say something different.
‘Naked here. Go away.’
‘We’ve got work to do,’ Lenk replied with an unsympathetic tone. ‘The boat needs to be repaired. There’s wood to chop and nails to hammer.’
‘Why in the name of all good and virile Gods did you think that coming to a naked man with messages of chopping wood and hammering nails would persuade him?’ Denaos snorted. ‘Get someone else to do it.’
‘Everyone else is gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘I don’t know, just . . . gone. I can’t find any of them.’
‘Well, why don’t you scurry off and see if they left any scat to track them by?’ He snorted and folded his hands behind his head. ‘Or, for a better idea, why don’t you just go and rest yourself? Your leg can’t be feeling too well.’ He coughed. ‘Not here, of course. Go find your own stretch of beach.’
‘I feel fine.’
Denaos arched his neck, regarding his companion who stood, he thought, far too close. Still, the young man looked to be standing firm, favouring his uninjured leg, to be sure, but largely unaffected. It struck the rogue as odd that someone who had been bitten by a demon shark should be standing only two days later, but that was a concern for another time.
‘I’m incredibly comfortable right now, I’ll have you know,’ the rogue muttered. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but it takes a considerable amount of effort to achieve the precarious position in which sand does not reach up into my rear end with eager, grainy claws and I’ll not have you ruin it.’
A period of silence, punctuated by the idle banter of the surf, followed before Lenk spoke again in a voice decidedly meeker than his own.
‘Please?’
‘Whatever for?’
‘I need to talk to someone.’
‘About what?’
‘Things . . . you know.’
‘So talk,’ the rogue replied. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I can’t . . . I mean, not here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, back in Steadbrook, whenever we needed to talk about something, we’d do it over work.’ Lenk rubbed the back of his neck. ‘And it’s not like we can get off the island until someone finishes the vessel, anyway.’
‘I think I see,’ Denaos said, humming thoughtfully. ‘You’d like to talk to me, but instead of doing it like a human being free of mental illnesses, you’d like me to indulge you in this quaint little ritual devoted to furthering your already stunted social skills and rewarding you for not acting like a normal person.’
‘Basically.’
Denaos yawned, then pulled himself to his feet. ‘Fine.’
‘I mean, it’s nothing all that important,’ Lenk said to the rogue’s back as the taller man began walking towards the pile of nearby tools. ‘I’m just a little . . . confused.’
Denaos froze for a moment, then sighed. He waved a dejected hand as he turned around and began walking to his discarded clothing.
‘Hold that thought. This sounds like the kind of conversation I’ll need pants for.’
It dangled like an ugly fold of aging flesh, Dreadaeleon thought as he stared at his reflection in the shore’s tide-pools. The filthy grey streak of hair that hung over his brow continued to mock him, continued to chide him for his stupidity.
He had suspected this might happen, which was why he made a point of staying far away from his companions. They wouldn’t understand; how could they? None of them had the Gift, none of them had the mental capacity to comprehend a fraction of magic’s laws and extents, let alone its prices.
The Venarium’s records were full of cautionary tales of those who had overextended themselves: flesh melting from bones, bodies exploding into flames after misspeaking a word, young ladies giving birth to two-headed calves after being a bit too close to a wizard when he sneezed during an incantation.
Rapid, concentrated aging was the most common - and the most lenient - of the punishments. He supposed he should be grateful that he would only suffer from one marred lock.
Regardless, he lifted his shirt, checking his torso for any sign of liver spots, wrinkles, prominent veins. Nothing, he noted with relief, as there had been nothing when he checked twenty breaths ago.
The grey lock was warning enough, though, and he absently considered keeping it as a reminder of his failure. His companions wouldn’t understand, of course, but why should they? They weren’t the same as he was. They were lesser, stupid, still clinging to the belief that gods and spirits would protect them.
Ridiculous, he thought, the notion of beings in the sky that could reshape mountains and raise