I need more information, Tress thought. Before I decide that I know what the captain’s plan is. I need to find a way to spy on her. Maybe I can use Huck again.
She nodded—and in that moment, Tress saved herself a huge amount of trouble. The captain’s plan had nothing to do with the Sorceress, after all, but everything to do with why the crew were so frightened of her.
Tress picked up her sack—pretending it wasn’t full of cannonballs, which was as hard as it sounded—and carried it to the aft cannon, which was set up on the quarterdeck. She performed a similar swap there （placing the cannonballs she took in a separate bag within her larger one） while counting zephyr spore charges.
Then she hauled her bag belowdecks, where she stowed it in her room. From there she went looking for me. Now, normally this would also have been a shining example of common sense on her part. Everyone can use a little more Wit in their lives. Except me. I could stand to lose a pound or two.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind during this voyage. She found me playing cards with a group of the Dougs. I was wearing a shoe around my neck, tied by the laces, as I’d decided it was certain to be the absolute soul of fashion the following season. I’d forgotten to wear pants, as one does, and my underclothing needed a good washing. Actually, all of me did.
I was trying to play a game I’d invented called “Kings” where everyone held their cards backward, so you didn’t know what you had but everyone else did. I can imagine several interesting applications of this now—but back then the only interesting part was how easily the Dougs won my wages off me, followed by my shoe.
I still have no idea what I did with the other one.
Once the Dougs were finished taking me for what little I was worth, they scrambled off to find some other victim. I sat there, wondering if perhaps I should start wearing a sock around my neck, until Tress settled down beside me.
“Would you like to play Kings?” I asked with a grin. “I still have some undershorts I can bet!”
“Um, no thanks,” Tress said. “Hoid, I know you visited the Sorceress. Do you…remember anything about it?”
“Yup!” I said.
“Great! What can you tell me?”
“C…c…c…can’t!” I said, tapping my head. “Words don’t work that way, kiddo. She makes them into something else!”
“I don’t understand,” Tress said.
“Neither do I!” I replied. “That’s the problem! Can’t say anything at all about what you might think! It’s p…p…p…” I shrugged, unable to form the word.
“Your…curse forbids you from talking about your curse?” Tress guessed.
I winked. Mostly because I had something in my eye. But in this case, Tress had guessed correctly. The Sorceress was quite specific with each geas: if you tried to talk about it, you’d stutter or the words would die halfway out of your lips. You couldn’t even tell people you were cursed unless they already knew.
“So,” Tress said, “if I want you to lead me to the Sorceress, I have to find a way to break your curse—without knowing anything about it. Plus, I have to do that without any help from you whatsoever.”
I took her hands in mine. I looked her in the eyes. I took a deep breath, trembling.
“I once ate an entire watermelon in one sitting,” I told her. “And it gave me diarrhea.”
Tress sighed, pulling her hands free. “Right, right. I guess finding a way to break your curse is slightly less impossible than finding my way to the Sorceress on my own. That’s something, at least.”
There was still a part of me—deep down—that knew what was going on. The Sorceress was cruel like that. Sure, turning a man into a simpleton is fun—but true torture lies in letting him remain just aware enough to be horrified.
That sensate part of me scrambled to find some way to help. Ulaam had been useless, of course. That’s the problem with immortals—they get used to sitting around waiting for problems to work themselves out.
But here was someone willing to help. What could I say? What could I do? Only a sliver of me was still awake, and it had almost no control. Plus, every time I tried to say anything about my specific predicament, the curse would activate, driving me back and prompting me to do something monstrous, like wear socks with sandals.
That glimmer of awareness started to fade. And I seized upon that. My own stupidity. The curse, like many magics of its ilk, depended on how the subject thought—on their Intent. I could use that, I knew.