Syren (16 page)

Deep in the cargo hold, the contents of the ancient ebony chest settled into the darkness and Waited.

M
ilo’s celebration took the form
of a highly embarrassing banquet held on deck, in full view of the quayside of Harbor Twelve. A gold-tasseled red awning was set up and a long table was placed underneath, laid with all manner of finery: a white linen cloth, silver goblets, golden cutlery, piles of fruit (not all of it real) and a forest
of candles. Six high-backed chairs with what looked suspiciously like coronets perched on the tops were arranged around the table. Milo had placed himself at the head of the table, with Jenna on his right. Septimus was next to Jenna, and Beetle, suitably resplendent in his Admiral’s jacket, was somewhat stranded at the far end, near to the sleeping Spit Fyre and occasional wafts of dragon breath. On Milo’s left was Snorri, with the Night Ullr lying quietly at her feet and, next to her, Nicko.

Milo did the talking—which was just as well, as everyone else felt far too embarrassed to talk. On the quayside below an increasing crowd was gathering, observing the show with amused interest, rather as people will watch chimps in a zoo. Jenna tried to catch Septimus’s eye, hoping for a sympathetic glance, but Septimus sat glowering resolutely at his plate. Jenna glanced around the table and no one would meet her eye, not even Beetle, who appeared to have found something very interesting to look at on the top of the nearest mast.

Jenna felt horribly uncomfortable; she was beginning to wish she had never bumped into Milo in the dingy café on Harbor One. But at the time it had all seemed so thrilling—being invited to Milo’s ship, Nicko and Snorri’s delight at
being on board the
Cerys
, and the wonderful feeling, so welcome after the last grueling days, of being cared for, of sleeping in a comfortable bed and waking up knowing that she was safe. And then there was the excitement of Milo telling her that the
Cerys
was now
her
ship, though he had spoiled that somewhat when he later said that, naturally, it could not truly be hers until she reached the age of twenty-five, the age at which it was possible to register ownership. That was, thought Jenna, typical of most things that Milo offered—he always kept something back, in his control. A wave of embarrassment suddenly swept over Jenna. She was with three of the people she cared most about—Jenna excluded Snorri from this list—and she was making them sit through this
performance
, all because she had allowed herself to be carried away by Milo’s attention.

The banquet progressed agonizingly slowly. Milo, as usual, regaled them with his stock of sea stories, many of which they had heard before and which always seemed to end in Milo triumphing at the expense of others.

And while Milo droned on, the ship’s cook supplied a succession of overwrought dishes, each one more ornate and piled ever higher, not unlike the wigs worn by the officials on
Harbor Twelve. Each dish was accompanied by a great flourish from the deckhands—now dressed in their evening white and blue robes—and, worst of all, a horribly embarrassing speech from Milo, who insisted on dedicating each dish to one of them, starting with Jenna.

By the time the dessert was due—which was to be dedicated to Beetle—the crowd of onlookers were becoming boisterous and beginning to pass comments, none of them particularly favorable. Wishing more than anything in the world that he could disappear
right now
, Beetle’s ears glowed brilliant red as he watched a deckhand emerge from the hatch, proudly bearing the dessert aloft. It was an exceptionally odd creation—a large plate of something black and wobbly, possibly a jellyfish, but equally possibly a fungus plucked from the depths of the hold. Reverentially the deckhand placed the dish in the center of the table. Everyone stared in astonishment. With a shock they all realized that it looked like—maybe even
was
—a giant beetle boiled, peeled and laid on a bed of seaweed.

Milo was relishing the moment. Glass in hand, accompanied by sporadic clapping and whistles from the crowd below, he stood up to dedicate the dessert to Beetle, who was seriously considering jumping overboard. But, as Milo opened his
mouth to begin his speech, Spit Fyre pounced.

It was a moment that Beetle would treasure for a very long time.

