A mangy cat sat in the corridor .
Mangy? ‘The ugly thing’s dead. A Hood-damned undead cat – gods below .’
The creature had a collar made of thick hide or leather, twisted into a coil. A tarnished silver coin or medallion hung from it. Picker crouched, reached out and dragged the cat closer, frowning when it made no effort to walk, just sliding in its sitting position. ‘Gods, you stink .’
Rotted eye sockets offered her about as much expression as any living cat might manage. She bent closer, took hold of the medallion. Feeble scratching marred both sides, a name in archaic Gadrobi or Rhivi. She frowned at it. ‘Tufty? ’
So Blend and Antsy weren’t just making stuff up. They were telling the truth. They’d found that Jaghut a damned dead cat .
Then her eyes narrowed on the collar. Skin, mottled here and there by red-ochre tattoos. ‘Oh,’ she muttered, ‘let me guess. T’lan Imass? ’
From the room behind her, Blend called out. ‘Pick? ’
‘ It’s fine,’ Picker said, straightening. ‘Just the cat .’
‘ Did you feed it? I didn’t feed it – oh, gods, I can’t remember when I last fed the cat! ’
Picker walked into the room. Sure enough, Blend was still sleeping. Having one of those dreams. She went over and settled down on the mattress. Leaned closer and whispered. ‘It’s true, Blend. You forgot. For months! ’
The woman moaned, distress twisting her features, but her eyes remained shut .
‘ You’ve made a real mess, Blend. That poor cat. I just found it, and Hood knows it ain’t a pretty sight .’
‘ You could’ve fed it, Picker – why didn’t you feed it? ’
Something sharp pricked under Picker’s chin and she froze .
‘ Better answer me,’ Blend said in a casual tone. ‘You see, I loved that cat. Got it for my sixth birthday. It was my favourite cat .’
‘ Bluepearl?’ Picker called out. ‘Can you fix this, please? Bluepearl? ’
No answer. Picker knew that if she tried to pull away, Blend’s deadly instincts would answer with a fatal thrust – up through her brain. She thought furiously. ‘I was only joking, love. Tufty’s fine .’
Blend’s brow wrinkled. ‘Tufty? Who’s Tufty? ’
‘ Uh, the cat I forgot to feed .’
The knife vanished beneath the blankets, and Blend rolled over. ‘You never was good with animals,’ she mumbled, and then added, ‘Bet it hates you now. No more cuddles for you, Pick.’ A moment later she was snoring .
Picker’s sigh was ragged. Wiping sweat from her eyes, she glared across at the ugly thing in the doorway . ‘ Lords above, I hope so .’
And then she discovered the silver torcs .
The waters calmed, as they were wont to do whenever he came up from below deck. Shurq Elalle watched the Jaghut approach. The rest of her crew – the few that still lived – sat or sprawled amidships tracking the tall, ghastly warrior with a fascination she almost envied. Here was the once-god of death and the exquisite irony of her meeting Hood was simply delicious. Back in Letheras, she’d have wagered her entire fortune that this was one encounter she would never have.
Instead, she was captaining Hood’s Ship of the Dead, or whatever it was he called it. Vessel of Souls? Death Ship? Something ominous, anyway. Not that she had much to do by way of giving orders and the like. Whatever propelled the craft wasn’t slave to winds, canvas and cordage. And not an oar in sight.
Suddenly, the seas had become uninteresting. As if all her skills – and possibly it was the same with her crew – all their skills had become irrelevant. And for all the ease and comfort that came with this kind of sailing, her sense was one of tragic loss. At this moment, her respect for the sea wavered, as if fatally weakened, and she wondered if, before long, there would come to humans a true conquest of the waves, spelling the end of humility. And let’s face it, humanity without humility is a dangerous force. Don’t know why I’m thinking as if I’m seeing the future, but that’s how it feels. Some future time when sorcery does too much, when it solves all our problems – only to invent new ones. If this is to be the real future, I don’t want it .
‘There is a darkness upon your thoughts, Captain Elalle.’
She glanced over at him. Burnished tusks, mottled with unimaginable age. Worn, leathery skin stretched gaunt over sharp bones. Deep-set eyes, haunted in shadow, the vertical pupils barely visible – but they’d not been there when he’d first appeared, so it seemed that life was returning to the Jaghut. ‘You can sense such things, Hood?’