Black Salt

Black Salt - Chapter 24

 The pungent aroma of the house had tasted sweet at first, but now it made his head ache, and his stomach twist. The white cloth robe he wore scratched his skin, as if it was line with minute fishhooks. The Spartan walls and furniture spoke, not of austere devotion to a god, but of the harsh privations of a prison. Even Phaedrus, if that was his name, had appeared to change. His high head rose like a spur of rock thrust up from the sea, his white locks were foam of the waves, and in the night, ships would come sailing for home, only to founder and break on this jutting, tearing stone.

He pushed his chair back from the table, leaned forward, and rose to his feet, although dizziness made him clutch the edge of the table for support. "No more," he said, eyes squeezed shut in an effort to contain the pulsing ache in his skull.

"You can't go," said Phaedrus.

Nikias laughed, but his humour tasted bitter. "So much for your promises," he said. "You are free, but you can't go. Ha!"

"You must wait until I finish the story. You have to hear it for yourself, or you'll never-"

"I don't want to." He threw off the dizziness, and stood upright, glaring down at the old man. "I don't want to believe it. I don't want to understand it. You're a lot of filthy rogues, and I'll see that Bull Gut roasts you, and then feeds you to the beasts of the sea, to appease Poseidon."

He half-turned, and then he remembered the sword. He snatched it up, and began to walk towards the door at Phaedrus's back. The sword felt heavy, and his every step hurt, but anger and frustration increased his determination. Even if his body wanted to lie down and melt into oblivion, he was in charge, and he was walking out.

Phaedrus wrung his hands, his aged skin as pale as his snowy hair. "There's so much you don't know, so much you've let slip or forgotten. Please-"

Nikias paused. Something in the old man's words called to him, reminding him...

"You're right," he said, turning and looking over his shoulder, although it sent a spike of pain through his neck. "I have missed something."

Phaedrus half-rose, and appealed with his hands and with his eyes. "Yes. I knew you were an intelligent man, and I knew I could make you understand if you gave me a chance-"

Nikias curled his lip, and shook his head. "No, not more of your idiotic stories, you old fraud. Thank you for my sword. You can have the robe back; I'll get it cleaned and sent to your condemned cell. Now, where are the rest of my things?"

Phaedrus threw his hands down, and a storm broke on his brow. "I tell you about a gift and a mission from a god, and you ask for trinkets! By my lord and protector, and I know why he chose you. You're incurably dull witted!"

"I suppose that means you're not going to give them back. So be it, I'll walk bare footed. Maybe the king will flay you, and have me sandals made from your hide." He turned his back on Phaedrus, hoping he wouldn't see the old monster again until he was hanging by the neck from a tree.

He heard Phaedrus leap up, and knock over his chair in his haste. "Wait!"

Aggravation rose like steam, and came out in a shuddering sigh. He turned, and raised the sword, just in time to catch the old man before he could reach him. Phaedrus froze, the point of the sword a hair from his left eye. He held up both gnarled old hands, palms front. "Look at me," he said. "An old man, no weapons, no threat. What harm can my words do?"

"I tell you, I've had enough. Confess! That's what I want from you, a full confession, with the names and addresses of your servants, swordsmen and spies."

"I confess that a god visited my people."

"Not that again-"

"I confess that he gave me a mission."