The Winds of Khalakovo - Bradley P. Beaulieu [5]
He took the gangplank up to the main deck. Even though the ship was lashed to the perch, it swayed with the wind. The surefootedness that had served him so well took over, his pace slowing, his steps widening ever so slightly. A handful of crewmen were aboard, making her shipshape. Several took note as he climbed the stairs up to the aftcastle, but they neither waved nor approached; they knew and respected his wish to be alone.
He made his way to the helm—the one piece of the ship he alone had crafted. The helm had three stout levers made from winter oak; he touched each of them in turn with a melancholy smile. It would be sad to see this ship go, but it would be an honor to pilot her on her first true voyage, even if it was brief.
Knowing that time was growing short, he pulled one of Aleksei’s vials from inside his coat. He stared at it soberly, his stomach churning from the look of the thing. He had decided that this would be the place he would consume it. He was not overly superstitious, but there was a certain sense of rightness to doing this here. The grub and the poison contained within it was said to burn the wasting from those who consumed them. The only legal methods for treatment of the disease were to visit leechmen or licensed physics, but Nikandr knew that neither could do a thing to halt its progress. They’d done nothing for his sister, Victania, and they’d do nothing for him. And so, to his shame, he had resorted to the black market in hopes of smothering the disease before it had truly had a chance to take hold. So far, nothing had worked, but the effects of these grubs were legendary among the right circles. He prayed to the ancients it would work, not only for his sake, but for Victania’s as well—the second would be hers if all went well.
The moment he unstoppered the vial, the air filled with the rancid scent of cod liver oil. His lips rose involuntarily as he grabbed the tail and pulled the white thing out. It dripped golden liquid back into the reservoir as he stared, thoughts of crunching down on its pale white skin running through his mind. He had never eaten a more repulsive thing than this. Ancients willing, he never would again.
Before he could think overly much about it, he stuffed it into his mouth whole and began chewing. The slick texture of the oil only made the bulbous grub seem that much more revolting. The cod liver oil was heavy, and it tasted like the fermented haddock that the people of Mirkotsk—though he’d never understood why—enjoyed so much. Things grew worse when the viscous interior of the grub, which tasted like rotted chestnuts, squirted free and inserted itself into the mix. He wished he could swallow the thing whole to be done with the chewing, but there was simply too much of it. Any attempt to swallow it now and he would launch his breakfast—what little he’d eaten of it—and the grub all over the deck. So he chewed and chewed and chewed, until finally he pierced the tail, where the poison was said to reside. A bitter, mineral taste spread throughout his mouth. The tip of his tongue went numb. He chewed even faster until finally he was able to get down the first mouthful.
Swallowing a part of it made things infinitely worse, for he was now fighting the urge to gag while simultaneously trying to force the bulk of it down. He swallowed, chewed more, swallowed again, as his stomach began to heave.
Then finally, all of it was down.
He leaned forward, holding on to his knees while breathing deeply. The scent of the deck was gone, as were the smells of the sea. All that remained was the bitter scent of the oil and weeks-old chestnuts.
The numbness on his tongue was growing worse, but he was able to stand and once again breathe with some small amount of ease.
But then