Deadhouse Gates (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #2)

Deadhouse Gates (The Malazan Book of the Fallen #2) Page 252

It was clear that Salk Elan and the treasurer had established a truce of sorts as things never went beyond the occasional sardonic swipe. The exaggerated airs of civil discourse made their efforts at self-control obvious.

But it was the captain who was the true mystery aboard the Ragstopper. Kalam had heard enough talk in the galley and between the First and Second Mates to gauge that the man was viewed with both respect and some kind of twisted affection. In the manner that you'd view a touchy dog. Pat once and the tail wags, pat twice and lose a hand. He shifted roles with random alacrity, dismissive of propriety. He revealed a sense of humour that yanked taut comprehension. Too long in his company – especially when wine was the drink of choice – and the assassin's head ached with the effort of following the captain's wending ways. What was worse, Kalam sensed a thread of cool purpose within the scattered weave, as if the captain spoke two languages at once, one robust and divergent, the other silken with secrets. I'd swear the bastard's trying to tell me something. Something vital. He'd heard of a certain sorcery, from one of the less common warrens, that could lay a glamour upon a person's mind, a kind of mental block that the victim – in absolute, tortured awareness – could circle round but never manage to penetrate. All, now I'm venturing into the absurd. Paranoia's the assassin's bedmate, and no rest comes in that clamouring serpent's nest. Would that I could speak with Quick Ben now—

'—sleep with your eyes open, man?'

Kalam started, frowned at the captain.

'The master of this fine sailing ship was saying,' Salk Elan purred, 'that it's been a strange passing of days since we reached open water. It was an interrogative seeking your opinion, Kalam.'

'It's been four days since we left Aren Bay,' the assassin growled.

'Has it now?' the captain asked. 'Are you certain?'

'What do you mean?'

'Someone keeps knocking over the hisser, you see.'

'The what?' Oh, the hissing of sand – I'd swear he's making up words as he goes along. 'Are you suggesting you have but one hourglass on Ragstopper?'

'Official time is so kept by a single glass,' Elan said.

'While none of the others on board agree,' the captain added, filling his goblet yet again. 'Four days ... or fourteen?'

'Is this some kind of philosophic debate?' the treasurer demanded suspiciously.

'Hardly,' the captain managed to say during a belch. 'We left harbour with the first night of a quarter moon.'

Kalam tried to think back to the previous night. He'd stood on the forecastle, beneath a brilliantly clear sky. Had the moon already set? No, it rode the horizon, directly beneath the tip of the constellation known as the Dagger. End of a three-quarter moon. But that's impossible.

'Ten weevils a handful,' the captain went on. 'As good as a hisser in gauging passage. You'd have ten in close on a fortnight, unless the flour was foul from the start, only the cook swears otherwise—'

'Just as he'd swear he'd cooked us dinner here tonight,' Salk Elan said with a smile, 'though our bellies groan that what we've just eaten was anything but food. In any case, thank you for dispelling the confusion.'

'Well, sir, you've a point there, sharp enough to prick skin, though mine's thicker than most and I ain't anything if not stubborn.'

'For which I cannot help but admire you, Captain.'

What in Hood's name are these two talking about, or, rather, not talking about?

'A man gets so he can't even trust the beat of his own heart – mind you, I can't count past fourteen in any case, so's I could not help but lose track and tracking's what we're talking about here if I'm not mistaken.'

'Captain,' the treasurer said, 'you cause me great distress with your words.'

Salk Elan commented, 'You're not alone in that.'

'Do I offend you, sir?' The captain's face had reddened as he glared at the treasurer.

'Offend? No. Baffle. I dare say I am led to conclude that you have lost the grip on your own mind. Thus, to ensure the safety of this ship, I have no choice—'

'No choice?' the captain erupted, rising from his seat. 'Words and grips like sand. What slips through your fingers can knock you over! I'll show you safety, you sweaty stream of lard!'

Kalam leaned back clear of the table as the captain went to the cabin door and began struggling with his cloak. Salk Elan had not moved from his seat, watching with a tight smile.