Life aboard a ship was much more glamorous in the stories. Stories also smelt better. The vintage wine turned out to be less vintage, more vinegar than Murdak had led him to believe, and the window in his cabin was little more than a chink of grimy light. Neither was he made to feel particularly welcome. It helped not that the two men who suspected him of cheating were amongst the crew. The one promise that Murdak made that held true was that they had time to talk. The mist-filled hours provided more than enough to tire of each other. It became swiftly apparent that none aboard were keen on having an ashen in their midst. Most attempts at conversation were snubbed or mocked. Land Legs, he heard them call him, Black-Eye and Smoke-Eater. The sole member of the crew that had time for him was the steersman, Res, who spent so much time alone at the helm he was just glad of the diversion.
Bassy, the hook-nosed player, had taken a deeper dislike on account of his losses at the Ciga table. He had spat on the deck as Balagir passed. These were men of the sea, hard as salt-dried leather, and his mates at his back; brash Jip, cutthroat Jared, and scuttling Pegs stayed any confrontation Balagir may have considered. Instead he went to his cabin and tried to stomach the corked wine.
