attempt to recreate the Wit-scroll by Skillmaster Leftwell, from the burned fragments discovered in a wall of Buckkeep Castle
I managed to get all the way to the next morning before I vomited myself. I lost count of how many times I held onto Thick while he leaned far over the railing and retched hopelessly at the sea. The taunting of the sailors did not help matters, and if I had dared leave his side, I’d have taken some satisfaction from one or two of them. It was not congenial mockery of a landsman with no stomach for the sea. There was an ugly undercurrent to it, like crows drawn to torment a single eagle. Thick was different, a dimwit with a clumsy body, and they gleefully delighted in his misery as proof that he was inferior to them. Even when a few other miserable souls joined us at the railing, Thick took the brunt of their teasing.
It diminished briefly when the Prince and Chade took an evening stroll out on the decks. The Prince seemed invigorated by the sea air and his freedom from Buckkeep. As he stood by Thick and spoke to him in low tones, Chade contrived to set his hand on the railing touching mine. His back was to me and he appeared to be nodding to the Prince’s conversation with his man.
How is he?
Sick as a dog and miserable. Chade, the sailors’ mockery makes it worse.
I feared as much. But if Dutiful notices and rebukes them, the captain will come down on them as well. You know what will follow.
Yes. They’ll find every private opportunity to make life hell for Thick.
Exactly. So try to ignore it for now. I expect it will wear off once they become accustomed to seeing him about the ship. Anything you need?
A blanket or two. And a bucket of fresh water, so he can wash his mouth out.
So I remained at Thick’s side through the long and weary night, to protect him lest the taunting become physical as well as to keep him from falling overboard in his misery. Twice I tried to take him inside the cabin. Each time we did not get more than three steps from the railing before he was retching. Even when there was nothing left in his belly for him to bring up, he refused to go inside. The sea grew rougher as the night progressed, and by dawn we had a wind-driven rain soaking us as well as the flying spray from the tips of the whitecaps. Wet and cold, he still refused to budge from the railing. ‘You can puke in a bucket,’ I told him. ‘Inside, where it’s warm!’
‘No, no, I’m too sick to move,’ he groaned repeatedly. He had fixed his mind on his seasickness, and was determined to be miserable. I could think of no way to deal with it, except to let him follow it to its extreme and then be done with it. Surely, when he was miserable enough, he’d go inside.
Shortly after dawn, Riddle brought food for me. I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the naïve and affable young man truly was in Chade’s employ and assigned to assist me. If so, I wished he wasn’t, yet I was grateful for the pannikin of mush he brought me. Thick was hungry, despite his nausea, and we shared the food. That was a mistake, for the sight of it leaving Thick shortly after that inspired my own belly to be parted from what I had eaten.
That seemed to be the only thing that cheered Thick that morning.
‘See. Everyone’s going to be sick. We should go back to Buckkeep now.’
‘We can’t, little man. We must go on, to the Out Islands, so the Prince can slay a dragon and win the Narcheska’s hand.’
Thick sighed heavily. He was beginning to shake with the cold despite the blankets that swaddled him. ‘I don’t even like her. I don’t think Prince likes her either. She can keep her hand. Let’s just go home.’
At the moment, I agreed with him but dared not say so.
He went on. ‘I hate this ship, and I wish I’d never come.’
Odd, how a man can become so accustomed to something that he no longer senses it. It was only when Thick spoke the words aloud that I realized how deeply they echoed his wild Skilling-song. All night it had battered my walls, a song made of flapping canvas, creaking lines and timbers and the slap of the waves against the hull. Thick had transformed them into a song of resentment and fear, of misery and cold and boredom. He had taken every negative emotion that a sailor might feel for a ship, and was blasting it out in an anthem of anger. I could put my walls up and remain unaffected by it. Some of the sailors who crewed the Maiden’s Chance were not so fortunate. Not all were sensitive to the Skill, yet for those who were, the unrest would be acute. And in the close quarters, it would quickly affect their fellows.
I spent a few moments watching the crew at work. The current watch moved among their tasks effectively but resentfully. Their competence had an angry edge to it, and the mate who drove them from task to task watched with an eagle’s eye for the slightest sign of slackness or idleness. The congeniality I had glimpsed when they were loading the ship was gone, and I sensed their discord building.
Like a nest of hornets that felt the thud of the axe echoing from the tree trunk below, they were stirred to a buzzing anger that had, as yet, no target. Yet if their general fury continued to mount, we could well be faced with brawls or worse, a mutiny. I was watching a pot come to a seething boil, knowing that if I did nothing, we’d all be scalded.
Thick. Your music is very loud right now. And very scary. Can you make it different? Calm. Soft like your mothersong?
‘I can’t!’ He moaned the words as he Skilled them. ‘I’m too sick.’
Thick, you’re frightening the sailors. They don’t know where the song comes from. They can’t hear it, but some of them can feel it, a little bit. It’s making them upset.
‘I don’t care. They’re mean to me anyway. They should make this ship go back.’
They can’t, Thick. They have to obey the captain, and the captain has to do what the Prince tells him. And the Prince must go to the Out Islands.
‘Prince should make them go back. I’ll get off and stay at Buckkeep.’
But Thick, we need you.
‘I’m dying, I think. We should go back.’ And with that thought, his Skill-music swept to a crescendo of fear and despair. Nearby, a team of sailors had been hauling on a line to put on yet more canvas. Their loose trousers flapped in the constant wind, but they didn’t seem to notice it. Muscles bulged in their bare arms as they methodically hauled on the sheets. But as Thick’s despondent song soaked them their rhythm faltered. The front man took more weight than he could manage, and stumbled forward with an angry shout. In an instant, the sailors had regained control of the line, but I had seen enough.
I sought the Prince with my mind. He was playing stones in his cabin with Civil. Swiftly I relayed my problem to him. Can you pass this on to Chade?
Not easily. He’s right here, watching the play, but so are Web and his boy.
Web has a boy?
That Swift boy.
Swift Witted is on board?
Do you know him? He came on board with Web and seems to serve him as a page serves a master. Why? Is that important?
Only to me, I thought. I grimaced with frustration. Later. But as soon as you can, tell Chade. Can you reach to Thick and calm him?
I’ll try. Drat! You distracted me and Civil just won!
I think this is more important than a game of stones! I replied testily and broke the contact. Thick was sitting on the deck at my feet, his eyes closed, swaying miserably, his music a queasy accompaniment to the rhythm of his body. It was not the only thing making me feel sick. I’d promised Nettle that her brother was on his way back to her. He wasn’t. What was I to say to her? I set it aside as something I couldn’t solve