The Scholar's Tale (Original Fantasy)

Book IV, Chapter 1

AN: Might start a sidestory at some point, with the crew acting as a troupe, which has been mentioned in the background so far, the Observers' meddling notwithstanding. Unsure if I'll start it after the main plotline is done or before.

* * *

I'd rarely felt so tired in my short and vexingly exhausting life. Working, lovemaking, fighting, nearly being killed - something that had happened after all three of the previous situations, with some of the attempts starting during them -, nothing had felt so draining.

In fact, I'd say that the closest I've ever come to this state was when I was trapped in that nightmare world and tormented by my past and everything that came with it.

I rose to all four, then to one knee, swaying even though I'd placed my hands flat on the steamer's deck. I shook my head like a dog with water in its ears, trying to clear the dizziness, but it still felt like it was swimming. My eyes couldn't quite focus on anything, and even the dullest colours felt blinding, filling me with a stabbing pain and making my eyes water, so I closed them. I wanted to squeeze them shut as hard as I could and place my hands over them, but I had the feeling I'd have faceplanted onto the deck as a result.

I wondered...people were often disoriented like this when they entered a bright place after leaving a dark one. Perhaps reality was still too harsh for my spirit after the phantasms that had ensnared me?

I smiled bitterly. That comparison with light and darkness felt childishly appropriate, all of a sudden, though the fact I was thinking of Midworld as a bright place made me want to laugh.

I didn't trust myself not to choke on my tongue or something, however. I often didn't, but my fears weren't usually this literal.

Whatever reserves of power from deep within me Ib had tapped into to wake up Mharra (I didn't question whether it had truly needed my help or whether it had indulged me or its fixation on free will and liberty; I was happy to help my friends, and if that was Ib's manipulation at work, I had to give it some credit: it was smart to pull such a move when I was tired enough even such transparent schemes felt clever), they had been nearly exhausted.

The grey giant hadn't tapped into my mana, or at least, I didn't think so. While I had access to an endless well of magical energy, like all mages, and as such couldn't be drained, I should have still been able to feel a foreign power tugging at mine. No, Ib had instead used my mind. Not any mental power, but my intellect and memories.

It had helped me help our captain, pulling him back from the brink by argument alone. Had I not been a miserable bastard who glossed over his accomplishments, simply feeling relieved I hadn't failed and instead brooded over what I hadn't done, I would have probably felt proud.

The captain...where was Mharra? What had happened to him?

For a moment, I felt as if the deck had disappeared from under me and almost fell, my mind whirling with the possibility that our shadowy assailants had ensnared me into another insane scheme of theirs.

They hadn't. It was - and didn't the phrasing say much about my life? - merely the result of my mind reeling as it tried to adapt to my body and Midworld. The dizziness was fading, though the nausea persisted. Still, it shouldn't be too long until I managed to stand, at least.

Mharra was a ways away, in a similar state. My captain was kneeling, trying to prop himself on his hands and get up. He wasn't managing much better than me.

Absurdly, I was reminded of how many ship captains claimed to be equals to their crew, just like them in every way, while living like spoiled blowhards. Against my will, a laugh bubbled past my lips, which felt dry and cracked. The weak vibration was enough to make my stomach clenched.

Moments later, I was scrabbling away from a puddle of vomit, my insides boiling. It had been a while since I'd been sick like that. Usually, it had to do with eating a hitherto unknown plant or animal. Midworld's reaches being endless, there was always a new way to poison yourself, no matter what sages, self-proclaimed or otherwise, said.

Ib made a few steps towards me, before stopping several paces away. The giant seemed to have no trouble standing and, if it was in the grip of whatever passed for sickness for it, it didn't give any sign. Instead, it simply looked down at me, cool and detached, before moving towards the captain.

Jealous anger bloomed inside me, before it was extinguished by guilt when I was the reason. Mharra's beard and the front of his open overcoat and shirt were covered by a black stain, so dark it almost shone with reflected light.

