Fool's Fate (17 page)

    “Perhaps,” I said dully. Despite the Prince's conversation with Thick, I sensed no lessening of his discordant music. It wore on my spirits. By an effort of will, I could convince myself that Thick's nausea was not mine, but it was a constant effort.

    “Are you sure you don't want to come back to the cabin?” Dutiful was asking him.

    “No. The floor goes up and down.”

    The Prince was puzzled. “The deck moves up and down here, too.”

    It was Thick's turn to be confused. “No it doesn't. The boat goes up and down on the water. It's not as bad.”

    “I see.” I saw Dutiful surrender any hope of explaining it to Thick. “In either case, you'll soon get used to it and the seasickness will go away.”

    “No it won't,” Thick replied darkly. “Sada said that everyone will say that, but it isn't true. She got sick every time she went on a boat and it never went away. So she wouldn't come with me.”

    I was beginning to dislike Sada and I'd never even met the woman.

    “Well. Sada is wrong,” Chade declared briskly.

    “No she isn't,” Thick replied stubbornly. “See. I'm still sick.” And he leaned out over the railing again, retching dryly.

    “He'll get over it,” Chade said, but he did not sound as confident as he had.

    “Do you have any herbs that might help him?” I asked. “Ginger, perhaps?”

    Chade halted. “An excellent idea, Badgerlock. And I do believe I have some. I'll have the cook make him a strong ginger tea and send it up to you.”

    When the tea arrived, it smelled as much of valerian and sleepbalm as it did of ginger. I approved of Chade's thought. Sleep might be the best cure for Thick's determined seasickness. When I offered it to him, I firmly told him that it was a well-known sailor's antidote to seasickness, and that it was certain to work for him. He still regarded it doubtfully; I suppose my words did not carry as much weight as Sada's opinion. He sipped it, decided he liked the ginger, and downed the whole cup. Unfortunately, a moment later he spewed it up just as swiftly as it had gone down. Some of it went up his nose, the ginger scalding the sensitive skin, and that made him adamantly refuse to try any more, even in tiny sips.

    I had been on board for two days. Already it seemed like six months.

    The sun eventually broke through the clouds, but the wind and flying spray snatched away whatever warmth it promised. Huddled in a damp wool blanket, Thick fell into a fitful sleep. He twitched and moaned through nightmares swept with his song of seasickness. I sat beside him on the wet deck, sorting my worries into useless piles. It was there that Web found me.

    I looked up at him and he nodded gravely down at me. Then he stood by the rail and lifted his eyes. I followed his gaze to a seabird sweeping lazy arcs across the sky behind us. I had never met the creature, but I knew she must be Risk. The Wit-bond between man and bird seemed a thing woven of blue sky and wild water, at once calm and free. I basked in the edges of their shared pleasure in the day, trying to ignore how it whetted the edge of my loneliness. Here was the Wit Magic at its most natural, a mutual bond of pleasure and respect between man and beast. His heart flew with her. I could sense their communion and imagine how she shared her joyous flight with him.

    It was only when my muscles relaxed that I realized how tense I had been. Thick sank into a deeper sleep and some of the frown eased from his face. The wind in his Skill-song took on a less ominous note. The calm that emanated from Web had touched us both, but my awareness of that came slowly. His warm serenity pooled around me, diluting my anxiety and weariness. If this was the Wit, he was using it in a way I'd never experienced before. This was as simple and natural as the warmth of breath. I found myself smiling up at him and he returned the smile, his teeth flashing white through his beard.

    “It's a fine day for prayer. But then, most days are.”

    “That's what you were doing? Praying?” At his nod, I asked, “For what do you petition the gods?”

    He raised his brows. “Petition?”

    “Isn't that what prayer is? Begging the gods to give you what you want?”

    He laughed, his voice deep as a booming wind, but kinder. “I suppose that is how some men pray. Not I. Not anymore.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Oh, I think that children pray so, to find a lost doll or that Father will bring home a good haul of fish, or that no one will discover a forgotten chore. Children think they know what is best for themselves, and do not fear to ask the divine for it. But I have been a man for many years, and I should be shamed if I did not know better by now.”

