All I needed was one piece of the black rock. Just one. I shouldn’t have been nervous, though; I was able to steal to the coal heaps, only a few feet away from the hot and hungry maw of the furnace, without a single look from any of the sweating, soot-stained workers. Their existence seemed to be bound to a single pair of actions, repeated into infinity:
Shovel the coal. Feed the furnace. Shovel the coal. Feed the furnace.
They did not look at one another; they certainly didn’t spare any attention for me.
When I had a piece of coal in hand, I slammed it against an iron strut; the rock broke down the center into equal halves, the sound of the blow lost in the belowdecks din. One coin-size half went into my pocket. The other I tossed back onto the mountainous mound of fuel waiting for its turn to feed the fire. Then I hurried away, hoping to make it back above deck before the fog burned off and Castillion ended his vigil on the bridge.
The workers of the boiler room continued shoveling. To them, I’d never been there.
* * *
The ease with which I’d gotten to the boiler room and back made me feel invincible and cavalier, and I had to make extra effort to temper those feelings. At the Quiet Canary, the gamblers who let themselves believe they couldn’t lose were always mere steps away from losing everything. I could not afford to lose my few advantages to unearned audacity.
I measured my steps. I counted my breaths. I galvanized my resolve. Castillion was just a man. I couldn’t lose to him; I still had a goddess to fight.
Onal was sitting up on her cot in the infirmary when I got there, staring listlessly out at the eddying mist. When the healer was out of earshot, I pulled a stool beside her bed and took her hand.
She stared at me as if I’d gone mad. “Am I a child? Do I need my hand to be held?” she asked, piqued.
“Shhh,” I said. “I need you to look like I’m comforting you. Like we’re enjoying each other’s company.”
“A tough task on the best of days.”
“We’re leaving. As soon as possible. I have everything ready.”
She fo
rced a smile as Castillion’s physician walked by. Then she hissed, “Just how do you propose to make that happen?”
“The details aren’t important. What’s important is that you’re well enough to handle it. It’s not likely to be easy.”
“Wouldn’t be a plan of yours if it were.”
“But before I go ahead with anything, I have to know: Are you up to it?” I scrutinized her face, looking for any signs of lingering fever or delirium. “If not, we can wait. The window is closing fast, but we could probably take another few days if we had to.” Even as I said it, I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. By now, Lyall would be almost to Greythorne with his captives.
Onal replied, “I’m up to it. Don’t worry about me.”
“Good.” My relief was immediate. “Because I’m going to need your help.”
* * *
I was leaving the infirmary for the captain’s quarters when I first heard it: a strange whispering that seemed to be coming from deep within the blanket of fog. I turned on my heel and began to move hesitantly toward the sound. The white mist had grown colder now, closer to nightfall; its frigidness had become almost abrasive.
I shivered in the cool, blue-toned light, able to see only a step or two ahead of my feet as I walked the promenade toward the whispering. My breath sparkled with minute crystals of ice every time I exhaled. I knew this kind of cold too well. This was the cold of spirits manifesting in the physical world, robbing the air and water and earth of warmth and life to gain enough energy to exert themselves upon it. I’d been touched by ghosts enough times to recognize when it was happening.
But this . . . this was different. And far, far worse.
I came to a stop just below the spot I calculated to be the ship’s bridge. I could go no farther or I’d risk frostbite. Already my lips and ears were numb, frost forming on my eyelashes. The whispering continued, harsh and scraping, and as caustic as the cold. But it was joined by another voice—a man’s voice.
Castillion’s voice. He was responding to the whispers.
A gust of icy air blew past me, and for one stunning second, I saw Castillion standing against the rail of the bridge, his white hair waving in the wind, his head and shoulders bent, his back bowed, as if he were carrying a considerable weight.
All around him, the white air churned, but nobody else was there.
And then, as if sensing my stare, he looked up.
I pressed myself against the nearest wall, heart pounding so loud, I was certain he’d be able to hear it. Without looking back, I retraced my steps to the captain’s cabin, where I closed the door just as the fog was beginning to lift.