The Burning White (Lightbringer #5) - Brent Weeks Page 0,86

ignorant, but if you plug the barrel, there’s a risk of backfire, isn’t there?”

“Backfire? We’re talking iron and black powder ’gainst something as squishy as Orholam. Nah. Won’t be a problem.”

“I thought we were going to have some ‘defiance’ first.”

“Huh?” Gunner asked.

“Orholam’s defense?” Gavin prompted.

“The what?”

“The old man.”

“Oh! Course, course.” Gunner turned to the bound old man, who was sweating profusely now. Gunner said, “You coulda helped me, a lot. With what you kin do.”

“I did help you. Every day,” Orholam said. “Rowing?” He winced as he said the last, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“Ahaha!” Gunner said, picking up the linstock and adjusting the match cord. “Funny, funny. I got me a sense of humor, too. Explosive one. Leaves ’em in pieces.”

He opened the cage of a small lantern and lit the match cord from it. “I need the help o’ yer magic peepers, not yer arms,” Gunner said. “You done me a wrong, prophet. You gotta make right. Right now. What do you see? Say it plain or die.”

“Please. You can’t kill me.”

“Now, that is a prophecy we can test real easy.”

“I mean, if you kill me now, this whole world will be lost.”

“Don’t care,” Gunner said. “I’ll give you a count a four. And I ain’t good at my number alls. One.”

“We’ll see White Mist Tower within the hour,” the prophet said quickly.

“A bit late with that one,” Gavin said, gesturing toward the distant tower.

“Ah shit,” Orholam said, craning his neck and catching sight of the thing, apparently for the first time. “Did I say the tower? I meant the reef. We’ll see and hear the reef itself within the hour.”

“Really going out on a limb there, aren’t you?” Gavin asked, though he wasn’t sure why. He needed Orholam alive. What was he doing?

“Thanks, oarmate,” Orholam said.

“My quibble’s not with you; it’s with your master,” Gavin said.

Orholam said, “Love to have that discussion. Maybe we can do that sometime when I’m not strapped to a cannon by an angry madm—er, Master, uh, Master Gentleman?”

“About me,” Gunner said, grabbing a handful of Orholam’s salted beard. “ Proffer-size about me. Or you will see an angry mad master gentleman. And no lies this time!”

“What’s this about?” Gavin asked.

“Last time he told me I wouldn’t lose the blade!”

Orholam said, “I said you’d live to give it willingly to Dazen Guile, not that you’d keep it at all times between when I told you that and when you finally gave it to him. And do you not wear it even now?”

“I gambled because a what you said! And I lost! Twice!” Gunner said. “You can’t go making porphyries what don’t mean what people think they do.”

“Actually, I think that’s the main business of prophets,” Gavin said.

“Not with me. Understand?” Gunner said to Orholam, as if it had been he who talked back to him, not Gavin.

“You’ll not die on the reef,” Orholam said, fearful. “I swear it.”

“So we make it! We shoot the gap! I told you I’d be in the books, Gilly!” Gunner expelled a big breath. “Do you see how many cannon I gotta use? Straight approach, or swinging ’round?”

But Gavin went to another tack. “Wait, wait. Not on the reef? So . . . does that mean the captain’ll drown before he gets to the reef? He’ll be battered to death by the ship breaking up?”

What was he doing? He needed the prophet alive.

“No! No. He’ll live.” But there was a sudden hesitation in the prophet’s countenance.

“Orholam . . .” Gunner said, warning. “Tell me the whole truth.”

The old man sank into himself. “You’ll live, but the ship won’t make it past the reef.”

“No!” Gunner said, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. “Not my ship! Damn you, no! I gave everything for this ship!”

“What?” Gavin said. “No you didn’t. You gambled for it. And you didn’t even win. And it was my blade you gambled in the first place!”

“Mine!” Gunner said.

“So we’ll never make it past the reef?” Gavin said.

“That’s . . . not exactly what I said,” Orholam said.

“Are we going to break up on the reef or no?” Gunner demanded.

“We’re going to . . .” Orholam suddenly looked very, very reluctant.

“It’s ill luck to speak . . . of them.”

Gunner’s dark visage turned green. “Nay,” he breathed. He spat in the sea. “Tell me.”

“All eight,” Orholam said. “Within the hour.”

“All eight what?” Gavin asked. He was afraid that he already knew.

“Ceres’s sons,” Gunner whispered.

“Aye,” Orholam said. “Soon now, I think.”

The captain made the sign of the three