For a moment, I thought he'd puked too, though I'd never seen vomit of an appearance so vile. But as my sight adjusted and I blinked tears away, I noticed small red trails at the edges of the stain.

I inadvertently raised an eyebrow in confusion, which made me feel like my skull was splitting. As I hunched over, pressing a hand to my temple and groaning, I tried to take a better look at the captain.

His nose was clean, invalidating my impression of a nosebleed, if the size of the stain hadn't done so anyway. For all the jokes Mharra made about his so-called snout, it shouldn't have been able to hold so much blood...right?

Vhaarn, it hurt...everything hurt. Why could no one let their impulses win and knock me out?

No, the blood had come from the captain's mouth, his lips, sometimes hidden by his beard, were invisible under the layer of dark vitae. With how out of sorts I was, part of me was surprised I could tell the difference between the stain and Mharra's beard.

Belatedly, I decided it was because of its shiny appearance. Mharra's beard, so well-groomed most of the time, had been left almost uncared for lately. For some reason, the thought dismayed me. I fancied that I could hear the Rainbow Burst crooning, saddened by its captain's suffering.

For once, I hoped I was being sentimental instead of hallucinating.

Mharra shouldn't have looked like this. That was the one thing all my senses, including my sense of reason, agreed on. Where was his dignity, his gravitas? He might have been the leader of an entertainer troupe, but he was no fool outside of his roles, though he tried to give the impression.

He shouldn't have looked like a failed actor, plagued by some blood-churning disease caught after he'd been reduced to begging. Some captains, hoarding victuals, ended up as gluttonous sots, bleeding freely when the pressure inside their bodies became too much due to their appetites. Between Mharra's stoutness and the blood, he could've passed for such a captain, and that offended me.

I knew the kind of man I was sailing with. He had no such flaws. Plenty of other ones, and I was sure - hoped - that he thought the same of me. The last thing I wanted was my friends becoming optimistic about me. I'd rather have fewer people to disappoint, or none.

Above me, I glimpsed Ib shaking its head, before sighing in relief. The combination of the uncanny movement - for Ib seemed to have no neck sometimes - and the humanlike sound was bewildering, as were many things about my shapeshifting friend.

I chalked my disbelieving reaction up to my addled state. I liked to think I'd become close enough to Ib not to find it so strange anymore.

'It is over,' Ib said, and I seemed to hear the sound from two people at once. It was both reassurance that our torment had passed and a warning to those who had hurt us that their source of amusement was no more.

I hoped.

'Do not worry,' the giant continued. 'I'll take you and Mharra to your cabins, and split to watch over you as you heal.' Its head twisted bonelessly, literally so, until it was backwards. 'Boss?'

Mharra, who had managed to crawl across the deck, somehow, grumbled something biting. I got the sense his foul mood wasn't directed at Ib.

'Alright, then,' the giant said in a mild voice, before moving at blinding speed, gingerly picking us up, and blurring again.

* * *

'Understand, Ryzhan,' Ib began, looking away as it spoke. I felt my face scrunch up in annoyance, for some petty reason. People often did that when they were uncomfortable, or felt something in their eyes would give away their intentions. But Ib quite literally had nothing to had, featureless as it was.

'I did not enjoy this. I do not enjoy such things, most of the time. I,' it turned to me, my bed creaking under its weight, 'was this close,' it held up a thumb and forefinger, millimetres apart, 'to ending it myself, sooner and more forcefully than I did.'

My ruined throat came to my rescue this time, giving me an excuse for taking so long to gather my words. 'You do not enjoy such things,' I croaked, eyes narrowed, 'most of the time?'

How often did it do, or allow, "such things" that it had an opinion of them?

And when did it do them, for that manner? What did "such things" entail, truly? Allowing some poor bastards to writhe in the grip of their memories, just standing by?

I felt pressure build behind my eyes, as if Ib's eyeless gaze was boring into them, and was promptly reminded of how few things there were that the grey giant couldn't do. What challenge was it to be in two places at once, when you had the power to topple all obstacles?