Spit Fyre had woken up feeling extremely hungry and was not going to be fussy about what he ate. He thrust his snout past Beetle and sent his long green tongue snaking down the table. Snorri—who was still on edge—screamed. Milo leaped to his feet and ineffectively slapped his napkin on Spit Fyre’s nose as the dragon sucked up the beetle jelly and then the napkin with a long, noisy slurp. But a beetle-shaped jelly and a scrap of fine linen were not going to satisfy a hungry dragon. In hope of finding something else to eat, Spit Fyre continued to suck and, with a noise like water going down the drain—but a thousand times louder—the finery on the table began to disappear.

“Not the goblets!”
yelled Milo, snatching away the nearest silver goblets. A gale of laughter rose from the rapidly increasing crowd below. At the sight of his linen tablecloth disappearing into Spit Fyre’s slobbery mouth, Milo dropped the goblets, grabbed hold of his end of the tablecloth and pulled. Cheers and some shouts of encouragement rose from the crowd.

No one else around the table moved a muscle. A flicker of a smile began to appear around the corners of Septimus’s mouth as he watched his plate travel down the table despite Milo’s best efforts. He glanced across at Nicko and, to his surprise and delight, he saw the telltale signs of suppressed laughter. And then, with a deafening
whoosh
, the entire contents of the table disappeared into Spit Fyre’s mouth. An explosive snort erupted from Nicko and he fell off his chair in paroxysms of laughter. Snorri, used to a more serious Nicko, looked on in confusion as he lay on the deck shaking. From the quayside below, the answering sound of laughter spread like a wave.

Milo regarded the wreckage of his evening with dismay. Spit Fyre regarded the bare table with disappointment. His stomach rattled with sharp things and he was still hungry. Milo, not entirely sure whether the dragon drew the line at eating people, grasped Jenna’s hand and began to back away, pulling her to her feet.

Jenna snatched her hand away.
“Don’t,”
she snapped.

Milo looked surprised and a little hurt. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should find alternative accommodations for your dragon.”

“He’s not my dragon,” said Jenna.

“Oh? But you said—”

“I know I did. But I shouldn’t have. I am only the Navigator. He is Sep’s dragon.”

“Ah. Well, in that case you do understand that the dragon is subject to the Trading Post quarantine regulations? Of course, while it’s on board—”

“He,” corrected Jenna.

“Well, while
he
is on board the regulations do not apply, but as soon as it—”

“He.”

“—he sets—er”—Milo glanced down to check that Spit Fyre did indeed have feet—“foot on land it—
he
—will have to be escorted into quarantine.”

Septimus stood up. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Spit Fyre is leaving now. Thank you for having us, but now that Spit Fyre is awake we have to go. Don’t we, Beetle?”

Beetle was busy fending off Spit Fyre’s wet snout. “Get
off
, Spit Fyre. Oh…yes, we do. But thanks, Mr. Banda. Thank you for letting us stay on your ship. I mean Jenna’s ship. It was really…interesting.”

Milo was recovering himself. He bowed politely. “You are most welcome, scribe.” He turned to Septimus. “But surely,
Apprentice, you do not intend to fly immediately? I have sailed the seven seas for many a long year, and I can tell you that I smell a storm in the air.”

Septimus had heard enough about the seven seas to last him for a long time—and far too much about Milo’s weather-predicting skills.

“We’ll fly above it,” he said, stepping over to Beetle. “Won’t we, Beetle?”

Beetle nodded somewhat uncertainly.

Milo looked puzzled. “But there is no
above
a storm,” he said.

Septimus shrugged and patted his dragon’s nose. “Spit Fyre doesn’t mind a little storm, do you, Spit Fyre?” Spit Fyre snorted, and a line of dragon dribble landed on Septimus’s precious purple ribbons, leaving a dark stain that would never come off.

Five minutes later Spit Fyre was perched like a massive seagull on the starboard side of the
Cerys
, facing out to sea, and the quayside was packed with an even larger and more excited crowd. Septimus was ensconced in the Pilot Dip behind the dragon’s neck, and Beetle was sitting farther back toward the tail, wedged behind the saddlebags. The
Navigator’s seat was, however, still vacant.

Jenna stood beside Spit Fyre, her cloak wrapped tightly against the cold wind that had begun to blow into the harbor. “Stay here tonight, Sep,” she said. “
Please
. Spit Fyre can sleep on deck for one more night. I don’t want you and Beetle to go off into the dark.”

