deadly in combat, knowledgeable of diplomacy, and had the quick-witted and sarcastic personality that Nicodemus preferred. Nicodemus had often sent back emissaries who were aloof, sycophantic, or humorless. Leandra and Francesca had expressed similar preferences for their emissaries and counselors.
This thought lead Nicodemus to briefly reflect on his family. When Leandra was young, they had been together always and relished one another’s sharp wit, ironic humor, and proclivity for wordplay. But then the demands of league and a disastrous disagreement between Francesca and Leandra had scattered the family. Now each of them had re-created their family’s culture within their own entourage.
The last of the flamefly paragraphs burned out and returned the hold to darkness. Nicodemus’s ruminations about family faded as his leg began to ache where it was jammed against the barrel. Worse, the heat and stale air made him sweat profusely. Time dragged on.
Nicodemus was wondering if he should sneak abovedeck to see what the pirates were doing when he heard an oar’s splash. The sound came again and Nicodemus felt his stomach tighten. Time passed even more slowly. Another splash, a low whisper and then—as much felt as heard—the hush of a keel sliding on sand. Had the river pirates brought in the second boat? Moments later soft footfalls sounded on the deck.
The boat rocked and then glided backward. The splashing oars sounded again. Nicodemus supposed the river pirates were using the canoes to haul the boats out.
Creaking sounded from the stairs. Nicodemus turned to see a dark figure stepping down from the deck. Blue moonlight revealed glimpses of a young woman, bared wet shoulders, hair braided back, a long knife in her right hand, peering into the darkness.
Nicodemus wondered if she were a spellwright and if she would cast a luminescent spell to inspect cargo. If so he’d have to kill her silently. But long moments passed, the River Thief’s devotee looked from side to side, but she cast no light. Not a spellwright then. She turned and hurried back up the stairs.
Nicodemus fought the urge to move as water continued to splash against the hull. Finally the sensation of acceleration lessened. The splashing oars changed tempo. Someone called out soft commands. Something thumped against the hull and the deck rang with more footsteps. One of the stranger vessels had closed with their boat.
Suddenly Nicodemus realized that he had not told Sir Claude when to start his Wounded Bird routine. Now—when the raiders were preoccupied with boarding and before they organized themselves to loot the hold—would be perfect. Worried that Sir Claude would miss the opportunity, Nicodemus cast a single flamefly paragraph. The incandescent light it shed revealed a scene that made Nicodemus breathe easier.
The highsmith had crawled from his hiding place and opened his Canticle of Iron. The spellbook’s metallic sheets had come alive and were folding themselves into an animated suit of armor around the knight. Each sheet was covered with the highsmith magical language, which functioned only within metal. Like all knights of the Oriflamme, Sir Claude had mastered the variations of a half dozen spells that composed such metallolinguistic armor.
Two razor thin swords grew from Sir Claude’s fists. An angular helmet folded around his head, leaving only a thin slit for vision. Thus armored, a Lornish knight was one of the most dangerous combatants in the six human kingdoms.
As Nicodemus’s flamefly paragraph burnt out, Sir Claude crept to the base of the stairs and then, as silent as a trained assassin, charged up to the deck. The knight’s armor accelerated his steps to inhuman speed.
Not a moment after the knight disappeared from Nicodemus’s view, a scream broke the night’s quiet. Two blows sounded on the deck and then a splash, which Nicodemus supposed was that of a body striking water. A chorus of voices rose in alarm.
Nicodemus crawled out of his hiding place and made for the stairs. Up through the hatch, he saw a single dark figure clutching a boarding ax. The man raised the weapon and charged toward the bow.
Nicodemus pulled free the first few sentences of a disspell written across his left chest. Pain seared through his skin as the spell spread across his body, covering him in a protective text that would attack any other magical text that touched him. This combined with his cacography would make him briefly impervious to most any godspell. Soon every patch of Nicodemus’s skin shone with the disspell’s violet light.
Screams and crashes sounded from the bow. There was a sudden crack and the boat lurched. The neodemon had joined the fray. Nicodemus ran up the steps.
After the hold’s blackness, the wide and starry sky above the glossy river dazzled. Nicodemus glanced forward and saw a fountain of white light; the glare outlined the metallic Sir Claude as a pirate swung a boarding ax against the knight’s armored back. The blade clanged against steel. Sir Claude spun with inhuman quickness and ran his left sword through the pirate’s gut.
No one noticed Nicodemus as he sprinted to the stern, planted his foot on the gunnel, and dove out over the water. He had just enough time, suspended above the dark currents, to extend his arms and put his head down. Then the shock of water and deceleration, diving deep. He arched his back and coursed upward, his long hair streaming.
When his head broke surface, Nicodemus turned and began to overhand stroke back toward the stolen boat. The disspells covering his body began to churn faster and their luminosity grew. No doubt the water was laced with the River Thief’s godspells. So long as his disspells lasted, Nicodemus would burn through such texts. The River Thief would now be aware of Nicodemus’s approach but unable to stop him.
Or so Nicodemus had thought. Not two strokes from the boat, Nicodemus felt his disspells deconstruct. Paragraphs snapped with audible cracks and flaked off like old paint. In moments, he was swimming linguistically naked. He took one more stroke and was reaching for the barge when the currents around him erupted into a fury of force and foam.
The water became gelatinous. Somewhere on the boat sounded three detonations. Something hard locked around Nicodemus’s feet and yanked him underwater.
Pulled down through ten feet of limpid river, Nicodemus stretched his arms up toward the vanishing light and wondered if he were, after all, a fool for testing his first rule of fighting with a water god.
Or, for that matter, his second rule.
A geyser of light erupted from somewhere above water. Nicodemus’s ears rang with the sound of his own voice. When an envoy first joined his party, he would sometimes test the newcomer about different types of neodemons. “What,” he would ask, “is first rule of bringing down any water god?”
When the envoy did not know the answer, John and Doria—who had heard his lectures many times—would reply in monotone, “Don’t get in the God-of-god’s damned water.”
Nicodemus would nod and ask, “And what is the second rule of bringing down any water god?”
His followers would flatly reply, “Don’t get into the God-of-god’s damned water.”
As Nicodemus’s world dissolved into blackness, he prayed for an exception to prove his rules.
Nicodemus thought he was still drowning in the river when he found himself hanging upside down on his stolen barge. Water dripped into his eyes, blurred his vision, plastered his long hair to his face. A soft green light shone behind him.
Inversion filled Nicodemus’s head with pressure while strange texts blunted his thoughts, preventing him from spellwrighting. It seemed the neodemon had cast several censoring spells around his mind—several because Nicodemus’s cacography was slowly dispelling the texts in direct contact with him. If he focused on misspelling, he could accelerate their deconstruction. But for the moment, it served his purposes to appear harmless.
“You are censored and bound by the feet,” announced a calm female voice. “I wouldn’t attempt to free your body or mind unless you’d like to be formally introduced to excruciating