Ship of Destiny (62 page)

“I did not send for you,” he greeted Etta coldly as she came aboard. She seemed undaunted by his rebuke.

“I know. I thought to take advantage of the lull in the storm to return.”

“Whether I commanded it or not,” Kennit observed sourly.

She halted without touching him, plainly puzzled. There was hurt in her voice as she complained, “It didn’t occur to me that you might not want me to return.”

Jola looked at him oddly. Kennit was well aware that the crew liked Etta and romanticized his relationship to the whore. With things as unsettled as they were now, there was no sense in upsetting them, or her.

“Regardless of the risk to yourself?” he amended sharply. “Get to the cabin. You are drenched. Wintrow, you also. I have news to share with you.”

Kennit turned and preceded them. Damn them both for hauling him out on deck in this chilling rain. His stump began to ache with nagging intensity. When he reached his cabin, he dropped into his chair and let his crutch fall to the deck. Etta, dripping rain, picked it up reflexively and set it in its place in the corner. He watched in disapproving silence as they shed their soaked outer garments.

“Well. So you are here. Why?” he challenged them before either could speak. He gave them almost time enough to gather their thoughts, then as Wintrow drew breath, he cut him off. “Don’t bother replying. I see it in your faces. After all we have been through, you still don’t trust me.”

“Kennit!” Etta cried out in unfeigned dismay. He ignored it.

“What is it about me you find so doubtful? My judgment? My honor?” He set his face in lines of bitter remorse. “I fear you are justified. I showed poor judgment in my promise to Wintrow, and little honor to my crew in risking them attempting to keep that promise.” He gave Wintrow a piercing look. “Your aunt is alive and aboard. In fact, she sleeps in your room. Stop!” he ordered as Wintrow rose hastily. “You cannot go to her just now. She was cold and battered from her time in the sea. She’s taken poppy to ease her. Not disturbing her rest is simple courtesy. Despite the hostility of our reception by the
Paragon,
I, at least, will hold to what a truce flag means.” He swung his gaze to Etta. “And you, lady, are to stay well away from both Althea Vestrit and the Six Duchies warrior who accompanied her. I fear a danger to your person from them. The Vestrit woman speaks fair words, but who knows what her true intentions are?”

“They approached under truce, and then attacked?” Wintrow asked incredulously.

“Ah. You were watching, then? They provoked our serpents into attacking by firing arrows at them. They mistook the serpents’ retreat for flight. Emboldened by that, they brought in their ship to challenge us directly. In the final battle, we prevailed. Unfortunately, a valuable prize was lost in the process.” He shook his head. “The ship was determined to perish.” That was a vague enough telling that he could later shift details as needed, if Wintrow doubted any of it. For now, it left the lad white-faced and stiff.

“I had no idea,” Wintrow began awkwardly, but with a sharp wave of his hand, Kennit cut him off.

“Of course you did not. Because you have not learned a thing, despite all my efforts to teach you. I deferred to my feelings for you, and made costly promises. Well, I kept them. The ship is not pleased, the crew has been risked and a rare prize has been lost. But I kept my word to you, Wintrow. As Etta begged me to. I fear it will bring neither of you joy,” he finished wearily. He looked from one to the other and shook his head in disgust at his own stupidity. “I suppose I am a fool to hope that either of you will obey my wishes regarding Althea Vestrit. Until I determine if she is a threat to us, I would like to keep her isolated. Comfortable but isolated from both ship and crew. I have no desire to kill her, Wintrow. But neither can I risk her discovering the secret ways into Divvytown, or undermining my authority with the ship. Her mere presence in these waters appears to have been enough to turn you against me.” He shook his head again wearily. “I never dreamed you would be so quick to doubt me. Never.” He went so far as to lower his face into his hands. His elbows rested on his knee as he curled forward in mimed misery. He heard Etta’s light footstep on the deck but still pretended to startle as her hands came to rest on his shoulders.

“Kennit, I have never doubted you. Never. And if you judge it best, I will return to the
Marietta
until you send for me. Though I hate to be parted from you . . .”

“No, no.” He forced himself to reach up and pat one of her hands. “Now that you are here, you may as well stay. As long as you keep well clear of Althea and her companion.”

“If this is your will, I shall not question it. In all other things as regard me, you have always been right.” She paused. “And I am sure that Wintrow agrees with me,” she prompted the hapless boy.

