Asunder: A Gathering of Chaos by Cameron Hopkin (children's ebooks free online .txt) 📕

Offended, the thick little man scowled at him. “I’ll do no such thing. We’ll figure something out. I’m right sorry about the whole thing, truly… but I’d skin my own mother for a chance like this.”

Some opportunities were not to be missed, no matter the cost, and any warrior of the Black Isle knew it well. “Do you think she survived?” Gamarron asked softly.

The captain took a sighting off the distant wake of the sea serpent and spun the ship’s wheel a bit to follow. “The boatswain? Maybe. Hope so. She’s one for the books, that girl.” He sucked at his teeth sourly and sighed. “It’s not likely. But if she held on after impact, and if the beast breaks the surface every now and then… the mask will give her a few extra minutes underwater. We’ll see.” He was silent for a long minute, and the pressure built in Gamarron’s chest. “I’ve got a Weaver-made dinghy stowed up on the poop deck for emergencies. Lads’ll help you get her in the water. We’ll load you up with water, food, and a spare sextant. Two weeks will get you there if the weather holds, but you’ll be mighty sore and sick of rowing.”

“Eight days,” said the monk grimly. “Give me the boat. We’ll be there in eight days.”

Less than fifteen minutes later Gamarron and Kest were lowered into the glassy sea from the port quarter of Serpentslip. If it could have been done faster, he’d have preferred it. Every minute they delayed carried them further to the south, further from the next step. But they had water and food and a pair of oars, and that was sufficient. Kest had threatened to stay on this ship once he realized it was heading back in the direction of the isle of Pacari, but the older monk had foreshortened the conversation by gripping hard on the lad’s shoulder right at the point where the clavicle was broken. The boy had shown admirable stubbornness even in the face of that pain, insisting that he would do as he pleased, but when he’d pushed in harder with his fingers, his face had gone pale and he acquiesced. There is a conversation between him and me that has yet to be finished. Perhaps next time around I can be a shade wiser in how I approach it.

Serpentslip pulled away from them quickly, and from their vantage point the viscous boiling sound of the ship’s propulsion could be clearly heard. “I’ll never know what’s down there now, I suppose,” muttered Kest. He watched the ship recede with undisguised longing. Not for the mystery of the ship’s hold, Gamarron knew, but for the comforts of home, and for a time when he knew what was coming next. The old monk could scarcely remember such a time in his own life. Although, in one sense, he knew exactly what was coming next: rowing. He unshipped the oars from their slots and affixed them to the rowlocks on each side. The Weaver boat had been nothing but a compact square when it had been stowed on the ship, but at the touch of water it had unfolded like a flower and easily fit them both. The Weavers may peddle fantasy and call it religion, but their Hands do make interesting toys.

Kest reclined onto the pillow of supplies he’d made for himself in the bow. “Normally I’d be happy to take a turn,” he said, a hint of satisfaction in his tone, “but it seems I’ve got a broken bone.”

Gamarron accepted the jab with a bow of his head. “I have no fate but the one I have made. I will row.” The boy eyed him skeptically but said nothing. “The exertion will do me good. It is one of the first things I was taught when I began my training: anything that is necessary is not to be regretted. We should both remember it.”

He could see the young hunter mulling over a retort, but thankfully he thought better of it and settled into his perch. Gamarron nodded, pleased. There was much of worth in the lad despite their conflict. And with that positive thought, he shifted the muscles of his shoulders into the ideal angle for rowing, sealed the moisture into his skin, let his heart rise to two beats per breath, and dipped the oars into the water. Eight days.

Chapter 5 Deep Dealings

The door to Nira’s cell opened halfway between midnight and morning, and she jerked awake at the sound. She’d been avoiding sleep, fearing to dream of Fi and a coral dagger – but when she’d failed and sank into the twilight in-between, Nira dreamed instead of the jail she was in. She watched men haul its stones and Weaver Hands grow its cell doors. She listened to the curses of its inmates and saw illicit monies change hands to let some out and make others disappear. Watching history pass was strangely peaceful, and far clearer than most of her dreams. She was almost sorry when she woke, not least because then she remembered that impossible demon vision she’d had when she touched the Weaver priestess.

That same Hand of Gaia now stood in the open door of her cell, skeletal and grim, come to collect her as she’d said she would. Nira took a deep breath and sat up, enjoying the total lack of pain in her chest. The hard lump of the seed attached to her side felt awkward under her arm, but it was a tiny price to pay. She wished she was as sure of this Weaver woman as she was of her cures.

“We’re leaving,” Mistress Renna said. Her voice was gravelly and harsh.

Nira peered past her into the shadowed jail. All the lights were extinguished, and everything was still. “Just like that?”

The Hand’s gaze could have ignited tinder. “Yes, just like that. Did you doubt me?”

“Of course