The bald man’s fingers moved with surprising deftness over the pale skin of Caliban’s upper arm, leaving dark lines behind. Slate retired to a corner and blew her nose.
“And we’re the best you could come up with?” said Caliban.
“No,” said the Captain. “You’re not the Dowager’s first choice, or even the second, I’m afraid. But those people are also presumed dead now, so here we are.”
“And that’s all you know?”
“That’s all we know. A scholar will be accompanying you. He’s made something of a study of arcane machinery—it’s possible that his expertise may help. In theory he has a counterpart in Anuket City that should know more, but that other scholar has vanished.”
“Lucky him,” muttered Slate.
“You can’t expect this to work,” said Caliban, shifting in his seat. The bald man made a wordless, irritable noise, like a man with a restless horse. Caliban settled. “Even getting to Anuket City atthis point is madness…unless things have changed since I went in the cell, there’s a no man’s land between us and them.”
“Things have changed, all right,” said the Captain. “The no man’s land is about twice as big, for one thing.”
Caliban shook his head in disbelief.
“You note we’re using prisoners, not soldiers, and not just for deniability. The Dowager’s grasping at straws, if you ask me. But if you live through it, there’s a full pardon.” The Captain sounded unconvinced.
“What’s to keep me from leaving with the lady here and simply riding off?”
“Aww,” said Slate.
“Well, your word would be nice,” said the Captain. (Slate snorted.) “But failing that, the thing on your arm should do it.”
“What?” Caliban looked down at his arm.
Crudely rendered in black ink, a small toothy creature was portrayed with its teeth sunk into the flesh of Caliban’s arm. As art went, it was barely above a child’s drawing, but it had a primitive, scowling menace.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“I haven’t any idea.” The Captain sighed. “But if you betray us, the tattoo will eat you.”
Caliban stared at him, then laughed. “You’re kidding. You can’t possibly be serious.”
“Oh, yes.”
“And they calledmemad?”
He stood up.
“I wouldn’t—” Slate began.
Caliban yelped and slapped at his shoulder, like a man stungby a biting insect. His hand came away bloody, and not just from the freshly inked tattoo. Red beaded under the black ink teeth.
“Gods—hells—itbitme!”
“They do that,” said Slate tiredly. “I saw one eat a man once. He eventually cut his arm off, and it showed up on the stump a few days later. Don’t ask me to explain how it works.”
Caliban opened his mouth and said something, in a guttural sing-song that sounded like,“Ngha! Ngha’ha, ha, halihalikaliha!”
There was a brief, appalled silence.
“Ooookaaay…” said Slate, and sneezed explosively.
Shit. Heismad. Shit. The rosemary was trying to warn me off. Shit.
Maybe Brenner can kill him and dump him in an alley.