“I would like to see Althea,” Wintrow replied miserably. Kennit knew the effort it cost him, and in a tiny way he admired the boy’s tenacity. Etta did not.

“But you will do as Kennit says,” she told him.

Wintrow bowed his head in defeat. “I am sure he has good reasons for wishing me to do this,” he conceded at last.

Etta’s hands were kneading Kennit’s neck and shoulders. He relaxed to her touch, and let the last of his worries lift. It was done. Paragon was gone and Althea Vestrit was his. “We make for Divvytown,” he said quietly. There, he would find a good excuse why Etta must be put ashore and remain there. He glanced at the morose Wintrow. With deep regret, he wondered if he would have to give the boy up as well. He would have to offer Bolt something by way of reconciliation. It might have to be Wintrow, sent off to be a priest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        
FLIGHTS

REYN HAD NOT BELIEVED HE COULD FALL ASLEEP IN THE
dragon’s clutches, but he had. He twitched awake, then gave a half-yell at the sight of his feet dangling over nothing. He felt a chuckle from the dragon in response, but she said nothing.

They were getting to know one another well. He could feel her weariness in the rhythm of her wing beats. She needed to rest soon. But for his presence, she had told him, she could have plunged down into shallows near an island, allowing the water to absorb her impact. Because he occupied her forepaws, she sought a beach that was open enough to permit a ponderously flapping landing. In the Pirate Isles, that was not easy to find. The little islands below them were steep-sided and pointed, like mountaintops poking up out of the sea. A few had gentle, sandy beaches. Each rest period, she would select a site and descend in sickening circles. Then, as she got closer to the ground, she would beat her great leathery wings so fiercely that their motion snatched the breath from Reyn’s lungs while filling the air with dust and sand. Once down, she would casually dump him on the sand and bid him get out of her way. Whether he did or not, she leapt into flight again. The turbulence of her passage was enough to fling him to the ground. She would be gone for a few hours or half a day, to hunt, feed, sleep and sometimes feed again.

Reyn used these solitary hours to kindle a fire, eat from his dwindling supplies, and then roll himself up in his cloak to sleep; if he could not sleep, he tormented himself with thoughts of Malta, or with wondering what would become of him if the dragon failed to return.

In the fading light of the winter afternoon, Reyn sighted a beach of black sand amid out-thrusts of black rock. Tintaglia banked her wings and swung toward it. As they circled, several of the black boulders littering the beach stirred. Napping marine mammals lifted their ponderous heads. The sight of the dragon sent them galloping heavily into the waves. Tintaglia cursed, finishing with, “But for carrying you, I’d have a fine, fat meal in my talons right now. It’s rare to find sea bullocks so far north this time of year. I won’t have another chance like that again!”

The layer of black sand over the black bedrock proved to be shallower than it looked. Tintaglia landed, but without dignity, as her great talons scrabbled on the beach like a dog’s claws on a flagged floor. Lashing her tail wildly to keep her balance, she nearly fell on top of him before she managed to stop.

Once she dropped him on the beach, he scuttled hastily away from her, but she did not take off immediately. She was still muttering disconsolately to herself about fine, fat sea bullocks. “Lean, dark red meat and layers of blubber and, oh, the richness of the liver, nothing compares to it, soft and hot in the mouth,” she mourned.

He glanced back at the thickly forested island. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find other game here,” he assured her.

But she was not consoled. “Oh, certainly I will. Lean bony rabbits by the score, or a doe going to ribs already. That is not what I crave, Reyn. Such meat will keep me, but my body clamors to grow. If I had emerged in spring, as I should have, I would have had the whole summer to hunt. I would have grown strong, then fat, and then strong again, and fatter still, until by the time winter threatened, I would have had the reserves to subsist easily on such lean and bony creatures. But I did not.” She shook out her wings and surveyed herself dolefully. “I am hungry all the time, Reyn. And when I briefly sate that hunger, my body demands sleep, so it can build itself up. But I know I cannot sleep, nor hunt and eat as much as I should. Because I must keep my promise to you, if I am to save the last of my kind.”

He stood without words, seeing an entirely different creature than he had but a few minutes before. She was young and growing, despite having lived a hundred lifetimes. How would it feel, to step forth into life after endless waiting, only to be seized by the necessity for selflessness? He suddenly felt pity for her.

