The Black Lung Captain - By Chris Wooding Page 0,148
idea,' she replied.
'Never stopped me before,' he replied. Bravado made him feel a little less nervous.
He slipped the ring on to her little finger. Her fingers were smaller than his, and it didn't fit.
'It's kind of big, Darian,' she observed gently.
He tried the next finger, and it slid on perfectly and stayed there.
Her gaze flickered upward, met his, and held it a long time.
There was nothing in his head. A wilderness of thought, blasted white by the moment. There was only her, the planes and curves of her face, the intelligence behind those eyes. As long as those eyes stayed on him, everything would remain as it was, beautiful as frost. Her hand still lay in his, but now it was warm: thawed by his touch, perhaps.
All he wanted was that she'd never stop looking at him.
But then she drew back, and her gaze fell. She took her hand away from his, and put it back inside its glove. 'I must go,' she said. 'Goodbye, Captain Frey. I'll see you on your return.'
She walked away from him, back towards the Ketty Jay, not meeting his eye. He looked out over the docks and listened to her boots crunch on the snow until he could hear them no more.
He walked around for slow hours before he went back to the Ketty Jay. He wanted to give her time: time to change herself, time to leave. It was only after they were airborne and on their way back to Tarlock Cove that he realised the hollow ache, which had been absent all month, had returned.
Pinn woke with an explosive snort to find that everything was sideways.
It took him several seconds to locate himself and work out which way up the world was meant to be. The smell of tobacco smoke, grog and sweat hung in the air. A badly tuned piano plinked and clunked in the background. He heard laughter, snarls and curses.
He was lying face-down on the bar, one chubby jowl spread out under him like a cushion. His chin was wet with drool and spilled beer.
His head felt heavier than usual as he lifted it. It lolled this way and that, too weighty for his neck to support. He got it under control with some effort and blinked the crust out of his eyes.
'You look a little the worse for wear, sir,' beamed the bartender, 'if you don't mind me saying.'
Pinn did mind, but he didn't have the energy to do anything about it. He decided he needed a drink instead. He had a vague memory of putting some coins on the bar in front of him, ready to buy his next drinks. His last two coins in the world. He'd been staring at them glumly at some point before he passed out. Now they were gone. He couldn't even remember what he'd spent them on.
'Stand me a round, friend?' he mumbled, more in hope than expectation.
The bartender, a tall mustachioed man with an annoyingly lively character, just grinned ever wider. 'No need, no need! Hold still just a minute.' He leaned over the bar and peeled the missing coins off Pinn's face. 'There you go. That should cover it! A rum and a beer, was it?'
'Right,' said Pinn. The bartender busied himself with the drinks.
Pinn wiped his chops with his sleeve and gazed blearily into the mirror behind the bar. Something resembling a bewildered mole stared back. The little thatch of hair atop his head had been crushed into an unflattering slope. He licked his palm and tried to do something about it. When he couldn't work up enough saliva, he dipped his hand in a nearby beer spill and used that.
The bartender put the drinks down in front of him. 'Forgive the observation, sir, but you've got about you the air of a man who doesn't quite know where he is. Am I right?'
Pinn looked around the bar again. 'Yeah. Where am I?'
'The Grog Hatch, sir. Finest tavern in town.'
Pinn thought for a moment. 'And what town is that, then?'
The bartender was impressed. 'You are a free spirit, sir. Well then, I have the pleasure of informing you that you find yourself in the fine port of Kingspire. Home of the best spitted divehawk in Vardia. I urge you to try it, if you haven't already. Might I ask what brings you to this place?'
The bartender's conversation was making Pinn's head hurt. 'I was going somewhere . . .' he mumbled. 'My sweetheart's getting married.'