'I see you are resentful,' it said in an oddly calm, almost flat voice. 'Is that it, my friend? How many Midworlders across history have complained about not having, for all intents and purposes, an all-powerful being solving their problems?'

'And what is stopping you from reaching backwards through time and making it so that suffering never existed?' I asked, perhaps goaded by my weak body, or simply overcome by my distaste at this lack of intervention.

'The part of me that mirrors my power,' Ib retorted softly. 'I love freedom more than my simulacrum of life, Ryzhan. I love it more than I love you, and the captain, and everyone I've ever been fond of. Combined.' Its face morphed, mimicking a lopsided, sad smile. 'I would kill you, if freedom itself was at risk. I would end this corpus you have known, too. But I would not enjoy it.'

'Freedom,' I breathed, struggling to sit up. 'You mean yourself?' I laughed nervously for a moment, feeling my reason briefly slip from my grasp. 'You would end me for your sake, Ib? Just as you would end this puppet of a body? Not the same thing, I would say.'

'You do not understand, Ryzhan. I envy you for that.' It hung its head. 'I am not just talking about the freedom I embody and champion. I am talking about potential, my friend.'

It suddenly rose, a strange fire in its voice, despite the calm tone. In a human's eyes, I might have seen the gleam of faith. With Ib, I had to rely on my experience with its body language and. It was being as fiery as I had ever seen it.

'Can you imagine, Ryzhan?' it continued. 'Can you imagine a boundless existence, where everyone is free to be whatever there is, unfettered by neither the laws of creation nor the worst impulses of people, either theirs or those of others?'

I tried to. Wanted to. But despite my earlier words, I struggled to envision people so powerful yet so...virtuous.

'You do not believe,' Ib said, sounding pleased, even happy. 'That is fine, Ryzhan. You are trammeled by your worst impulses as well, but who isn't? Had all there is been arranged as it should have, there would never have been any need for hope, for only good things would have ever happened.'

'But it isn't.' The grey giant cocked its head, as if listening to something I couldn't hear. It was encouraging me to continue. 'Arranged properly, I mean. Existence. That's what you meant, right?'

With trembling hands, I pushed my covers aside, deciding the shivers had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with me being on edge. It wasn't that cold, anyway.

'Indeed,' Ib answered. 'The truth, Ryzhan, is that nothing is quite as it should be. Does your faith not teach that?'

I frowned at the idea. Vhaarn and Fhaalqi had spent a timeless eternity clashing in a void, before making the pact that had allowed them to create Midworld and the realms beyond. The two gods had agreed that what one would create, the other would attempt to tear down, for just as Vhaarn believed nothing was better than building, so was Fhaalqi convinced razing things was the greatest possible endeavour. The balance kept existence going.

But it wasn't perfect. Some argued the two should have been able to work together and measure their tempers instead of warring through the proxies that were their creations.

'That is one way to put it,' I agreed reluctantly.

Ib beamed at that, before launching into an explanation of how, as it was creation, there could never be peace or comfort, not truly, as long as we were all trapped in the dream of a sleeping god, subject to its mindless whims.

Part of me bristled at that, despite myself. Midworlders who persecuted others because of blasphemy or different beliefs usually ended up rotting under the waves fairly quickly, but it was still hard to accept the idea of everyone being prisoners of some mad idiot god, figments of its sleeping imagination.

But, Ib said, there was a possible solution to that. If we slipped the shackles of the Dream, it said, we would be closer to the ultimate freedom it desired for all.

I almost said that, if it was right, weren't we just acting out the parts that dreaming god had unknowingly set for us?

'Perhaps the god wishes for a better world, too,' Ib said, sounding almost giddy, or as close to that as someone with its avalanche of a voice could come. 'Perhaps it wants to awaken, and is directing us to do so.'