She must have sensed his emotion, but her eyes spun coldly. She tucked her wings back to her body. “Get out of my way,” she warned him, but did not give him enough time to move. The wind of her wings sent a stinging cloud of sand against his abused flesh.

When he dared to open his eyes again, she was a flash of blue, iridescent as a hummingbird, still rising into the sky. For an instant, his heart sang with the pure beauty of such a creature. What right had he to delay her in her quest to perpetuate her species? Then he thought of Malta and his resolution firmed. Once she was safe, he would be willing to devote all his efforts to aiding Tintaglia.

He chose a sheltered place in the lee of some boulders. The winter day was clear, and the thin sunlight almost warm. He ate sparingly of his dried food and drank water from his bag. He tried to sleep, but the bruises from her claws ached and the sun was too bright against his eyelids. He watched the sky for her return, but saw only wheeling gulls. Resigned to a substantial wait, he ventured into the forest to look for fresh water.

It was odd to walk beneath trees on solid ground. The lush Rain Wild growth towering over swamp was the only forest he had ever known. Here the branches of trees swooped lower, and the undergrowth was thicker. Dead leaves were thick underfoot. He heard birds, but he saw few signs of small game, and none at all of deer or pig. Perhaps this island boasted no large animals. If so, Tintaglia might return as empty as she had left. The terrain became steeper and he soon doubted he would find a stream. Reluctantly, he turned back toward the beach.

As he drew close to where the darkness of the forest was shot through with the light from the open beach beyond, he heard an odd sound. Deep and reverberating, it reminded him of a large skin drum struck with a soft object. He slowed his pace and peered from the brush before venturing out into the open.

The sea bullocks had returned. Half a dozen of them basked on the sand. One lifted his muzzle; his thick throat worked like a bellows to produce the sound. Reyn stared, fascinated. He had never seen such immense creatures at close range. The creature lowered his massive head and snuffed loudly at the sand, apparently puzzled by the unfamiliar scent of dragon. He bared thick yellow tusks in distaste, shook his head, then sprawled down in the sand once more. The other dozing creatures ignored him. One turned over on its back and waved its flippers lazily before its face. It turned its head toward Reyn, and widened its nostrils. He thought it would immediately roll to its feet and wallow toward the sea, but it closed its eyes and went back to sleep.

A plan unfolded in Reyn’s head. Silently, he retreated from the beach. Sticks were plentiful under the trees; he selected one that was straight, stout and long, then lashed his knife firmly to the end of it. He had never hunted before, let alone killed for meat, but he was not daunted. How hard could it be to creep up on one of the fat, docile creatures and make an end of it? A single spear thrust through the neck would provide fresh meat for both of them. When his makeshift spear was to his satisfaction, he sharpened another stake to back it up, then circled through the woods to the far end of the beach. When he emerged from the trees onto the sand, he bent low and raced up the beach to put himself between the creatures and their retreat to the water.

He had expected some alarm at the sight of him. One or two turned their heads to regard him, but the bulk of the herd went on dozing and sunbathing. Even the nervous fellow who had earlier bellowed at the dragon’s scent ignored him. Emboldened, he chose a target on the outskirts of the scattered herd: a fine, fat one, scarred by a long life. It would not be tender, but there would be lots of it, and he surmised that would be more important to Tintaglia.

His crouching stalk was a foolish waste of time. The sea bullock did not so much as open an eye until Reyn was within a spear’s length of it. Feeling almost ashamed for killing such dull prey, Reyn drew back his arm. The creature’s wrinkled hide looked thick. He wanted to give it a swift death. He took a deep breath and put all his weight behind his thrust as he stabbed.

A moment before the point touched flesh, the sea bullock rolled to its feet with a roar. Reyn knew instantly that he had misjudged the creatures’ temperaments. The spear that he had aimed at the animal’s neck plunged deeply in behind its shoulder. Blood sprayed from the sea bullock’s nostrils. He’d pierced his prey’s lung. He clung doggedly to his spear and tried to thrust it deeper as the entire herd stirred to sudden activity.

With a roar, the animal spun to confront him. Reyn was carried along on his spear, his feet dragging in the sand. He barely managed to keep a grip on his sharpened stake. It now looked as effective as a handful of daisies, but it was the only weapon he had. For a stride, he managed to get his feet under him. He used his thrust to push the spear deeper. The animal bellowed again, blood starting from its mouth now as well as flying from its nostrils. He would win. Through the shaft of the spear, he could feel its strength waning.

