On the Emerald Sea
Disclaimer: All of Tortall is the sole property of Tamora Pierce, who has kindly decided not bar us from borrowing, manipulating and otherwise perverting her fine tales. What a gal!
He stood on the deck of the ship, arms resting on the ledge, overlooking the water as it lapped the port side of the vessel. In the distance, a dolphin leapt in the water, paralleling their journey with the curiosity common to the creatures. The "mah" of numerous seagulls competed against the slap of the waves, creating music of a sort, punctuated by the "fwaaapp" of the breeze against the sail. But for this sea-bound serenade, all was quiet. There were no orders being called to the rigging crew, and no chanteys yet this morning. They'd been underway for four days, but already Numair had discovered the wonder of these early hours – a time he would normally have slept through easily, were he at home in his tower amongst numerous books and experiments to draw his attention through that section of night that was never even grazed by sunlight. Onboard, his experiments and studies had been halted by the dread of the destination. And while he was not prone to sea-sickness, trying to read while being jostled by the never-ending stirs of the sea were enough to turn anyone's stomach, let alone a poor traveler's stomach, such as his. The lack of academic stimulus didn't bother him that much; there were far too many interruptions anyway.
Numair shivered a little as he was caught by another spray off the water. He wasn't exactly cold. He'd noted before how anxiety had the effect of pulling heat from the body. It was, therefore, an illusion – one which he was exerting his control over by refusing to go below for warmer clothing. He'd needed a moment of reverie and was unwilling to sacrifice it even to a chill, though it was about to be dashed by an outside influence. The sound of someone being violently sick on the starboard side effectively shook him from his serenity.
"Too much o' the spirits," the captain said with a smirk as he passed Numair, pointing at the hunched figure, emptying her stomach into the rolling water.
"I daresay she wishes it were that simple," Numair replied, smiling at the captain.
They shared a knowing look. This was hardly new. Poor Alanna hated traveling by sea with a passion. She hated the ships and their lack of space. She hated the dirty rigging and the constant diet of fish – not that she could have kept anything down. Most of all, she hated the motion.
"I kep' askin' weren't there no magics to fix it all," the captain remarked. "She jus' glared, turned green, an' spit up her toenails."
That image was nearly too much. Numair sputtered in a poorly masked effort not to laugh. "There are numerous methods," he responded, once he had control of himself. "It is the Lioness' nature to refuse the easy way. Although she is allergic to the precise compound that could give her relief, she could simply sleep through the voyage."
"Wish she would," the captain countered, his dark brows narrowing. "I swear it's leavin' a wash line down my girl." He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the boat. "Least she oughta' vary her sick perch."
Numair folded his knuckles against his mouth, again trying to stifle a chuckle. Apparently, stomach acid was hard on the finish of the ship. "I'll ummm – try to suggest that," he told the captain, giving up the fight against laughter. The two men sniggered for a moment before the captain resumed his rounds, and Numair headed toward Alanna. Such a task would have to be handled delicately; Alanna was surely out of humor by now.
As he approached the red-head, Numair could hear that she had been reduced to heaving. Probably, there was nothing much left to vomit. He closed the distance cautiously, patting her back sympathetically. "There are moments I wish I had a gift to heal," he offered softly.
She turned her pallid face at him and glared. "Is that supposed to be funny," she growled hoarsely.
"No," he returned managing to keep a straight face. "I simply figure this is something you cannot heal within your self, or you would have. No one likes to see their friends this miserable."
Alanna actually seemed to soften – a rare occurrence. "Sympathy then," she observed speculatively before the next wave of dry heaves hit her.
"Afraid so," he replied. "Alanna, I have some dreamrose. You could sleep until we reach Carthak. Surely that must be preferable..."
"Hardly!" she practically spat. "At least awake, I know what's going on. I can help if there's trouble, I can..." She hurriedly leaned over the rail again, heaving more nothing.
"You can't do much when you're incapacitated this way anyway," he argued. He ducked the clumsy purple magic that she aimed at him. It would have stung and nothing more – a tiny magic smack of irritation. But it demonstrated how bad her suffering was that she couldn't even land a spell on him.
He stood there, waiting. She'd made his point for him and he knew it.
"Dreamrose, huh?" she asked eventually, when the spasm had subsided.
"You can dose yourself," he suggested. "I'll have Daine look in on you regularly and keep your cabin door magically locked otherwise. You can, of course, let yourself out if you want."
"A good sleep might not be unwelcome." Her eyes were not meeting his. Was that shame?
"We can keep this between us," he suggested. "No one has to know unless you want them too."
"It's a weakness," she muttered.
"Oh, good. I was starting to think you didn't have any."
She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide before she burst into laughter, hitting him with a blast of vomit-scented breath. He tactfully kept his composure. "May you never discover the depth of my own flaws," he added.
"Taste in women is right up there, vanity, poor housekeeping..." she teased as the pair began to walk below.
"Let's not make a list, all right?" Those three he could live with. But there were much worse flaws friends could discover about Numair, most of which had their roots in Carthak, the very place they were heading.