    I eased my back into a more comfortable position against the railing. I suppose if you are used to the swaying of a ship, it might be restful. My muscles constantly fought against it, and I was beginning to ache in every limb. “So. How does a man pray, then?”

    He looked on me with amusement, then levered himself down to sit beside me. “Don't you know? How do you pray, then?”

    “I don't.” And then I rethought, and laughed aloud. “Unless I'm terrified. Then I suppose I pray as a child does. 'Get me out of this, and I'll never be so stupid again. Just let me live.' ”

    He laughed with me. “Well, it looks as if, so far, your prayers have been granted. And have you kept your promise to the divine?”

    I shook my head, smiling ruefully. “I'm afraid not. I just find a new direction to be foolish in.”

    “Exactly. So do we all. Hence, I've learned I am not wise enough to ask the divine for anything.”

    “So. How do you pray then, if you are not asking for something?”

    “Ah. Well, prayer for me is more listening than asking. And, after all these years, I find I have but one prayer left. It has taken me a lifetime to find my prayer, and I think it is the same one that all men find, if they but ponder on it long enough.”

    “And that is?”

    “Think about it,” he bade me with a smile. He stood slowly and gazed out over the water. Behind us, the sails of the following ships were puffed out like the throats of courting pigeons. They were, in their way, a lovely sight. “I've always loved the sea. I was on boats since before I could speak. It saddens me that your friend's experience of it must be so uncomfortable. Please tell him that it will pass.”

    “I've tried. I don't think he can believe me.”

    “A pity. Well, best of luck to you, then. Perhaps when he wakes, he'll feel better.”

    He began to walk away, but I remembered abruptly that I had other business with him. I came to my feet and called after him. “Web? Did Swift come aboard with you? The boy we spoke of before?”

    He halted and turned to my question. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

    I beckoned him closer and he came. “You recall that he is the boy that I asked you to talk with, the one who is Witted?”

    “Of course. That was why I was so pleased when he came to me and offered to be my 'page' if I would take him on and teach him. As if I even knew what a page is supposed to do!” He laughed at such nonsense, and then sobered at my serious face. “What is it?”

    “I had sent him home. I discovered that he did not have his parents' permission to be at Buckkeep at all. They think that he has run away, and are greatly grieved by his disappearance.”

    Web stood still and silent, digesting this news, his face showing no expression. Then he shook his head regretfully. “It must be a terrible thing for someone you love to vanish, and leave you always wondering what became of him.”

    An image of Patience sprang into my mind; I wondered if he had intended that his words prick me. Perhaps not, but the possible criticism made me irritable all the same. “I told Swift to go home. He owes his parents his labor until he either reaches his majority or is released by them.”

    “So some say,” Web said, in a tone that indicated he might disagree. “But there are ways parents can betray a child, and then I think the youngster owes them nothing. I think that children who are mistreated are wise to leave as swiftly as they can.”

    “Mistreated? I knew Swift's father for many years. Yes, he will give a lad a cuff or a sharp word, if the boy has earned it. But if Swift claims he was beaten or neglected at home, then I fear that he lies. That is not Burrich's way.” My heart sank that the boy could have spoken so of his father.

    Web shook his head slowly. He glanced at Thick to assure himself that the man was still sleeping and spoke softly. “There are other types of neglect and deprivation. To deny what unfolds inside someone, to forbid the magic that comes unbidden, to impose ignorance in a way that invites danger, to say to a child, 'You must not be what you are.' That is wrong.” His voice was gentle but the condemnation was without compassion.

    “He raises his son as he was raised,” I replied stiffly. It felt odd to defend him, for I had so often railed against Burrich for what he had done to me.

    “And he learned nothing. Not from having to deal with his own ignorance, not from what it did to the first lad he treated so. I try to pity him, but when I consider all that could have been, had you been properly educated from the time you were small--”

    “He did well by me!” I snapped. “He took me to his side when no one else would have me, and I'll not hear ill spoken of him.”

    Web took a step back from me. A shadow passed over his face. “Murder in your eyes,” he muttered.

