“Where did you learn about demon pacts, Verran?”
Verran looked away from Harp and rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I don’t know anything,” he insisted. Harp could tell he was lyingand doing it badly.
“I’m not angry,” Harp said. “Whatever your story is, you’ve clearly got skills we need. Besides, you wouldn’t believe what Boult told me earlier.”
Boult coughed, and Harp continued, “Men are entitled to their secrets, sure. But when it affects the safety of your crew, it’s time to put it in the open.”
“My father… was a warlock,” Verran said and stopped.
Harp noticed the tears forming in the boy’s eyes and decided the topic should be discussed with fewer people around.
“Good enough,” Harp said, raising his hand. He turned to talk to Cenhar. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I been dragged through all Nine Hells … No offense to you, Verran,” Cenhar said.
“Can you row the skiff back to the ship?” Harp asked.
“I don’t need to go back.”
“You’re ill,” Harp said firmly.
“My arm’s all right,” Cenhar said. He waggled his fingers as if to prove that everything worked. “But I don’t want to”
“Sleep on the ship,” Harp insisted. “Tell Llywellan what happened. He’ll keep an eye on you.”
“What if you have trouble?”
“We’re going to find the colony. We’ll come back to the ship and figure out our strategy together. No time for trouble.”
For a moment, Cenhar looked like he wanted to argue. Changing his mind he said, “Aye, captain.”
“Kitto, Boult, help him get the boat on the water.”
When the three men had moved away, Harp turned back to Verran.
“Your father was a warlock?” Harp prompted.
“Not at first. I loved my father, but he was … easy to persuade. He began studying with a man who had traveled everywhere searching for lost magics and artifacts. My father idolized him.”
“A sorcerer?” Harp asked.
Verran gave a noncommital shrug. “He was very charismatic, and his followers were utterly devoted to him. I’d never met someone who was so… strong-willed. Just a few words could convince you of things that, as I look back on it, made no sense.”
“You knew the man?”
Verran wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “Yes. My father used to take me to their gatherings, in the guts of a derelict
building. I was always the youngest one there.” He looked up at Harp. “They said it made me special.”
“You were a child, Verran,” Harp assured him. “You couldn’t have known any better.”
“Some things are horrible no matter how old you are.”
Harp took a deep breath. He and Verran had more in common than the boy thought.
“The man offered my father a deal,” Verran said.
“It’s one of the oldest stories,” Harp said grimly. “Men sell their freedom for power.”
“And it worked,” Verran said bitterly. “My father became very powerful. But he also changed. He’d been so happy, so cheerful, and suddenly it was like something black replaced his heart.”
“Spending too much time around death will do that to a man,” Harp agreed.
Verran shook his head. “It was more than that. I saw scars on his hands one night. Scars just like you have, only they were fresh,” Verran continued. “My father was so proud of them. Whatever he’d done had been a major accomplishment. Mama got so angry. I’d never seen her like that. She saw marks on his back. There were five of them, all in a row. Like … silhouettes of a shape that’s just a little too far away to recognize. The night when he got those scars, one of the … silhouettes … took a new shape. It was finished.”
“I don’t understand, Verran,” Harp said patiently. He knew the boy was trying his best to explain, but finding the right words to describe something evil was hard. Harp knew that as well as anyone.
“It was the pact. My father was given power. And he was expected to do certain tasks, part of a larger plan that none of
Verran looked away from Harp and rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I don’t know anything,” he insisted. Harp could tell he was lyingand doing it badly.
“I’m not angry,” Harp said. “Whatever your story is, you’ve clearly got skills we need. Besides, you wouldn’t believe what Boult told me earlier.”
Boult coughed, and Harp continued, “Men are entitled to their secrets, sure. But when it affects the safety of your crew, it’s time to put it in the open.”
“My father… was a warlock,” Verran said and stopped.
Harp noticed the tears forming in the boy’s eyes and decided the topic should be discussed with fewer people around.
“Good enough,” Harp said, raising his hand. He turned to talk to Cenhar. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I been dragged through all Nine Hells … No offense to you, Verran,” Cenhar said.
“Can you row the skiff back to the ship?” Harp asked.
“I don’t need to go back.”
“You’re ill,” Harp said firmly.
“My arm’s all right,” Cenhar said. He waggled his fingers as if to prove that everything worked. “But I don’t want to”
“Sleep on the ship,” Harp insisted. “Tell Llywellan what happened. He’ll keep an eye on you.”
“What if you have trouble?”
“We’re going to find the colony. We’ll come back to the ship and figure out our strategy together. No time for trouble.”
For a moment, Cenhar looked like he wanted to argue. Changing his mind he said, “Aye, captain.”
“Kitto, Boult, help him get the boat on the water.”
When the three men had moved away, Harp turned back to Verran.
“Your father was a warlock?” Harp prompted.
“Not at first. I loved my father, but he was … easy to persuade. He began studying with a man who had traveled everywhere searching for lost magics and artifacts. My father idolized him.”
“A sorcerer?” Harp asked.
Verran gave a noncommital shrug. “He was very charismatic, and his followers were utterly devoted to him. I’d never met someone who was so… strong-willed. Just a few words could convince you of things that, as I look back on it, made no sense.”
“You knew the man?”
Verran wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “Yes. My father used to take me to their gatherings, in the guts of a derelict
building. I was always the youngest one there.” He looked up at Harp. “They said it made me special.”
“You were a child, Verran,” Harp assured him. “You couldn’t have known any better.”
“Some things are horrible no matter how old you are.”
Harp took a deep breath. He and Verran had more in common than the boy thought.
“The man offered my father a deal,” Verran said.
“It’s one of the oldest stories,” Harp said grimly. “Men sell their freedom for power.”
“And it worked,” Verran said bitterly. “My father became very powerful. But he also changed. He’d been so happy, so cheerful, and suddenly it was like something black replaced his heart.”
“Spending too much time around death will do that to a man,” Harp agreed.
Verran shook his head. “It was more than that. I saw scars on his hands one night. Scars just like you have, only they were fresh,” Verran continued. “My father was so proud of them. Whatever he’d done had been a major accomplishment. Mama got so angry. I’d never seen her like that. She saw marks on his back. There were five of them, all in a row. Like … silhouettes of a shape that’s just a little too far away to recognize. The night when he got those scars, one of the … silhouettes … took a new shape. It was finished.”
“I don’t understand, Verran,” Harp said patiently. He knew the boy was trying his best to explain, but finding the right words to describe something evil was hard. Harp knew that as well as anyone.
“It was the pact. My father was given power. And he was expected to do certain tasks, part of a larger plan that none of
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