Jarka Ruus (18 page)

They went back to playing, the sound of the rain beating against the window increasing in intensity. All around them, voices and laughter fought to hold their ground. The flames of the lamps on the walls and the candles on the tables fluttered like tiny flags as the wind slipped through cracks and crevices in the wood boarding and gusted through the open door every time someone entered or left.

“I'll tell him when he comes back,” Pen said finally. He moved his assault piece to confront her control. “Stand down. You lose, Khyber.”

They played another game and were in the middle of a third when the door opened to admit a drenched Ahren Elessedil and Tagwen. Shedding water from their all-weather cloaks like ducks come ashore, they hurried over to the boy and girl. “Get your things together,” Ahren told them quietly, bending down so that rainwater dripped on the tabletop. “We've found a ship.”

         

They gathered up their gear, strapped their packs over their shoulders, and departed the inn for the ship that the Druid had engaged. Better that they settle in at once so they could be ready to leave when the storm abated, the Druid advised. They had to walk from the side street on which the inn was situated back to the main roadway and down to the docks, then along the waterfront to where the ship was tied up at the pier. As they slogged through the downpour, Ahren Elessedil provided the details.

“The ship is the
Skatelow
. Appropriate name for its uses, I'd guess. Low and sleek in her hull, raked mast, lots of rigging on the decks. She can't carry much in the way of passengers or freight with all the sail she stores, but she can probably outrun almost anything flying.”

“Made for our uses,” Tagwen grunted, his words nearly drowned out by a sudden gust of wind.

“Not much in the way of comforts, but adequate for our needs,” the Druid continued. “Her Captain is a Rover named Gar Hatch. I don't know anything about him other than what I've learned from talking with him and what a few on the waterfront tell me. He's got a reputation for being willing to try anything, and they all say he can go places no one else would even think of trying. If I read him correctly, he's done a lot of what we're after—carrying passengers who want to keep it quiet. He's charming, but there's some snake in him, as well, so watch what you say. He knows we want to go east to the Lazareen, but that's all I've given him to work with. What he cares about most is the money he will get, and I've satisfied him on that count.”

“The Lazareen?” Khyber asked.

“An inland lake at the foot of the Charnals, the first step of our journey. That's all the Rover knows of our plans just yet.”

They walked on for a while, not speaking, heads bent against the wind and rain. Pen was not only wet, he was cold. He had been out in the weather a lot aboard airships and knew how to dress for it, but in his haste to leave the inn this afternoon, he hadn't given much thought to his personal comfort. He was regretting that oversight now.

“Penderrin.”

Ahren Elessedil had dropped back to walk beside him, letting Khyber and Tagwen go on ahead. Pen hitched up his pack and moved closer so that he could hear. The rain obscured the Druid's face and ran off his shoulders in sheets.

“I took the liberty of telling Captain Hatch that you had extensive airship experience,” he said. “I'm afraid I put you on the spot rather deliberately.” The hood shifted, and Pen caught a glimpse of his Elven features, somber and intense. “I don't trust this fellow entirely; he's a mercenary, and mercenaries always look out for themselves first. But he was the best I could do, and I didn't want to delay our departure. The longer we wait, the better the chance that those hunting us will get wind of where we are.”

Pen nodded. “I understand.”

The Druid leaned closer. “The reason I told Hatch about your experience is so that he knows at least one of us can determine if he's doing what he's supposed to. I don't want him telling us one thing and doing something else. I don't want him thinking he can put one over on us. I don't say that would happen, but I want to guard against it. I don't know that much about airships; I never did. Your father was the pilot and your mother the navigator when it was needed. I was always just a passenger. That's never changed. Khyber and Tagwen know even less than I do. In fact, I think it's something of a miracle that Tagwen managed to reach you on his own.”

“I thought that, too, after he told me what he'd done.” Pen blinked away the rain that swept into his eyes.

“Stay alert on our journey, Pen,” Ahren said. “Don't make it obvious, but keep an eye on what's happening with the navigation of the ship. If anything looks wrong, tell me. I'll deal with it. Can you do that?”

“I can do it.”

“Gar Hatch doesn't know who we are, but that doesn't mean he won't find out. If he does, he might be tempted to make use of that information. The Druids are already looking for you. They've put it about that because of what happened to your aunt, you might be in danger, as well, and should be protected. If you're seen, word is to be sent to them immediately.”