I shrugged. By my own logic, Ib's dreaming god (which it had also referred to as the Unmoved Mover, in reference to how it affected everything but was affected by nothing) was making me protest like this, too.

I could see how easily such beliefs could turn poisonous, though. The most wretched bastards in Midworld doing whatever they wanted, claiming their god was making them do it? Vhaarn...

* * *

'Why are you keeping us separate?'

Ib did not answer its captain's question right away, instead continuing to, seemingly, stare straight ahead. The window in Mharra's cabin could be summoned or dismissed at will. Currently, the giant seemed to be facing an unbroken wall.

Mharra doubted that was any obstacle to Ib's sight, such as it was. The grey being, the captain believed, could see anything it wanted to see.

The phrasing drew a dark chuckle from Mharra's lips, which curved into a smile, dry in every sense of the word. For all that he'd been puking his own blood not too long ago, his mouth felt as dry as a desert, while his throat seemed covered in thin lines, as if cracked.

Mharra knew that was not from the bloodloss. Ib had taken care of his blood - all of it, it had said in a manner not at all reassuring; the dryness was, it insisted, a phantom sensation, like the aches one felt after the loss of a limb, as if they still possessed it. Mharra had been spiritually drained by a harrowing experience, and his body had mirrored his mind. It would pass in time, Ib had told him.

Mharra took part of his blanket between his hands, shaping it into a thrice-folded form, like a three-sided house that could be held in one's palm.

The material should not have been able to fold and keep a shape like paper. Unlike on many other occasions, however, Ib did not express any delight at the trick or praise of Mharra's skill. The captain kept his smile, but it did not reach his eyes anymore.

'Say,' Mharra went, 'do you want to keep Ryzhan in the dark in case you kill me? Or me, if you kill him?'

The turn of Ib's head was as lazy and indulgent as its voice when it replied. 'Sir,' it rumbled, 'don't believe for a moment that, if I wanted to hurt you, I'd have to hide myself from anyone. You are not that stupid.'

Mharra blew out an almost relieved breath. At least it wasn't doing something ridiculous, like claiming it was harmless. 'I suppose you could. You are fast enough we wouldn't notice. But what purpose would it serve?'

'None, captain,' Ib replied, almost cheerful. 'So you have nothing to fear.'

Nothing at all, Mharra agreed. After all, they could hardly stop Ib if it turned murderous, and dreading what you couldn't affect was pointless. As such, he kept his smile plastered on his face, just to be sure.

He'd always known taking the shapeshifting giant on his ship could prove disastrous one day. Given the circumstances, and the fact Ib wasn't tearing Midworld a new one (as far as he knew...) he decided it had gone fairly well.

'The truth, captain,' Ib said, still with that odd cheer in its tone, 'is that I am keeping you separate for your own good. Both you and Ryzhan have this...way...to exasperate people. That would not help you stay calm, much less heal.'

'Everything you do is for someone's own good, isn't it?' Mharra mumbled, eyes unfocused.

'I notice you are not denying the other part.'

'I can't disagree with facts, can I?' Mharra deadpanned.

'Also, your moods almost always worsen in moments of weakness, which makes you even more vexing.'

Mharra fixed the giant with a flat stare, trying to decide whether it was just venting now. It flashed him a meaningless smile in return.

'So,' he said, 'I assume that, for some unfathomable reason, you cannot speed our recovery up, and will let us heal at our own pace, thus proving the virtue of patience and the importance of struggle and perseverance. Or something in that vein.'

'You are almost as perceptive as you are kind, captain!' Ib beamed.

Mharra help up a finger. 'Nearly everyone who's told me that lied to me.' He lowered his digit. 'Will you at least tell me what all that was about?'

Ib did.

* * *

'It is done,' Ib said in a harsh, grim voice. 'Take your claws off them.'

The Manmade Gods shifted in their seats, seeming to both remain in place and move away, as if they had suddenly become harder to reach. Ib saw the truth, of course, for its perceptions were shaped by the power to slip all bonds and the changelessness of the Ultimate Void; it was not limited as those who saw time from one direction were.

