1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of Deception: Book #4, Chronicles of Marsdenfel

Year 253 of the Bynding - @ boat - Harvestime, part III

The evening grows old as I keep sipping the ale and nibbling flax crackers, ostensibly nervous-but-playing-oblivious to our wary observers. Nobody pipes up with their cracker supplier, unfortunately, so I’ll have to search myself and probably never quite find him.

Aldrik takes a while to realize that I’m drawing the meal out on purpose—understandable, since the only other montai he knows at all is Lallie, and she out-eats most human men, with her Shifter metabolism. But I don’t eat nearly as much as she does.

To his credit, he hides his puzzlement, though a flash of confusion escapes him at my persistent refilling of his own beverage. First rule of swimming in something you know will dehydrate you: be as well hydrated as you can be, before you enter it.

Angling my magic for a flare is more difficult, particularly since I have to carefully worm it out, to avoid notice. I don’t believe he notices what I’m doing, even when I set the flare, and the magic spikes out of me with a sudden sharpness that has been arranged to dodge the eavesdroppers. They likely notice magic, but isolating the source and destination is beyond the low-Bridge mages here.

I stretch my neck and resign myself to waiting for a response or the darkness before dawn, whichever comes first. Hopefully my body is rested enough to put up with it.

“Are you all right?” Aldrik asks quietly, and it takes me a moment to notice that the question’s in royal felvish—the only form of elvish he speaks, which I suspect he learned from Cousin. Endellion never was above using sneaky, impolitic magic to assist her. There’s a reason so many people remember what she told or taught them—far better than they should, for a woman dead and gone for over a decade, now.

“Fine,” I answer through a slight yawn, and I munch another cracker, working up my nerve to try the soup again.

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at me, reminding me that I usually don’t speak royal felvish. He looks unsurprised by my knowledge of it, though. “You have a reason behind what you’re doing, I assume.”

I incline my head in acquiescence and force myself to take a bite of soup, for the nutrients. My stomach twists a little, but I wait through the feeling and everything settles. I’m cautious on the next few bites, but after everything stays where it belongs I eat it quickly to get it over with, then return to nibbling the crackers and sipping the ale.

The ship’s captain rejoins us in the mess just as the midnight bell tolls.

I obliviously refill our beverages again, then start as if I’ve just spotted the man, spilling a bit of watered ale on the table. “Captain.”

He nods at me, with a little tolerant smile, and focuses on our mugs as I put one into Aldrik’s hand. The captain’s brow furrows a little. “Thirsty?”

Water mages can’t dehydrate, not when surrounded by water.

Aldrik pauses only slightly and glances at me, as if he’s just caught on why I’ve been pushing so much liquid down his throat. “The ale isn’t bad. Stronger than usual.”

“You’ve been gracious to water it,” the captain replies politely, his expression twisting. Details that don’t fit conclusions about something do tend to cause an unpleasant sensation in a person.

Aldrik calmly sips some more watered ale. “Seems fair. You likely weren’t counting on us drinking like a pair of fire mages when we paid our fee.”

“Are you?” the captain asks.

“Drinking like a pair of fire mages?” Aldrik answers mildly. “Or are you asking if we are fire mages? Because in Salles, that latter question can get a man hung.”