He hunched his shoulders against the wind. “I gave him only first names, thinking it safe enough at the time, but now I wish I hadn't given him even that. News of the Druid search didn't reach Syioned until this morning, but now that it has, Hatch may hear of it. He isn't a stupid man. Be very careful, Pen.”

He moved away again into the rain, his cloaked form dark and shadowy in the gloom. Pen stared after him, slowing.

Be very careful
. Easily said, he thought; not so easily done.

Aware suddenly that he was falling behind, he hurried to catch up with the others.

Sixteen

The storm raged on through the rest of the day and all that night, but by daybreak it had begun to diminish. By the time the general population of Syioned was stirring awake, the
Skatelow
had cast off her moorings and was under way.

Pen and his companions had been huddled belowdecks since boarding, trying their best to sleep through the storm's fury, and they had not had more than a rain-drenched glimpse of their vessel. Now, with the skies clearing and the sun a bright wash in the east, they came on deck to look around.

Their transport was a sloop, a new design for airships, although a very old one for sailing ships. Ahren Elessedil had described it accurately. It was low and flat and clearly built for speed. A single mast and spars were rigged to fly a mainsail, foresail, and flying jib. In his travels, Pen hadn't seen much of the latter, another sailing ship feature that had been converted for airship usage. A broad, billowing sail that traditionally captured the wind off the bow and gave the vessel extra thrust, the jib was used by airships to absorb a wider swath of ambient light that could be converted to energy by the diapson crystals that powered the ship. The
Skatelow
lacked the pontoons that serviced most of the older airships of the catamaran design, relying instead on its pilot's sailing skills and the flatness of its hull to keep it steady in the air.

Pen liked the
Skatelow
right away. It had been modified from its original design considerably to eliminate anything that might slow its flight. Except for the mast and rigging, everything else was tucked away belowdecks or in storage bins. Even the pilot box was recessed into the hull to cut back on drag. Everything was sleek and smooth, the ship a great swift bird that could hunt or run as needed. It was powered by eight diapson crystals, the most in use for a ship of only seventy-odd feet. Anything more and the thrust might have torn her apart. Even with eight, the Captain had to know what he was doing.

Gar Hatch did, and he let Pen know it right from the first. Pen had been abovedecks less than five minutes when the Captain of the
Skatelow
hailed him over.

“Penderrin!” he called out from the pilot box. “Stand to, lad! Give an old sailor an ear to bend!”

Obediently, Pen walked down the deck to the box and climbed in beside Gar Hatch. The Rover was a big man, heavy and square through his midsection with huge arms and legs—a tree trunk of a man. Bushy hair sprouted from his face and head, even from his sizeable ears, giving him the appearance of a great woolly bear. When he spoke he had a tendency to rear back, his stomach thrust out and his chin tucked so far into his beard that his mouth disappeared entirely. What remained visible were his sharp, hawkish eyes, bright and dangerous.

“You're a sailor yourself, I'm told,” he said, his deep, rough voice rising from somewhere inside his beard. His breath smelled of fish and sea salt. “Been so since you were a small lad, an early old salt. Spent years sailing airships big and small about Rainbow Lake and the rivers that feed her. Good for you!”

“My parents are the real sailors,” Pen said. “I learned what I know from them. They take customers on expeditions into the Eastland.” He stopped himself quickly. Remembering Ahren Elessedil's admonishment, he was aware that he had already said more than he should have. “I just fly with them once in a while and look after the ships in dock,” he finished carefully.

Gar Hatch didn't seem to notice. “Grew up that way myself,” he said. “Learned what I know from my father and uncles, sailors all. On the coast, off the Blue Divide, whichever way the wind blew. We flew the big ships mostly, but I had my own skiff when I was your age. Got one of those yourself, your uncle tells me.”

My uncle?
“Yes, that's right,” Pen answered quickly. “A cat-28. I built it myself.”

“Did you now? Good for you, Penderrin!” The Rover laughed, his belly shaking with the effort. “Best way to learn about airships is to build one. Haven't got the skills for that myself, but I've helped those who do. I learned keel from mast quick enough that way, so when I flew I understood if the lady didn't like the way she was being treated.”