Then another sea bullock seized a great mouthful of his cloak and jerked him off his feet. He lost his grip on the spear, and as he went down, the wounded animal turned on him. Its big dull tusks suddenly looked sharp and powerful as it lunged at Reyn, jaws wide. He rolled clear of the attack, but that motion wrapped his cloak around him. He fought his sharpened stick clear of the entrapping fabric, and then jerked his foot away from the snapping jaws. He tried to stand up, but the other animal still gripped a corner of his cloak. It threw its head from side to side, jerking Reyn to his knees. Other sea bullocks were closing in swiftly. Reyn tried to tear free of his cloak and flee, but the knots defied him. Somehow, he had lost his sharpened stake. Another animal butted him, slamming him into the bullock that still gripped his cloak. He had a brief glimpse of his prey sprawling dead on the sand. Much good that did him now.

Tintaglia’s shrill
ki-i-i
split the winter sky. Without releasing his cloak, the animal that held it twisted its head to stare up at the sky. An instant later, the entire herd was in a humping gallop toward the water. Reyn was dragged along, his cloak snagged on the sea bullock’s tusks.

When the dragon hit the bullock, Reyn thought his neck would snap. They skidded through the sand together, the sea bullock squealing with amazing shrillness as Tintaglia’s jaws closed on its neck. With a single bite, she half-severed its head from its thick shoulders. The head, Reyn’s cloak still clutched in its jaws, sagged to one side of the twitching body under Tintaglia’s hind feet. Dazed, he crawled toward it and unsnagged his cloak from its tusks.

“Mine!” roared Tintaglia, darting her head at him menacingly. “My kill! My food! Get away from it.”

As he stumbled hastily away, she lowered her jaws over the animal’s belly. A single bite and she lifted her head, to snap up and gulp down the dangling entrails. A waft of gut stench drifted over Reyn. She swallowed. “My meat!” she warned him again, and lowered her head for another bite.

“There’s another one over there. You can eat him, too,” Reyn told her. He waved a hand at the sea bullock with the spear in it. He collapsed onto the sand, and finally succeeded in undoing the ties of his cloak. Snatching it off, he threw it down in disgust. Whatever had made him think he could hunt? He was a digger, a thinker, an explorer. Not a hunter.

Tintaglia had frozen, a dripping mouthful of entrails dangling from her jaws. She stared at him, the silver of her eyes glistening. Then she threw her head back, snapped down her mouthful and demanded, “I can eat your kill? That is what you said?”

“I killed it for you. You don’t think I could eat an animal that size, do you?”

She turned her head as if he were something she had never seen before. “Frankly, I was amazed that you could kill one. I thought you must have been very hungry to try.”

“No. It’s for you. You said you were hungry. Though maybe I could take some of the meat with me for tomorrow.” Perhaps by then the sight of her feeding and the smell of blood would not seem so disgusting.

She turned her head sideways to shear off most of the sea bullock’s neck hump. She chewed twice, and swallowed. “You meant it for me? When you killed it?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you want from me in return?” she asked guardedly.

“Nothing more than what we’ve already agreed upon: help me find Malta. I saw that you wouldn’t find much game here. We travel better if you are well fed. That is all I was thinking.”

“Indeed.”

He could not read her odd inflection. He limped over to the animal he had killed and managed, on his third effort, to pull out the spear. He recovered his knife, cleaned it off and put it back in its sheath.

Tintaglia ate her kill down to a collapse of bones before she began on his. Reyn watched in a sort of awe. He had not dreamed her belly could hold that much. Halfway through his kill, she slowed her famished devouring. Jaws and claws, she seized what remained of the carcass and dragged it up the beach out of reach of the incoming tide and adjacent to his fire. Without a word, she curled herself protectively around the carcass and fell into a deep sleep.

Reyn awoke shivering in full dark. The chill and damp of the night had penetrated his misused cloak and his fire had died to coals. He replenished it and found himself suddenly hungry. He tiptoed past the curl of Tintaglia’s tail and hunched over the chewed carcass in the darkness. While he was still trying to find some meat that was unmarred by the dragon’s teeth and saliva, she opened one huge eye. She regarded him without surprise. “I left you both front flippers,” she told him, and then closed her eyes again.