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Granny, who had been staring out across the water, turned around.
“Can't you think of anything else at all helpful that we could be doing?” she demanded.
Cutangle baled for a few moments.
“No,” he said.
“Have you ever heard of anyone coming Back?”
“No.”
“Then it's worth a try, isn't it?”
“I never liked the ocean,” said Cutangle. “It ought to be paved over. There's dreadful things in it, down in the deep bits. Ghastly sea monsters. Or so they say.”
“Keep baling, my lad, or you'll be able to see if they're right.”
The storm rolled backwards and forwards overhead. It was lost here on the flat river plains; it belonged in the high Ramtops, where they knew how to appreciate a good storm. It grumbled around, looking for even a moderately high hill to throw lightning at.
The rain settled down to the gentle patter of rain that is quite capable of keeping it up for days. A sea fog also rolled in to assist it.
“If we had some oars we could row, if we knew where we were going,” said Cutangle. Granny didn't answer.
He heaved a few more bootfuls of water over the side, and it occurred to him that the gold braiding on his robe would probably never be the same again. It would be nice to think it might matter, one day.
“I don't suppose you do know which way the Hub is, by any chance?” he ventured. “Just making conversation.”
“Look for the mossy side of trees,” said Granny without turning her head.
“Ali, ” said Cutangle, and nodded.
He peered down gloomily at the oily waters, and wondered which particular oily waters they were. Judging by the salty smell they were out in the bay now.
What really terrified him about the sea was that the only thing between him and the horrible things that lived at the bottom of it was water. Of course, he knew that logically the only thing that separated him from, say, the man-eating tigers in the jungles of Klatch was mere distance, but that wasn't the same thing at all. Tigers didn't rise up out of the chilly depths, mouths full of needle teeth ....
He shivered.
“Can't you feel it?” asked Granny. “You can taste it in the air. Magic! It's leaking out from something.”
“It's not actually water soluble,” said Cutangle. He smacked his lips once or twice. There was indeed a tinny taste to the fog, he had to admit, and a faint greasiness to the air.
“You're a wizard,” said Granny, severely. “Can't you call it up or something?”
“The question has never arisen,” said Cutangle. “Wizards never throw their staffs away.”
“It's around here somewhere,” snapped Granny. “Help me look for it, man!”
Cutangle groaned. It had been a busy night, and before he tried any more magic he really needed twelve hours sleep, several good meals, and a quiet afternoon in front of a big fire. He was getting too old, that was the trouble. But he closed his eyes and concentrated.
There was magic around, all right. There are some places where magic naturally accumulates. It builds up around deposits of the transmundane metal octiron, in the wood of certain trees, in isolated lakes, it sleets through the world and those skilled in such things can catch it and store it. There was a store of magic in the area.
“It's potent,” he said. “Very potent.” He raised his hands to his temples.
“It's getting bloody cold,” said Granny. The insistent rain had turned to snow.
There was a sudden change in the world. The boat stopped, not with a jar, but as if the sea had suddenly decided to become solid. Granny looked over the side.
The sea had become solid. The sound of the waves was coming from a long way away and getting further away all the time.