'We already have, as far as they're concerned,' one replied waspishly. 'No need to belabour the point, Libertas.'

Ib smiled to hide its sneer. There was, though. With some people, and it used the word loosely, you had to be insistent.

'That was a warning,' it explained softly. 'You do not want to even think about attempting to hurt them. Trust me.'

A couple of the Observers hunched, hands and arms over faces, poses that would have suggested stifling laughter in humans. Ib was not fooled. Not by this, and certainly not by the way the third Mantlemaker threw back its head to cackle.

They wanted to bristle, just as it had. But everyone here knew better than to be that open. It was not about saving face. It was about not admitting weakness, the weakness that was being susceptible enough to jibes to lash out.

The Idea of Freedom and the Manmade Gods were not alike in many ways, certainly not enough to be called similar. What they shared, however, was a distaste towards letting an opponent see they were hurt. And vexation was the cousin of outrage, both often resulting from a bruised ego. None of the beings were about to admit they cared enough about their opponents to get angry at them.

That would have been, in their minds, a kind of defeat.

'No need to worry about us, oh liberator of the downtrodden,' the Observer affecting a mirthful voice said, bowing theatrically. 'There is no point in getting further involved with this...drudgery.'

Interesting, the venom with which it had said the least word. 'No?' Ib asked casually.

'No point at all,' the Observer answered, pulling its power around itself. 'The entertainment is over. All is left is the plodding down the path you and your ilk have envisioned for them.'

'I wonder,' Ib said, crossing its arms. 'What is it that so repulses you about the steps necessary to achieve happiness for all?'

The Mantlemakers had started rolling their ways halfway through the question, at first in disdain, then wildly, like madmen whose eyes had rolled into the backs of their heads. Agitated, weren't they?

'There is no joy in handing those grasping, demanding worms what they desire,' the Manmade Gods spoke in a threefold, clipped voice. 'The Ghyrrians' ancestors were not happy with their lot. Survival was not enough. They wanted purpose and mystique, glory. Greedy, shameless...it was only when we made their dreams true that they began considering learning something approaching gratitude.'

'And for their folly, you shattered them and left them broken,' Ib said, managing to keep its sorrow out of its voice. 'Trapped in the chains they forged for themselves. Defined by the roles in your tall tale of a land, struggling to even think about changing them. You took these living caricatures, these half-people, and you laughed at everything they had. You still do.'

All the Ghyrrians' lives and aspirations...but were they theirs, truly? Even those who rose against the Storytellers and tried to strike them down were throttled by the fable-chains the Observers had wrought, shackled by patterns and expectations.

In a way, they were not any freer than the lobotomites of the Free Fleet. At least those unfortunates didn't know how they were suffering, in most cases. They weren't aware they'd lost anything, and that was a kind of freedom.

Freedom from pain. Freedom from horror. In the bleakest of living nightmares, ignorance was bliss.

If only the Ghyrrians had...no. There was no point contemplating possibilities. All that mattered was making the best of them reality. And Ib would, if it was the last thing it did.

There would come a day when all people, of all realms and times, would be liberated. From the petty oppression of their fellows. From the urges that limited them and the forms that trapped their potential, as they had since the beginning of everything, when the Idea of Life had been nearly ruined. From the tumultuous confines of the Dream that was creation.

Everyone would be free, truly free. Unbound by anything, they would be limitless. There would be no necessity anymore, for resources or deeds. Only passion would reign, and all would be like unto Gods.

If Ib had its way. There was a duty to fulfill. Self-imposed, some would have said, but common decency dictated that it had to help, if it could.

There were other at work in the shadows, moving towards the same goal. Mendax, the one they called Remaker in other realms. It was focusing on one of its projects, a creation-spanning endeavour centred around the soul of a strigoi, but it was not shirking the rest of its obligations.

