The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,82

bloody on the knife.

* * *

With her thoughts hanging as heavy about her head as a burial shroud, as she left the Chromeria, Teia missed the low, slow scuff of rubber-soled shoes following her softly as a shadow.

Chapter 22

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” a voice said behind Gavin. “And you and I’ll make it through the mist wall. Just wish I wasn’t going to drown before I reach shore.”

Gavin froze. He knew that voice. The view of distant White Mist Tower that had so riveted him suddenly faded to insignificance.

“I’m a little too late, aren’t I?” the old man continued. “You’ve already decided what you want, haven’t you, oarmate? Then creation weeps at my failure.”

“What’s this?” Gunner demanded as Gavin turned.

“Stowaway, Cap’n,” the first mate said. Pansy’s hard face twisted like old oak gnarling. “Sorry for interruptin’.”

“Well, I’ll be!” Gunner shouted. He clapped his hands together, not once but in a weird quick rhythm.

“The men wanted to toss him overboard right off,” she said. “I thought maybe a keelhaulin’ instead? See if this luxin hull stays as clean as claimed, eh? Good for some entertainment, either way.”

Bleeding from his mouth and nose, one eye swollen, and with both arms imprisoned by sailors with blood on their fists and grins on their faces, was none other than Gavin’s old holier-than-thou oarmate, Orholam.

“No, no, no!” Gunner said, laughing. “This here’s one of my old rowers! We go way back! You can’t throw him to the sea! Ceres’d spit out such stringy meat!”

Orholam released a held breath, relieved. Apparently, he wasn’t quite as certain of his prophecy as he’d claimed.

Gavin didn’t particularly enjoy the rush of warm feelings that flowed over him at the sight of the old coot, but they had lived and worked and fought together during the worst part of Gavin’s life.

Correction: the worst of my life up until that point. The cells under the Chromeria had been worse.

The prophet dared a small smile at his old owner.

Gunner repaid the smile with interest, but there was an edge to that smile that Gavin didn’t like.

“Apologies for my tardiness, lord,” Orholam said, head drooping once more. “I didn’t think they’d take to the beating with such gusto.”

“I ain’t no lord,” Gunner said. “I’m better. I’m a captain. A legend. I am—”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Orholam said.

“Oh, then I forgive you,” Gavin said quickly. The seed of an idea was sprouting in his mind. A prophet was a wild card to be snatched up as quickly as possible. Sailors were a superstitious lot. “But maybe—”

“Wasn’t talking to you neither,” Orholam said. “You’re lord of shit-all now.”

Gunner laughed at Gavin’s expression.

“You’re not makin’ any friends, old man,” Gavin shot back. “And it seems to me right now you need some.”

Orholam said, “ ‘Need’ is a strange word for this day. ‘Friend’ is even stranger.”

“Stranger?” Captain Gunner said, stubbornly holding on to his glee. “What’s stranger is that the fate of a god is given into my hand, Orholam.”

“Nor for the last time,” Orholam mumbled to the deck.

Captain Gunner roared, “Pansy!”

“I’m still right here . . . Captain,” the woman said, at his elbow, nonplussed.

For the first time, Gavin’s guile spied a little wedge into which he might force his will. So Pansy didn’t particularly love serving Gunner, huh?

“Keelhaulin’. Psh,” Gunner said. “Keel’ this old boy? This old boy is Orholam hissown self. Orholam deserves spatial treatment.” He smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.

Gavin saw Orholam swallow hard.

Oh, shit. Gavin’s plan, half-formed as it was, required Orholam. Alive.

Offhand, Gunner said, “Strap him to the cannon.”

His confidence vanishing, Orholam slumped, propped up only by the two sailors holding his arms, but he made no attempt at escape, resigned to his fate. Out here, at the center of the Cerulean Sea, where was there to run?

“Wh-why do this?” Gavin asked Gunner.

“Better question. Why not?” Gunner said.

The sailors draped Orholam over the cannon, hugging the barrel with both hands and feet. They stopped when they saw Gunner looking at them like they were complete morons.

“What’re you thinkin’ I wanna do? Warm his tenders with a few shots? Scald him to death through repeated firing?” Gunner demanded.

They looked back and forth at each other.

“Uh . . . over the muzzle then, Captain?” one asked. “Yessir! Right!”

Under Gunner’s baleful eye, the sailors stripped Orholam to the waist. It only took them a short time to figure out how to tie the old rower over the mouth of the big cannon: his butt supported by ropes, arms and legs lashed down