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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Pride of Tamland passed through the remainder of the Jags without incident, and the river resumed its gently meandering course, between the woods and fields of Briom and the scrubby, desolate moors of Tsenesh. The sun gently declined ahead of them, and the boatmaster reported that with any luck they should arrive at the next port of call, the Tseneshi town of Gerenna, by early the next morning.
“How is the engine holding out?” Mordecai asked him.
Flood scratched the back of his head. “Well, truth be told, Master Alonso,” he said, “I don't know as it'll hold out as far as Brokenbowes. Never known it run down so fast before. If it do run out completely, then...” He sighed. “It'll be every able-bodied passenger to the ropes and turn and turn about till we can pick up the horse. And that'll mean refunds and I don't know what. But that's Tamland magic for you,” he added, with a rueful grin. “It don't travel well, and that's the end of it.”
Mordecai, who knew why, did not comment. Already his own power was reduced to whatever his body could generate on its own, which, while considerable by human standards, was a fraction of what he was used to. Conscientious training and a regular lifestyle had prevented any such debacle as that of the previous year, in which, totally reliant on the Panergodyne, he had spent several harrowing days utterly without magic of his own; but still...
“Let me see what I can do,” he said. Flood looked dubious, as well he might, but nodded, and Mordecai, receiving a similar nod from Varnak, went below to the engine room, where he examined the glittering, whirling construction before him with care.
Anything magical is half alive, Tam had written, because magic is life. Considered as a living thing, the boat's magical engine was seriously ill. ( Cut for length... )
The Pride of Tamland passed through the remainder of the Jags without incident, and the river resumed its gently meandering course, between the woods and fields of Briom and the scrubby, desolate moors of Tsenesh. The sun gently declined ahead of them, and the boatmaster reported that with any luck they should arrive at the next port of call, the Tseneshi town of Gerenna, by early the next morning.
“How is the engine holding out?” Mordecai asked him.
Flood scratched the back of his head. “Well, truth be told, Master Alonso,” he said, “I don't know as it'll hold out as far as Brokenbowes. Never known it run down so fast before. If it do run out completely, then...” He sighed. “It'll be every able-bodied passenger to the ropes and turn and turn about till we can pick up the horse. And that'll mean refunds and I don't know what. But that's Tamland magic for you,” he added, with a rueful grin. “It don't travel well, and that's the end of it.”
Mordecai, who knew why, did not comment. Already his own power was reduced to whatever his body could generate on its own, which, while considerable by human standards, was a fraction of what he was used to. Conscientious training and a regular lifestyle had prevented any such debacle as that of the previous year, in which, totally reliant on the Panergodyne, he had spent several harrowing days utterly without magic of his own; but still...
“Let me see what I can do,” he said. Flood looked dubious, as well he might, but nodded, and Mordecai, receiving a similar nod from Varnak, went below to the engine room, where he examined the glittering, whirling construction before him with care.
Anything magical is half alive, Tam had written, because magic is life. Considered as a living thing, the boat's magical engine was seriously ill. ( Cut for length... )