That was fine. Let Mendax prepare another lynchpin, lest oblivion swallow everything when the guardian of godless souls found itself without a guide. The Dream demanded certain things. Ib would take care of Midworld and the fates tied to that of the endless ocean, like strings of silk around a chain of steel.

Ib knew injustice was widespread. The structure of existence itself was proof enough. Still, it rankled - hurt - to know there were people who did not only do nothing to right wrongs, but actually tormented others for amusement, and had nothing but contempt for those who tried to be better.

Ib tried to put itself in an Observer's place. Where did all this pettiness come from? And where did it all fit? You'd have thought egos that enormous wouldn't leave room for anything else. The amusement found in the struggles of others, the hatred for their yearnings, that they had any at all...what was the root?

Were it bound by time, it would have taken Ib a long while to comprehend the source of the Mantlemakers' vicious, obsessive behaviour. But it was a thing if the Ultimate Void, and to it, everything had already happened, for change was an illusion, and all moments were one.

As such, Ib began chuckling when it realised the truth. It was so obvious, it felt almost ridiculous. But it fit. It would have been even more absurd if such curs had a solemn reason for their sadism.

'There is no greater purpose at work with you, is there?' Ib asked, almost cheerful. Its voice brimmed with the joyful clarity of the enlightened, and its visage was a smile of frost and glass shards. 'You mock the Ghyrrians for being ungrateful fools, unhappy with the domain they carved out in Midworld. But you?'

Its chickle became a laugh. 'Of course you would mirror your creators! You set them up to play those ridiculous fairytale roles, not because you're aiming to achieve anything - it just amuses you. When I was adrift in my own mind, bereft of my self's truth, I thought it was all a façade. A pantheon of children pulling wings off flies...it seemed too obvious. But I suppose I overestimated you.'

Turning its back on the shrieking Mantlemakers, Ib strode away, and...

* * *

It has been a couple days since my discussion with Ib and now, I felt well enough to walk by myself.

Even if I needed a cane and felt a dull ache no matter what I was doing. My body felt stiff and bruised, though I knew my body was unmarked by anything save my old scars. Still, I felt like I'd been smacked around by a Seaworm with a grudge and far too much time on its hands.

All attempts to remember when I hadn't hurt had failed. This, Ib had told me, was likely because I'd been put through the wringer by a trio of the Ghyrrians' gods. I hadn't asked the grey giant how it knew, guessing it was its power at work, just as I hadn't asked it to heal me, or why it hadn't done or offered to do so unprompted.

This was all meant to build character, I was sure.

Even if all it was managing was making my already foul temper worse. I'd never been an easygoing fellow, but now I felt like a crotchety old man in a body thrice as young as his mind. The cane didn't help.

I had, after much sighing and beating my pride half to death, decided to go for the sword cane cliche. Now, I had an even harder time taking myself seriously than before, but at least I could walk, not hobble.

I had forged it from my memories of such weapons, before setting it aflame and quenching it in my blood. As long as I had a drop of blood in my body, the cane was supposed to be unbreakable. There were ways around that, of course - places where mages had died in a particularly gruesome manner echoed eternally with their death screams, giving birth to invisible fields of antimagic that could undo any enchantment -, but if I ever found myself confronted by someone using them, I'd have greater worries than my cane getting broken.

It was a rough length of ebony wood, over half as long as I was tall; any who wanted to wield it against my wishes would find their hands flayed by the bark and pierced by previously nonexistent thorns. The sword's cross guard and hilt formed the the cane's handle, which was heavy enough to be used as a club once the blade was unsheathed, as well as magically resonant enough to serve as a focus at all time.

The cane's head gleamed, a layer of gold over cold iron. Gold was beloved by magic, empowering spells to blast through barriers they couldn't have scratched otherwise, while iron was useful against certain regenerating monsters. I had never met their ilk myself, for there were few of them in Midworld and scarcely encountered, but I had heard the stories. Whether dedicated to nature, razing civilisation or maintaining it, they were all cold and ruthless, thieves of children and lives. Ib had said these folk were fair only in aspect, not in fact.