“We’ve got to go, Jen,” Septimus replied. “There’s no way Spit Fyre’s going to sleep tonight. He’s just going to create trouble. And if he gets put in quarantine—well, I don’t even want to think about that. Anyway, we
want
to go, don’t we, Beetle?”

Beetle had been watching the dark clouds scudding across the moon. He was not so sure. Outside the harbor wall he could see the waves building, and he wondered whether Milo was right about a storm coming. “Maybe Jenna’s got a point, Sep. Maybe we should stay tonight.”

Milo chimed in. “You
must
wait until tomorrow,” he said. “The crew will chain the dragon to the main mast tonight”—Beetle, Septimus and Jenna exchanged horrified glances—“and tomorrow,” Milo carried on, “while the dragon is secure, we shall have a grand farewell breakfast on deck to see you off in style. What do you think about that?”

Septimus knew exactly what he thought about that. “No, thank you,” he said. “
Ready
, Spit Fyre!” Spit Fyre spread his wings wide and tilted forward into the wind. The
Cerys
listed dramatically to starboard, and someone on the quayside screamed.

“Careful!” yelled Milo, grabbing a handrail.

Septimus looked down at Jenna. “You coming, Navigator?” he asked.

Jenna shook her head, but there was something regretful in her expression that made Beetle brave. “Jenna,” he said, “come with us!”

Jenna wavered. She hated seeing Septimus go without her, but she had agreed to return in the
Cerys
with Milo. And there was Nicko too; she wanted to be with him while he sailed home. Indecisive, she glanced at Nicko; he gave her a wry smile and put his arm around Snorri.

“Please come with us, Jenna,” said Beetle very simply and without pleading.

“Of
course
she can’t go with you,” snapped Milo. “Her place is here, with her ship. And with her father.”

That did it. “Apparently, it’s
not
my ship after all,” said Jenna, glowering at Milo. “And
you
are not my
real
father. Dad
is.” With that, she flung her arms around Nicko. “I’m sorry, Nik. I’m going. Safe trip and I’ll see you back at the Castle.”

Nicko grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. “Good one, Jen,” he said. “Be careful.”

Jenna nodded. Then she reached up, grabbed hold of the Navigator spine and pulled herself up into the Navigator’s space just behind Septimus. “Go, Sep,” she said.

“Wait!” yelled Milo. But Spit Fyre did not answer to anyone but his Pilot and sometimes—if he was in a good mood—his Navigator. He most certainly did not answer to anyone who proposed to put him in chains for the night.

Everything in Harbor Twelve stopped for Spit Fyre’s takeoff. Hundreds of pairs of eyes watched the dragon lean out from the ship, raise his wings high and, on the downward stroke, rise slowly into the air. A great downdraft of hot, under-wing, dragon-smelling air swept across the deck, sending Milo and his crew coughing and retching, while the sound of applause rose from the quayside.

Spit Fyre raised his wings once more and flew higher, his outstretched wings beating slowly and powerfully as he steadily gained height. Flying into the wind on a wide curve, Spit Fyre wheeled across the harbor just above mast height
and headed out over the harbor wall. Briefly the clouds cleared from the moon, and a gasp of wonder came from the quayside as the silhouette of the dragon with three small figures traveled sedately across the white circle of the moon and headed out to sea, leaving Milo gazing after them.

Milo barked a few orders at the deckhands to clear up the decks and then disappeared below, leaving Nicko and Snorri on deck with the cleanup in progress.

“I hope they will be safe,” Snorri whispered to Nicko.

“Me too,” said Nicko.

Nicko and Snorri watched the sky until the distant speck of the dragon disappeared into a cloud and they could see no more. When they at last looked away, the deck was clean, tidy and deserted. They huddled together in the cold wind that was blowing in from the sea and watched as the lanterns of the Trading Post were extinguished for the night and the ribbon of lights stretching out along the shore became thinner, with only the flames of the torches burning. They listened as the sounds of voices quieted until all they could hear was the creaking of the timbers of the boats, the splash of the waves and the plink of the taut ropes on the wooden spars as the wind caught them.