    The words were like being doused with cold water. But before I could ask what he meant by them, he nodded to me gravely. “Perhaps we shall speak again of this. Later.” And he turned and paced away from me. I recognized his walk. It was not flight. It was how Burrich would withdraw from an animal that had learned viciousness from bad treatment and had to be slowly retrained. It shamed me.

    Slowly I sat down beside Thick again. I leaned back against the railing and closed my eyes. Perhaps I could doze a bit while he slept. But it seemed I had no sooner closed my eyes than his nightmare threatened me. Closing my eyes was like venturing downstairs into the noisy, smoky common room of a cheap inn. Thick's nauseous music swirled up into my mind, while his fears amplified the roll of the ship into a terrifying series of plunges and leaps without a pattern. I opened my eyes. Enduring sleeplessness was better than being swallowed by that bad dream.

    Riddle brought me a pan of salty stew and a mug of watery beer while Thick still dozed. He'd brought his own rations as well, probably to enjoy eating on deck rather than in the cramped hold below. When I started to waken Thick to share the food, Riddle stopped me. “Let the poor moron sleep. If he's fortunate enough to be able to, he's the envy of every guardsman below.”

    “And why is that?”

    He lifted one shoulder in a hapless shrug. “I can't say. Perhaps it's just the close quarters. But tempers are tight, and no one's sleeping well. Half of them are avoiding food for fear it won't stay down, and some of them are seasoned travelers. If you do manage to doze off, someone shouting out in a dream wakes you. Perhaps in a few days things will settle down. Right now, I'd rather stand in a pit surrounded by snarling dogs than go back down there. There were two fistfights just a moment ago, over who got fed first.”

    I nodded sagely, trying to conceal my anxiety. “I'm sure things will settle in a day or so. The first few days of a voyage are always difficult.” I was lying through my teeth. Usually the first few days were the best, while the journey was still a novelty and before the tedium set in. Thick's dreams were poisoning the guards' sleep. I tried to be congenial while waiting for Riddle to leave. As soon as he took our empty dishes and departed, I leaned over and shook Thick awake. He sat up with a wail like a startled child.

    “Shush, now. You're not hurt. Thick, listen to me. No, shush and listen. This is important. You have to stop your music, or at least make it quieter.”

    His face was wrinkled like a prune, with anger and hurt feelings that I had so roughly awakened him. Tears stood in his little round eyes. “I can't!” he wailed. “I'm going to die!”

    The men working on deck turned scowling faces our way. One muttered angrily and made a sign against ill luck toward us. On some level, they knew the source of their uneasiness. He snuffled and sulked as I talked to him, but firmly resisted any suggestion that he could either dampen his song, or overcome his seasickness and fear. I became fully aware of the strength of his wild Skilling only when I tried to reach the Prince through the cacophony of Thick's emotions. Chade and the Prince had probably increased the strength of their walls without even noticing they were doing so. Skilling to them was like shouting into a blizzard.

    When Dutiful realized how difficult it was for him to understand me, I felt panic touch him. He was in the midst of a meal and could not graciously leave. Even so, he found some way to make Chade aware of our crisis. They brought the meal to a hasty end and hastened out on deck to us.

    By then, Thick had dozed off again. Chade spoke quietly. “I can mix a powerful sleeping draught and we can force it down him.”

    The Prince winced. “I'd rather not. Thick does not soon forget ill-treatment. Besides, what would we gain from it? He sleeps now, and still his song is enough to torment the dead.”

    “Perhaps if I put him into a very deep sleep--” Chade ventured uncertainly.

    “We'd be risking his life,” I interrupted. “With no assurance that his song would stop.”

    “We have only one option,” the Prince said quietly. “Turn back and take him home. Put him off the ship.”

    “We can't!” Chade was aghast. “We'll lose too many days. And we may need Thick's strength, when we actually confront the dragon.”

    “Lord Chade, we are seeing the full effects of Thick's strength now. And we are seeing that it is not disciplined, nor controlled by us.” There was a new note in the Prince's voice, a monarch's tone. It reminded me of Verity, and his carefully weighted words. It made me smile and that earned me an odd frown from the Prince. I hastened to clarify my own thoughts.