Deadhouse Landing

He found the mage half sunk in the sand. ‘What in the Abyss…?’ He threw himself down and frantically started digging.

‘It has me,’ Kellanved hissed in pain.

‘What does? Some thing?’

‘No. The island. It’s what it does.’

‘Quit babbling – we’ll have you out.’ He dug down deep, then pulled, but couldn’t get him free.

‘Pull!’ Kellanved gasped. ‘It has me!’

Realizing that something very terrifying was happening to his friend, Dancer slipped his arms under the lad’s, adjusted his footing, and yanked, straightening his legs with all his might.

Kellanved yelled his pain, writhing and puffing.

They fell backwards, Kellanved on top.

Hairlock appeared, peering down at them, frowning his impatience. ‘Let’s go,’ he urged. ‘This is no time to be lying about.’

Both Dancer and Kellanved nodded. Dancer helped his friend limp down to the surf and the waiting boat.

*   *   *

They paddled all night and through the next day. After that they took turns. By day the sun pounded down mercilessly. Dancer’s lips cracked so severely he could taste his blood with every swallow. Hairlock sweated so badly he was the first to faint from dehydration. Kellanved simply sat back with his shirt held up over his head, dozing. Dancer tried to follow his example but kept starting awake as the narrow boat rocked in the waves.

He lost count of the days after seven – or perhaps eight, he wasn’t certain. In any case one day he found himself blinking up at a new face: a concerned fellow, deeply tanned, with a scraggy beard, peering down at him. Moisture wet his lips and he swallowed, grateful if pained by its passage down his throat.

When he next awoke he saw that he was aboard a fishing vessel, along with Kellanved and Hairlock. One of the crew passed by and handed him a waterskin. He took it with a nod of gratitude.

‘Who are you?’ the fellow asked in an odd accent.

‘Our ship went down,’ Dancer said, his voice hardly recognizable even to himself, so hoarse was it.

‘Is that so?’ the fellow said, nodding sagely. ‘And you three such obvious sailors.’

‘Where do you sail from?’ Dancer asked – eager to change the subject.

‘Delanss. In the Falari archipelago.’

‘We will pay for passage.’

The fellow gave a small motion as if to say: It’s of no matter. ‘We are all men of the sea here. We understand.’ He patted Dancer’s shoulder. ‘Say no more about it.’

Dancer managed to take his hand and squeeze it. ‘You have our gratitude.’ In answer the fisherman pressed the waterskin into his fingers.

*   *   *

In the days that followed the seven Falari fishermen were repaid in laughter at the antics of their guests. Over and over the three heaved up buckets of seawater and emptied them over one another – all to the great amusement of the crew. They scoured their skin, their hair, their ears. They scrounged the oldest and most torn clothes the crew could spare and threw their own clothes overboard. Many of the fishermen tapped fingers to their temples and shook their heads, thinking it a shame that the sun had seared their guests’ minds.

After four days of painful scouring, his skin raw and red, his hair hacked short and scraped clean, Dancer took a borrowed knife and sat back against the side, scraping any remaining dirt and grime from beneath his nails. Kellanved was leaning over the side, one nostril blocked, snorting his nose clear. Coughing, he hawked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat into the waves. ‘Tonight, I think,’ he informed Dancer.

‘Good. We’ve been away too long.’

Hairlock was sitting on a heap of old rope, his rags no more than a tattered shirt and shorts; the squat, burly mage looked like an ogre that had eaten a child and now wore its clothes. He had one foot up across the opposite knee and was scouring the sole with a stone.

‘Tonight,’ Dancer called to him.

The man grunted, scraping his foot, fiercely intent.

‘Come with us, yes?’

The man set his foot down, wincing. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘I have unfinished business in Seven Cities.’

‘People to track down, you mean,’ Dancer clarified.

The mage nodded, quite unconcerned. ‘That’s right.’

‘Well … if we succeed at getting out of here, look us up in Malaz.’

The man’s wide mouth turned down in puzzlement. ‘Where?’

‘Malaz. It’s an island south of Quon Tali.’

Hairlock grunted, unimpressed, and turned to scouring his other foot.

*   *   *

Later, when the majority of the crew had bedded down among the ropes and duffels and heaped canvas that crowded the open boat, Dancer and Kellanved met Hairlock at the bows. They shook hands with the Seven Cities mage and then Dancer looked at his partner. ‘Well?’

Kellanved let out an anxious breath. ‘Yes. Well, here goes.’

Dancer felt that prickling of his hairs and skin that marked an active Warren. He waved a farewell to the one lone fisherman who was regarding them with his brows clenched in puzzlement where he leaned on the side-mounted tiller … and lost his footing as things changed.