Engines and werewolves

Chapter 59

But the last time we met—I can’t believe I’m even thinking this—I put my blade through his skull. So I can’t imagine he’d be well-disposed to me, if he were still hanging around. Which he’s not.

And then there’s this … thing in my chest. The gray thread stretches out of me and curves off into the dark, shifting slightly as though with an intangible breeze but always pointing in the same direction. I’m supposed to follow it, which makes even less sense than anything else. If Grog is here, how in the Rot does he know the way back to the Stern?

I never even asked. That thing, that presence, rooted around in my mind, and apparently didn’t like what it found.

But—

I put my head between my hands and groan, fingers digging into my hair. No matter how many times I go over it, it doesn’t make any rotting sense.

Maybe I am going mad.

Eventually, I have to get up. Marvel is waiting, unprotected. That thought gets me worried enough that I hurry through my preparations, grabbing what I need from the wreckage of the village before heading back the way I came.

When I finally get there, Marvel is asleep beside the pool. I kneel to check on her, worried, but she just seems cold and exhausted. I’m tired, too, but after what happened inside the wall I don’t even think of sleep. I’m not sure I could pass another quiet night in this place.

Instead, I get to work on my supplies. I brought one of the larger crab shells from the ruined village, a few of the long, flexible dried mushroom poles from the buildings, and as many intact scraps of fabric as I could manage. Being a Melos adept, fortunately, means never being without a handy cutting tool. I start slashing and tying, and by the time Marvel wakes up I’m nearly finished.

“Good morning,” I tell her. “Or whatever it is.”

“Morning.” Marvel yawns, sits up, winces, and puts her hands on her leg.

“How do you feel?”

“About the same.” She takes a deep breath. “Better, now that you’re back.”

“We’re getting out of here.”

“You found something?” Marvel looks at my project and frowns. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story.” And how in the Rot am I supposed to explain that a boy I murdered turned up to give me a helping hand? “I found a ruined wilder village, and I think I might know how to get out of here. This”—I gesture—“is to help me bring you along.”

Marvel looks at the crude construction, tilts her head, then laughs. “I get it. It’s like a sled.”

“More or less.”

I’ve lashed two long poles to the dish-shaped crab shell, which is large enough for Marvel to sit in. When I take the poles in hand, I can more or less drag the whole contraption across the sand. It’s not elegant, but it’s easier than carrying her.

I hand her a couple of other poles that I’ve cut to roughly the height of her armpits. “You might be able to use these for crutches, too. I don’t know how far we’ll have to go.”

“Very thoughtful,” Marvel says. “You’re practically an expert at this.”

I bark a laugh. “Believe me, I’m making it up as I go along.”

We have only the one canteen between us, and I don’t know when we’ll find more freshwater, so we both drink from the pool until we’re squelching. Marvel puts the rest of the half-cooked crab meat in the shell, then climbs in herself, and I pick up the poles.

“What can I do to help?” Marvel says.

“Just don’t move too much.” I shift my grip until I find something comfortable. “Here goes nothing.”

After a few false starts, my rigged-up travois actually works fairly well. The most difficult part is coming down the shallow slope on the face of each dune, where the thing has a tendency to slide and tug me sideways, but I learn to walk a little faster to get ahead of it. I don’t ignite my blades, the better to see the tiny thread of gray light. For Marvel, it must feel like we’re hiking through the darkness with no guide at all, but she doesn’t question me.

Not on that subject, at least. After a while, she says, “You were telling me about yourself, the other night, before I fell asleep.”

I grunt, hoping responding in monosyllables will keep her from getting too interested. But she persists, and I have to admit that talking is easier than trying not to think at all. So I end up going over my life story, one little piece at a time. I leave out some of the details, and my capture by the Immortals and the aftermath, but that still leaves Marvel with a thousand questions.

What’s hardest for her to understand is how mage-born are treated in the Empire. Things in Nimar are very different, apparently.

“Why would you have to hide being a Melos adept?” she says. “With that kind of power, couldn’t you find a job better than a ward boss?”

I shrug, as best I can while holding the poles. “Mage-born owe their lives to the Emperor’s service. According to the Emperor, anyway, and since he’s got the army his is the vote that counts. Mage-born from the noble families get trained and serve in different ways, according to their talents. For them it’s supposed to be a great honor. If you’re a commoner and they catch you young, then you might get adopted by a noble family or sent to the Legions. But if they think you’re too old to be trained properly, then their only real use for you is as breeding stock.”