Chapter Text
Nigel kept his head down for the most part. That wasn’t difficult - he’d done it all his life. Somebody else is always ready to take centre stage, to tell their story, to draw out others’ amusement or disdain or disgust. The zailors on the Leaping Neither were no different to the actors at Mahogany Hall as far as Nigel was concerned - confident in their abilities, certain that their role was of paramount importance, heedless of those who kept their heads down backstage and kept them alive.
Nonetheless he talked enough to make friends. That was the point, after all.
Intimacy was not his strong suit, nor intuition. He had to observe people for some time before approaching them. But he was intelligent - more so than anybody knew - and his strategy was simple. Common ground made things easier with everybody. Those who had common ground with him, who were already like him in some way, were good targets for both friendship and what came after that.
He had boarded the Leaping Neither one autumn. All seasons are cold in the Neath, but in the autumn a scarf passes without comment far more easily. The scar that sat on his collarbone still wept, and there was no explanation for it (no turning back now).
Within two months he was on good terms with three other zailors on his shift. He took his time getting to know them, he took his time earning their trust. He took his time deciding who his fourth betrayal would be.
It was over a dinner of hard tack with the other zailors (as he hungered for meat) that Nigel made his mind up (no turning back now). It would be Sammy, the naive longshanks from the Noughts. He had a strong sense of justice, Nigel noticed - and like many who grew up as urchins, he was already comfortable with the idea of serving a long-dead god. Nigel bided his time - the Leaping Neither was set to arrive at Frostfound five days later.
He’d walk with Sammy along the shore, in the shadow of the frozen spires. From the full vessel of his mind he would pour knowledge into Sammy’s until both their skulls overflowed with the same caustic truths and gaping need.
The thought disgusted him (no turning back now), filled him with grief and pity that commingled with the aching sorrow for the Drowned Man. He cared about Sammy - the betrayal would mean nothing if he didn’t. He had cared about the others just as much, and that hadn’t stopped him.
He couldn’t turn back now.
It was six minutes to midnight on the Pillared Sea when Nigel went up to the deck for fresh air. Tomorrow would be the day. He needed to get his bearings, steady himself. Aim the blade properly and it only takes a single strike.
He closed his eyes, breathed in the zee air, listened to the bats. There was no turning back now. The only way was forward, on and on. After Sammy he’d lie low and disembark in London, find the next and the next and the next. On and on down the Seeking Road. He ruminated on the memories of chains, on the well and the knives, on a life that had only ever led to this and would only ever lead to more pain.
He opened his eyes narrowly. Then they opened wide in shock.
He knew nobody else would come up here at this time. Yet a figure stood, hooded and cloaked in shadow, on the prow of the ship. Smoke drifted slowly from their head, and terror overtook Nigel. He let out a whimper, and the figure turned around slowly, revealing the embers in their mouth.
She took the cigar in her left hand.
“Wot are you lookin’ at?” She casually took another drag. “Is there a zee-monster behind me?”
Nigel slowly relaxed his grip on the railing. “How… are you here? Are you here at all?”
The Hooded Woman chuckled. “I’ve got my ways,” Nigel saw her wink by the light of the cigar, “Irem is a crossroads of sorts - or it will be one - I don’t bloomin’ know! But my ‘Ouse of Mirrors isn’t just for show.” Another long drag. “Now then. I don’t usually do this, but I want to ‘ave a word with you.”