As I made my way to the captain's quarters, a thought struck me, for I was unable to dodge as a greater fool might have. Between my scowl and cane, I probably looked far older than I was, though younger than I felt. I tapped the deck with my cane a couple times, silently coaxing the steamer into action.

The wall in front of me became reflective, and my face fell as I beheld myself. I had to swallow a groan, for, besides the usual disappointing sight, I saw that I had started to grey.

Not to any great extent, thankfully. Had I possessed duller eyes, or been more careless, I might have missed it, but there was no mistaking the grey strand in the middle of my green hair.

It was right where my hair began, like a taunting message scribbled above my forehead. Visions of my temples covered in sparse, silver hair flashed through my mind, and I nearly slumped, before furiously straightening myself up. I wasn't going to hunch over like an old man too.

The Rainbow Burst had started shapeshifting, on a scale it never had before. The one constant was the garish paint on its sides, spattered over them by Mharra in resemblance of the ship's namesake.

At the moment, it looked like a floating town square, with a towering four-sided spire rising above the deck, hundreds of times my height. The rest of the ship had become a smooth metallic expanse, floating despite having every reason to sink. But then, it had pulled mass out of nowhere to increase its size, so I wasn't going to question it.

I dismissed the mirror wall and stepped forward, the metal parting like water, like a curtain, before closing behind me. A spiral staircase rose up into the darkness, and I began ascending, surrounded by a bubble of sourceless light. It was always dark behind and before me. Compelled by my love for crude metaphors, I had decided the ship's mind, or what passed for it, was referencing my shadowed past and uncertain future, with the light representing the present, defined by my baseless optimism.

Or was it my self-worth? I really hadn't done much to feel good about myself.

The ship was the master of its form, and, as such, its interior could be much bigger than the outside, and often was. Were I an intruder or unwanted passenger (in the steamer's eyes, there was little difference when it came to people disliked by its crew. The ship was always eager to remove such people, not wanting hostility between its occupants. It was positive like that), I could have spent forever walking up a staircase to nowhere. As it were, I merely had to ascend what felt like a few storeys.

There was no door to Mharra's cabin. Instead, another wall split in a flowing motion, allowing me to enter. Mharra was sitting in a battered chair at a low, round table. The centre of the wooden table was dominated by a viewscreen or something like it, showing a tridimensional model of the ship and the stretch of sea we were sailing.

The closest islands to us were also represented on the moving map, but they were all unstable. The sort of blasted, uninhabited rocks that rose above the tides for moments, only to be sunk or shattered just as fast by the waves and winds.

The nearest island was hundreds of leagues away, but I had the feeling our strange steamer could have crossed that distance far faster than its usual appearance suggested. The captain had implied as much.

"I don't think it was those Ghyrrian monsters, Ryzhan," he'd told me when I'd raised the possibility. "I believe we would feel that. They'd have wounded the Burst like they've wounded us."

"I don't think they could have helped themselves," I'd admitted. But had they really left it unscathed? It had never changed itself to this degree, let alone this often.

Mharra had smiled lopsidedly, a strangely wistful look in his eyes. "I know what you're thinking, Ryz. Do not doubt the ship just because it's different. It might be growing, like we all are. I have worked my own changes upon it for as long as I've captained it, but I never intended this, or believed it could happen." He'd shrugged, a forced levity on his voice. "I don't mind, though. Who knows what it might become in time?"

Mharra looked up, smiling tiredly at me as he put a small, thin wooden thing down. Ib had told me the writing implement was called a pen, often used by the Free Fleet and far less messy than a quill. It was also easier to use than a pencil, though its writing was harder to erase.

Mharra had finished scribbling on another of the small, yellow slips of paper surrounding the raised map. I'd often seen him doing so recently, sometimes doodling, at other times drawing from memory. He preferred not to talk about his past, but I think depicting it helped him vent, if not relax.