Pen grinned. “I like this ship. I've never flown one, but I've seen them and I know how they're made. This one is made to fly fast. Have you run out the string on her?”

Hatch roared. “That's the lad! Ask what matters, and no beating around the main mast! Sure, I've had her thrusters all the way open, and let me tell you, Penderrin, she can fly faster than fast! Nothing alive can catch her, save for the big birds off the coast, and they might have to work some to do it. She's a glutton for speed, this one. You're right, though. I gave her all her curves, all her smooth limbs and soft lines. She's my lady, she is.”

He paused. “You've never flown a sloop, did you say? Lad, that's unconscionable! Do you want to try now?”

Pen could hardly contain his excitement. “You'd let me?”

“A sailor like yourself, born to the air?” Hatch leaned forward, his fish breath in Pen's face. “Take the helm, Captain Pen.”

Despite Ahren Elessedil's warnings about the big man, Pen was desperate to fly the sloop, so he put aside his misgivings. It wouldn't hurt to accept the offer, he told himself. He was just going to test his skills a bit, try out the controls, and see if he could manage the vessel. He had flown other airships of the same sort, some much bigger.
Skatelow
couldn't be that much more difficult.

Gar Hatch backed away, and Pen stepped up to the helm. He glanced down quickly, noting thrusters, lifts, banking levers, and the like, all familiar to him, though located in somewhat different positions than he was used to. The compass was set dead center above the half wheel that managed the keel rudder.

“There you be, young Pen,” the Rover Captain declared cheerfully. “A fine and proper set of controls for a fine and proper young sailor. Give her a try, lad.”

Pen did so, easing into things slowly, carefully, setting trim before taking the airship a little higher with the lifts. She nosed upward, but he felt the tension in her hull, then a slight shaking. He frowned as he worked to steady her. It wasn't as easy as he had thought. Everything was the same, but the sloop's responses were less certain than he would have liked. He adjusted the thrusters and felt her shake some more. An effort at resetting trim proved unsuccessful. He eased the power back, glancing over at Gar Hatch.

The Rover's sharp eyes were glittering. “Not so easy as it looks, is it?” he asked, and Pen could see he wasn't expecting an argument. “Flying a sloop is not the same as flying a cat-28 or even a warship with pontoons and rams for stability. A sloop needs tender loving care from a master who knows her needs.”

He smiled, but even through the heavy growth of beard Pen could see the teeth behind. He realized with a sinking feeling that Hatch had been testing him. Knowing how difficult it would be for someone unfamiliar with the sloop to sail her, he had enticed Pen into trying so that he could judge the boy's skills. The Rover was one step ahead of Ahren Elessedil; he knew that Pen had been asked to check up on him, even without having been present at the conversation. Now he had Pen's measure, and the boy had helped him take it.

Gar Hatch stepped forward and took back the ship's controls, easing Pen out of the way without seeming to do so.

“You keep in mind, Penderrin,” he said softly, looking over at the boy as he steadied the vessel anew, “that there's only one Captain on this ship. Do that and we'll get along fine. Now out of the box you go. Back down on the deck with the others. That's a good lad.”

Pen left without a word, burning with frustration and shame, so furious with himself that he could have spit. But there was no help for it, and he refused to give Garth Hatch the satisfaction of seeing him react. Fighting to control himself, he stood alone at the starboard rail, his gaze directed resolutely forward even though he could feel the Rover Captain's eyes on his back. He should have paid better attention to Ahren Elessedil's warning. But that was water over the dam. What mattered was how well he remembered the lesson he had just been taught. Well enough, he promised himself. The next time Gar Hatch tried to make a fool of him, things would turn out differently.

         

It was late in the afternoon of that same day when Cinnaminson came on deck. She climbed up through the hatchway leading from the narrow sleeping quarters below, stepping into the crimson light of the sunset like a shade. Pen was sitting with Khyber at the aft rail, still stewing over the way he had let himself be fooled by Gar Hatch, when he saw her. He did not know where she had come from or what she was doing there. He had thought that besides the four who had booked passage there were only Hatch and two crewmen. Now this apparition had appeared. He stopped talking in midsentence, causing Khyber, who had not been paying close attention, to look up from her writing and follow his gaze.

