Page 52 of Fate of the Argosi

There is one disharmony card that an Argosi must never paint. A debt that cannot be repaid, for it must never be accrued. Have you guessed what forbidden image would adorn this outlawed card? Gaze into a pool of water, or the polished surface of a tin plate or steel blade. In that reflection lies the person whose mind you must never deceive, whose body you must never wound and whose spirit you must never desecrate.

Misfortune is a word without meaning to an Argosi. With our seven talents we can outwit any opponent, escape any trap, endure any hardship, so long as our mind, body and spirit act as one. When we dishonour that bond, even in the service of others, we abandon our path and cast ourselves . . . adrift.

30

The Onyx Ocean

The Argosi don’t look back. We don’t ponder what’s been lost, because once you step in that particular quicksand you never come out. That’s how I knew I was in trouble; I couldn’t stop thinking about Arissa. Worse, I couldn’t stop talking to her.

‘What’s the problem, Rat Girl? You made your choice, I made mine. Find some other gorgeous, brilliant, devil-may-care darling to fall in love with. You know it never would’ve worked out between us anyway, right?’

I’ll say this for my imaginary Arissa: she was a lot more supportive of my decisions than the real one had ever been. Now, there’s nothing wrong with seeking advice from your memories. I do it all the time (even if Durral’s is mostly annoying rather than helpful). But that’s not the same as looking backwards. That’s bringing your past with you into the present. Completely different thing.

What I was doing those first few nights aboard the spellship, though? That was definitely looking backwards, obsessing over the what-ifs and why-nots that had gotten me to this lonely spot near the bow of the galleon, staring out into the darkness ahead, blind to the shadows gathering all around me.

I must’ve known something was wrong . . . Somewhere inside that part of my brain where my arta precis and loquit, tuco and siva, eres and forteize, even my crazy arta valar, all meld together into a singular lens through which an Argosi sees the world . . . I knew. I must’ve known. Why else did I keep staring at the little golden-haired girl with her whole life ahead of her, and the ageing stoop-backed man who already had one foot in the grave, along with all the other Mahdek aboard that galleon. I kept seeing the same thing in all their faces . . . a shadow to which I couldn’t put a name. I should’ve searched harder.

Six nights we sailed that shadowblack sea. You can’t really think in terms of ‘days’ when journeying through a realm without colour. And yet, the nether-light shining down from pitch-black stars made the world glitter a thousand shades of onyx. The ocean swells were like dunes of black volcanic glass, rising and falling in a mesmerising rhythm. The galleon had taken on the inversions of this place, the hull now ebony, the once-white sails the black of a raven’s wing.

When first we’d departed, our skin, eyes, hair and garments still appeared to match the colours of the world we’d left behind. Ala’tris had explained that this was an illusion: a trick of our minds transposing what we expected to see overtop what our eyes actually perceived. She was right too, because by the third night we began to see each other as shadows, our faces, our clothes, even the strands of our hair were as detailed and distinctive as ever, only now painted from a palette of vivid blacks.

The weirdest part, though? My horse.

You don’t think much about a person’s eye colour or skin tone once you know them, but a brown horse is always supposed to be brown, damn it. Something about Quadlopo’s hide being black as a crow’s butt disturbed the hells out of me.

‘Not your fault, buddy,’ I said to him when he caught me staring and neighed his irritation. Despite the eeriness of our environment, he preferred remaining up on the poop deck at the stern of the ship. Ala’tris asked me if this was because it was the highest part of the deck and he felt safer there. My own theory was that he just liked the name ‘poop deck’ because it reminded him of his favourite activity, which he engaged in frequently as revenge for my having dragged him to yet another place where no sensible horse would venture. ‘I think you look dashing all in black like that. Maybe when we return to the continent, I’ll dye your entire hide black as coal permanently. How’s that sound?’

As I turned away, I heard him give an annoyed and threatening snort, followed immediately by an unpleasant and all too familiar plopping sound. Whatever the shadowblack did with light, it failed to do with odours; Quadlopo’s poop stank just as bad here as it did anywhere else. He whinnied in a way that suggested he was mighty pleased with himself.

Durral, who always had just as troubled a relationship with Quadlopo as I seemed condemned to suffer, insisted that an Argosi treated a horse with kindness and respect. When said horse refused to return the favour, however . . .

‘What’s that, old pal?’ I asked, grabbing the shovel for what seemed like the twentieth time that night. ‘My arta loquit must be failing me. Tell you what, let’s make it easy. If youwantme to dye your coat black when we get back, just poop one more time on this deck right after I clean this latest mess up. If you’d like me to shave your hair clean off, on the other hand, poop twice.’

Quadlopo’s tail twitched. He showed me his teeth. I showed him mine.

‘Go on, you cantankerous beast. Test me. I dare you.’

That big ornery head of his swivelled out over the railing to stare at the onyx ocean again. Apparently I was being dismissed.

‘Ferius, Ferius!’ a young voice called out. Remeny was summoning me from the main deck.

‘What’s got you barking like a puppy?’ I asked, though I couldn’t keep the smile from my face at the sight of him practically jumping out of his shoes as he waited for me to climb down from the poop deck. The spell warrant was still there on his forehead, but it no longer troubled him. In fact he seemed to delight in following Ala’tris around, peppering her with questions about Jan’Tep magic.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s just that the Lady Mage asked to see you on the forecastle.’

‘The Lady Mage’ was the title he’d given Ala’tris for reasons she could no more fathom than his insistence on opening doors for her or clearing ropes out of the way wherever she went. The rest of us weren’t quite so blind to a twelve-year-old boy’s obvious crush.

‘Well, if the “Lady Mage” wants to see me,’ I said, ruffling his hair, ‘then far be it from a lowly Argosi card player to keep such a grand dame waiting.’

My breath froze in my lungs when I noticed Remeny wasn’t alone. We could see each other clear as ever here, but sometimes you just didn’t notice people unless they spoke or moved. It took me a second to recognise the chubby-faced little girl who’d been bouncing on Chedran’s lap back at the mining barracks tagging along after Remeny. Her curls, golden then, were now, well, black. Even so, something else about her struck me as darker than before.

‘You okay, darlin’?’ I asked, kneeling down in front of her. ‘You keep making that goofy-looking face and it might get stuck that way.’

Remeny laughed nervously. The girl didn’t laugh at all. She stared back into my face but showed no interest in meeting my eyes. ‘Are you dead?’ she asked.

I took her hand and placed it over my heart. ‘Do I feel dead?’

‘No.’

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