Ib had its back to me, middle and upper arms crossed while leaning forward to look through a triangular window, lower hands pressed on the windowsill. I did not understand why it found watching the tides relaxing. Most of the time, the sight either reminded me of past bad days (most of them) or kicked my paranoia into action, making me wonder what new menace was chomping at the bit to pounce upon us.

"There is serenity there, my friend," Ib had said in a distracted tone when I'd asked what the appeal was. "The tides are ever-shifting, but the essence of the ocean is the same, just like the mechanics of the motions. This false change, with its simple beauty, cannot be altered through observation, but it can be understood."

After spending nearly a minute puzzling over what the Pit that was supposed to mean, I'd thrown a pillow at Ib. The grey giant, focused on the ocean once more, had ignored me.

'Hello, Ryz,' Mharra said, scratching his head as he looked down at the tabletop, seeing nothing. 'Need anything?'

A safe life and Aina in my lap, but that was probably not what he'd meant. 'I believe we need to talk about the future of our journey.'

Mharra nodded, knowing such words usually preceded ship-wide brawls, as well as mutinies, when addressed to people like him. If Mharra was itching to knock my block off and looking for an excuse, I forgave him. I had that effect on most people, and more than half the animals I met. 'Do we, now?'

I frowned in annoyance. I rarely was in the mood for these games of his, and I knew he wasn't forgetful. On the other hand, this was how people had often felt trying to untamgle my past by talking to me, so it was not undeserved.

After briefly glancing at Ib, I met Mharra's eyes as I walked up to the table, pulling a chair and sitting down before crossing my legs. The spherical room was covered splashes of colour, objects associated with a hue painted on the section of wall said colour covered: trees surrounded by green, flames on a red background, a variety of poison-filled vials on purple.

The melange of colours on the walls and ceiling was contrasted by an insultingly ugly thick, grey carpet. I didn't understand why Mharra was using the eyesore, and I didn't ask. I didn't want Ib to launch into another philosophical explanation.

Grabbing my cane by the end and the handle, I pulled it apart in a smooth motion, deciding I might as well act theatrical with how stupid the thing made me look. After all, I'd made it because of a hunch. Part of me thought it could be useful at some point, a thought that had niggled at me until I'd built the cane.

Of course, it hadn't been generous enough to share where that feeling had come from with the rest of my mind, the miser.

Placing the sword on the table, I took the staff in one hand, tapping the moving map with the end and stilling the construct. Were things different, I might have felt selfish, but it wasn't like we actually had anywhere to go.

We were safe, we had access to any victuals we could have wanted. Midworlders would have slaughtered cultures for a chance at what we had thanks to my and Ib's powers, and I tried to be grateful, thanking Vhaarn for my gift as often as I remembered. He had been kind enough to keep me alive and give me the chance to hone my magic. I lost nothing praising him.

'I would like to reunite with Aina, clear the air with her,' I began, glad - for once, when talking about my past - that I had shared the story with Mharra, if only because it saved time I would have wasted explaining. 'Ib believes she is in the Clockwork Court, or perhaps close by, in the House of Weaves.'

We started plotting the course, taking into account the Court and House's latest sightings and the patterns of their movements. When I noted Mharra's dismay at the mention of my childhood friend, I tried not to wince.

Instead, I said, 'Take heart, captain. Who knows what the Clockwork King's artifice can achieve? Perhaps he will undo what the Free Fleet's contraption wrought, or at least point us in Three's direction, if we convince him.' I sat up and awkwardly leaned over the table, placing a hand on Mharra's shoulder. 'We've spoken about this much, I know, and endless talk sours the deed and its worth. But I believe he is still out there, somewhere. My magic all but tells me, whenever I try to remember him.'

Mharra deserved to find his lover and grow old at his side. Barring that, the cold fact Three was gone would have been, if not better than the uncertainty of his fate, at least something he knew.

I did not ask Ib whether it couldn't find the ghost, or didn't want to. I didn't need to darken my day.