said slowly, “but a weapon without a hand is useless.”
“Thus, vahn is the greater power.”
The Mistress of Ambiguities shook her head. “Yet those who are unarmed will fall before swords.”
Both were silent for some moments, and Nyctasia suddenly realized how tired she’d become.
“Then there is no answer?” he said at last.
“I have given you two.” Nyctasia yawned. “And I fear I’m too weary to devise a third tonight. But I expect we shall meet again.”
“I hope so, my lady.”
He continued to look out over the dark water. Nyctasia returned to Corson’s side and fell asleep at once.
Over the next few days she made certain to speak to every man on board, but none of them sounded like Erystalben’s nameless messenger.
Finally, she questioned the captain, who denied having any other passengers on board. “… and the only reason I don’t have you two thrown overboard is that we’ll reach Lhestreq in two days anyway. And you can tell that rutting friend of yours to stop looking at me like she means to cut my throat!”
Nyctasia was bewildered. “I hadn’t noticed that she does. I’ll… er… speak to her about it.”
“You do that,” said Destiver and stalked away.
Corson was nowhere on deck, but Nyctasia soon found her in the cabin, sitting on the berth, her head in her hands.
“Feeling bored?” Nyctasia suggested. She sat down and put her arm around Corson’s waist, Corson only shook her head without looking up.
“What’s the matter with you? The captain says you want to murder her.”
“Let me be, can’t you?”
Nyctasia began to rub her back and shoulders. Corson shrugged stiffly. “Do that up higher,” she said grudgingly. “My head hurts.” She hated to admit to any sort of weakness.
“Is that all? Poor thing!” Nyctasia knelt on the berth and started kneading the muscles of Corson’s neck. “We’ll be in Lhestreq in just two days,” she remarked.
“I know.”
“Do you know the city well?”
“Of course. I’ve been there many times.”
“And I’ve never been this far from Rhostshyl in my life.”
“Asye! How did you stand it? I left Torisk when I was little more than a child, and I’ve never been back.”
“Where is Torisk? I’ve never heard of it.”
“South,” Corson said grimly. “Far south. No one’s ever heard of it, it’s mostly swamp.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“Explains what?” Corson bristled.
“Did you think I meant your manners? Nothing could explain your manners! I was curious about the name-it’s very like the word for ‘bog’ in Ancient Eswraine.
Words for features of the land often stay the same, even when-”
Corson was in no mood for one of Nyctasia’s lectures. “What of your own name?” she interrupted. “They make an Edonaris wine in the valley lands. I’ve never had it, it’s too costly, but it’s famous in the east. They say the same family’s made it for centuries. Are you kin to them?”
“I don’t know… it’s the first I’ve ever heard of them. But it’s just possible,” Nyctasia mused. “A remote ancestor of mine married into a family of foreign merchants who dealt in fine wines. It was a monstrous scandal, of course. He went with them when they returned to their own country, and they could never trade the coastal markets after that, for fear of the Edonaris. His name was stricken from the family records-I only came upon the story by chance in an old chronicle. If these people are his descendants, they’d be my distant cousins. Perhaps I’ll write them a letter.”
Corson was disappointed. She’d hoped Nyctasia would take offense at the suggestion that these common vintners were her relations. “My manners are good enough for the company of a wine seller’s daughter,” she taunted.
“You malign a respectable trade,” said Nyctasia.
Corson looked back at her over her shoulder. “What does isnathon scrathling mean?” she demanded.