The Black Thorn At least they were moving again, that was something, Betrim reckoned, but not very fast. When they'd hopped on the boat from Chade it had seemed it might be a quick journey. 'Strong winds.' The Captain had said, 'wouldn't surprise me if we made the trip in three weeks.' So far they'd been at sea for six weeks and for two of those they'd been sitting becalmed. Fact was Betrim wasn't sure he liked the idea of arriving at Sarth any better than being stuck at sea. The seat of the Inquisition was no place for a man like him. All those witch hunters walking around looking for folk to burn, looking for the Black Thorn. For the first three weeks of his time at sea Betrim had become fast friends with the railings, leaning over and retching even when he had nothing in his stomach. He'd only been out on the ocean twice before in his life; first when he left his home and sailed to the Five Kingdoms where he'd spent an entire winter freezing his stones off and second when he'd sailed from the Five Kingdoms to the wilds where he'd spent more than a decade murdering folk for money and avoiding witch hunters.
