The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(65)

"What's that?" she asked.

"Boiled water. We have to let it cool before we wash his wounds, though."

"So why boil it in the first place?"

He gave her the kind of look one would bestow upon an ignorant child. "Because boiling drives off what you would call 'evil humours'. Using unboiled water would only make matters worse."

"Oh." She looked out through the open door. "Are the skraylings still following us?"

"Their ship is heading south, as we are, if that's what you mean." Sandy went and closed the door and then leant on it with his arms folded, a pose that reminded her even more of Mal. "They're keeping their distance, though."

"You don't think they'll attack again?"

"My people are not warlike," he said. "There are quarrels, of course, one man against another, but we do not take sides, nor fight in groups."

"But the skrayling ships have cannons, and Hennaq fired on the pirates."

"The cannons are for defence, not offence. It is one thing for Hennaq to frighten away pirates with a show of force, and quite another to attack a peaceful vessel."

"Good." She wrapped her arms about her knees again. "I was never afraid of the skraylings until now, no matter what people said about them."

"Never?" Sandy looked sceptical.

"No more than any other strangers," she said truthfully.

"So you're not afraid of me?" When she didn't answer, he nodded thoughtfully. "Hennaq was right. I am not like them, not any more."

Coby's hand strayed to the cross about her neck. Sandy smiled.

"Your God cannot protect you from things beyond His knowledge."

"Blasphemy," she whispered. "God knows all. He created everything."

"Did he create this ship? That jug? Men create also, and God has no hand in it."

"No, I cannot believe that."

"As you wish. I merely state the truth."

She got to her feet. "Will you sit with Gabriel for a while? I want to talk to Captain Youssef."

Without waiting for an answer she pushed past him and went out onto the deck. Mal needed her to be strong, now more than ever. If they could not rely on Sandy's sanity, she would have to lead them, and make better decisions than she had so far.

The sun was rising, gilding the hilltops of the Dalmatian coast and catching the red-and-white pennants on the mastheads of the Hayreddin. She drew a deep breath that turned into a yawn. Later. There would be time for sleep when she knew what prospects the day held.

The ship's bell clanged, and the sailors began to change watch, climbing down from the rigging as their fellows emerged from the hold to take their places. After a few minutes the captain climbed out of the hatch, looking as weary as Coby felt.

"How is our patient, my young friend?" he said, yawning and stretching in the sunlight.

"Much the same, sir. And your men?"

"We lost Fournier to one of their grenades and a few of the men are still weak from the smoke. Allah be praised, the gunners closed the ports before any more got inside."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"No matter." He patted her on the shoulder. "I could not let a friend remain a captive of those creatures. How did it come to pass that you were aboard their ship, anyway?"

She gave him a simplified account of their adventures, leaving out the details of the twins' true connection to the skraylings. A godly man like Youssef would not understand.

"But with Alexander safe in my hands," he said, "you think he dare not go through with the scheme, is that it?"

"Yes, but I dare not risk it. We have to get to Venice as soon as possible, to warn Master Catlyn." She stared at the shore. Colour was flowing down the hills, revealing a harsh, sun-baked land of scrubby forest and rocky outcrops. "Surely we should be sailing north, sir, not south?"

"Your friend Gabriel needs rest and care. A ship is no place for a sick man."

"You have somewhere in mind?"

"Spalato," he said. "It is ruled by Venice. If you want safe passage to the republic, I can think of no better place to start."

CHAPTER XVIII

Ned woke late and muzzy-headed the next morning, having had nothing better to do the night before but play cards with Berowne and drink strong Italian wine until he could barely see to make his way up to his attic bedchamber. He lay for a moment, probing the sticky recesses of his mouth with a furred tongue and listening to the sounds of the city stirring beyond the shuttered window, then rose and stretched.

Mal lay sprawled in the other bed, one black curl plastered to his cheek and smiling to himself in his sleep. Ned was sorely tempted to slip in beside him, but his stomach was demanding breakfast and his head was clanging like the bells of St Paul's. So he dressed as silently as he could and tiptoed out of the room in his stockinged feet, closing the door carefully behind him. He sat down on the bollockshrivellingly cold top step and pulled on his shoes, then padded down to the ambassador's apartments.

The antechamber and parlour were both empty, but the great table was laid as if for dinner, with painted plates, napkins, and glasses with gilded rims. Two silver jugs stood near the head of the table, one of white wine, the other of water. Ned grimaced, wishing Berowne would serve ale like a good Englishman.