not take his eyes off my face even as she departed.
I didn't doubt for a moment that had I tried for the woman's weapons at any time, he'd have killed me instantly. That was the point of surrounding yourself with men such as this.
"What are you?" he asked.
Not who. What. Interesting--
And then my belly cramped. Hoolies, but I was getting tired of this. Maybe Del was right. Maybe I had been stung by something in the reef. "I'm a messiah," I answered curtly, in no mood for verbal or physical games.
Teeth gleamed as his lips drew back in a genuine smile. "I thought so."
Of course, at the moment I didn't feel particularly messiahish. After Del's comment about me magicking weapons out of thin air, which of course I couldn't do, I hadn't been precisely cheerful. And now this blue-headed man was playing the same sort of game.
With much less right.
He said something then. I didn't understand it; it sounded like the same language he and the captain shared. He watched me closely as he spoke, searching my eyes and face. I couldn't very well prepare to show or not show any kind of response, as I had no idea what he was saying. I just looked back, waiting.
He switched again to accented Southron. "Where were you bound, when we took you?"
"Skandi." I saw no harm in honesty.
Something glinted in his eyes. "ioSkandi."
"Skandi." I shrugged. "That's all I know. Never been there before."
Ring-weighted brows rose consideringly. "Never?"
"Southroner," I answered. "Deep desert. Punja. Bred and born."
"No."
"Yes."
"Skandic." He sounded certain.
"Maybe," I said clearly, curious now as well as irritated. "Depending on what you intend to do with us, we may never find out--"
Without warning he clamped a hand over my right wrist. I felt the strong fingers close like wire, shutting off the blood.
I moved then, used strength and leverage, was free with one quick twist. He did not appear surprised; in fact, he smiled. And nodded, "lo."
No help for it but to ask it straight out. "What is this about?"
He looked from me to the deck. He squatted then, put out a hand, fingered the blood left by my reef-cut feet. Rose again, rubbing his thumb against the fingers. Then he turned the hand toward me and displayed it palm-out, blood-smeared fingers spread, "lo."
"You sick son of a--"
"You are sick," he interrupted. "Look at your arm."
Part of me wanted not to. But part of me decided to play the game his way until I understood it better, or at least knew if there were any rules. So I looked at my arm.
Around the wrist, where he'd shut his hand, the skin was blotched with a fast-rising, virulent rash. Even as I watched, astonished, clusters of small pustules formed, broke.
Wept.
"When you weary of emptying your belly," he said, "come to me."
I opened my mouth to reply, then turned and staggered to the rail. Where I promptly emptied my belly.
FIVE
DEL CAME looking for me, found me: perched again upon the rope coiled back at the stern. She stopped, arching eyebrows. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Any progress?"
"Progress at what?"
"With the captain."
"Oh. No. I mean--" With infinite care I examined a scrape across one kneecap. "--I'm not rushing it."
After a moment of silent perusal she squatted down so she could look into my face.
"What's the matter?"
I hitched a shoulder. "She's not exactly what I expected."
"No--I mean, what's the matter with you?"
I eyed her warily. "What do you mean, what's the matter with me?"
"You've been ill again. I can tell. You get this greenish tinge around your mouth, and your nose turns red."
I fingered the nose, frowning, then sighed and gave up. "I'm sick of being sick. This is ridiculous!"
Her mouth twitched. "And no aqivi to blame it on, either."
I peered at her hesitantly. "Do I feel hot to you?"
She felt my forehead, slipping hands beneath flopping hair. "No. Cold." She moved out of the squat, sat down next to me on the rope. "I still say something stung you."
"Maybe so." I sat with both arms
I didn't doubt for a moment that had I tried for the woman's weapons at any time, he'd have killed me instantly. That was the point of surrounding yourself with men such as this.
"What are you?" he asked.
Not who. What. Interesting--
And then my belly cramped. Hoolies, but I was getting tired of this. Maybe Del was right. Maybe I had been stung by something in the reef. "I'm a messiah," I answered curtly, in no mood for verbal or physical games.
Teeth gleamed as his lips drew back in a genuine smile. "I thought so."
Of course, at the moment I didn't feel particularly messiahish. After Del's comment about me magicking weapons out of thin air, which of course I couldn't do, I hadn't been precisely cheerful. And now this blue-headed man was playing the same sort of game.
With much less right.
He said something then. I didn't understand it; it sounded like the same language he and the captain shared. He watched me closely as he spoke, searching my eyes and face. I couldn't very well prepare to show or not show any kind of response, as I had no idea what he was saying. I just looked back, waiting.
He switched again to accented Southron. "Where were you bound, when we took you?"
"Skandi." I saw no harm in honesty.
Something glinted in his eyes. "ioSkandi."
"Skandi." I shrugged. "That's all I know. Never been there before."
Ring-weighted brows rose consideringly. "Never?"
"Southroner," I answered. "Deep desert. Punja. Bred and born."
"No."
"Yes."
"Skandic." He sounded certain.
"Maybe," I said clearly, curious now as well as irritated. "Depending on what you intend to do with us, we may never find out--"
Without warning he clamped a hand over my right wrist. I felt the strong fingers close like wire, shutting off the blood.
I moved then, used strength and leverage, was free with one quick twist. He did not appear surprised; in fact, he smiled. And nodded, "lo."
No help for it but to ask it straight out. "What is this about?"
He looked from me to the deck. He squatted then, put out a hand, fingered the blood left by my reef-cut feet. Rose again, rubbing his thumb against the fingers. Then he turned the hand toward me and displayed it palm-out, blood-smeared fingers spread, "lo."
"You sick son of a--"
"You are sick," he interrupted. "Look at your arm."
Part of me wanted not to. But part of me decided to play the game his way until I understood it better, or at least knew if there were any rules. So I looked at my arm.
Around the wrist, where he'd shut his hand, the skin was blotched with a fast-rising, virulent rash. Even as I watched, astonished, clusters of small pustules formed, broke.
Wept.
"When you weary of emptying your belly," he said, "come to me."
I opened my mouth to reply, then turned and staggered to the rail. Where I promptly emptied my belly.
FIVE
DEL CAME looking for me, found me: perched again upon the rope coiled back at the stern. She stopped, arching eyebrows. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Any progress?"
"Progress at what?"
"With the captain."
"Oh. No. I mean--" With infinite care I examined a scrape across one kneecap. "--I'm not rushing it."
After a moment of silent perusal she squatted down so she could look into my face.
"What's the matter?"
I hitched a shoulder. "She's not exactly what I expected."
"No--I mean, what's the matter with you?"
I eyed her warily. "What do you mean, what's the matter with me?"
"You've been ill again. I can tell. You get this greenish tinge around your mouth, and your nose turns red."
I fingered the nose, frowning, then sighed and gave up. "I'm sick of being sick. This is ridiculous!"
Her mouth twitched. "And no aqivi to blame it on, either."
I peered at her hesitantly. "Do I feel hot to you?"
She felt my forehead, slipping hands beneath flopping hair. "No. Cold." She moved out of the squat, sat down next to me on the rope. "I still say something stung you."
"Maybe so." I sat with both arms
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