She was only a girl, no older than Pen, younger than Khyber, her slender form wrapped in something soft gray and green that might have been a long robe and shimmered like the sea. She looked to have woken from a deep sleep, her short, sandy blond hair disheveled and her face tilting toward the light as if to make certain of the time. Pen thought her beautiful, although he would later revise that judgment to striking, and sometime later to captivating. Her features were delicate, but unremarkable and not quite perfect. Still, they intrigued him. What mattered more was the way she moved, not looking at anything while seemingly aware of all. She glided rather than walked, the soft whisper of her gown marking her passage as she came toward them.

It was when she had almost reached them that Pen saw her eyes. They were milky white and empty, staring straight ahead at nothing. She was blind.

Pen did not know who she was. He did not know her name. What he did know was that he would never forget her.

“Are you our passengers?” she asked them, looking off into a space they did not quite occupy.

Pen nodded, then realized she couldn't see him. “Yes, two of them, anyway. I'm Pen and this is Khyber.” He had presence of mind enough, though just barely, to remember to use only first names.

“I'm Cinnaminson,” she told them. “I'm Gar Hatch's daughter.”

She stretched out her hand and waited for them to take it, which they did, one after the other. Her smile was winsome and a bit fragile, Pen thought, hesitant and protective at the same time, which seemed right for her condition. But there was strength to her, too. She was not afraid to come up against what she couldn't see.

“Traveling to the Charnals,” she said, making it a statement of fact. “I like that part of the world. I like the feel of the mountain air, the smell and taste of it. Snowmelt and evergreens and ice.”

“Do you always come on these trips?” Khyber asked, looking doubtful about the whole business.

“Oh, yes. Ever since I was eight years old. I always go. Papa wouldn't fly anywhere without me.” She laughed softly, milky eyes squinting with amusement. “I am an old salt, he tells me, a child of the air and sea.”

Khyber arched a questioning eyebrow at Pen. “I am surprised he would allow you aboard at so young an age when you could not see to help yourself. It seems dangerous.”

“I see well enough,” the girl replied. “Not so much with my eyes as with my other senses. Besides, I know every inch of the
Skatelow
. I am not in any real danger.”

She sat down beside them, moving effortlessly to find a place between them, her gray and green robes settling about her like sea foam. “You don't fly, do you, Khyber?”

“No. But Pen does. He was born to airships.”

Her gaze shifted, not quite finding him. “Don't tell my father. He doesn't like it when other flyers come aboard. He's very jealous of what's his.”

Pen thought, without having any better reason to do so than the way she said it, that she was including herself in that assessment. “Too late,” he told her. “He found out from my uncle and already made a point of letting me know how lacking I am in real skills.”

Her smile dropped. “I'm sorry, Pen. I would have warned you if I had known. Papa can be very hard.”

“Is he hard on you?”

The smile returned, less certain. “I am his most important crew member,” she said, not quite answering the question. She hesitated. “He wouldn't want me to tell you this, but I will anyway. I am his navigator.”

Pen and Khyber exchanged a quick glance. “How do you manage that?” the Elven girl asked. “I didn't think you could navigate if you couldn't see.”

The milky eyes shifted slightly toward the sound of Khyber's voice. “I don't see with my eyes. I see with my other senses.” She bit her lip. “I can do things to help Papa that don't require sight.” Again, she paused. “You mustn't tell Papa I told you any of this. He wouldn't like it.”

“Why wouldn't he like it?” Pen asked.

“Papa worries about outsiders, people other than Rovers. He doesn't trust them.”

Nor do we trust him, Pen thought. Not a good situation.

“I still don't understand this navigation business,” Khyber pressed, her brow furrowing. “Tell us something more about how you help your father.”

“Cinnaminson!”

All three turned in the direction of the voice. Gar Hatch had turned around in the pilot box and caught sight of them. He looked furious. “Come help your Papa, little girl,” he ordered brusquely. “You've sailor work to do.”

She stood up at once. “Coming, Papa.” She glanced down quickly. “Say nothing!” she whispered.

She left without another word, walking straight to the pilot box and climbing in. Pen watched to see what would happen and wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed when nothing did. Gar Hatch put his hand on his daughter's shoulder, patted it briefly, and turned back to steering the vessel. Cinnaminson remained standing beside him.