by Robin Hobb
‘Be with us,’ the Greater said. ‘Or do not be. That is the only choice that remains to you. The serpent spoke true. There remains to us a duty to our own, and no other dragon or dragon-made-ship has the right to deny it to us. We can be only one. Be one with us, or do not be.’
‘We’re dying!’ Amber cried. Her voice was weak, hoarse from the smoke she breathed. ‘Fire burns above us, and water fills the hold. How can I save you, or myself?’
‘Think,’ the Greater one commanded her. ‘Prove yourself worthy.’
For an instant, Amber rallied. She reached strongly after the Greater, as if she would steal from him what she must know. Then, a fit of coughing shook her. Every spasm of it set her scalded flesh to screaming. As the coughing passed, Amber faded from Paragon’s awareness. He felt her pass to transparency, and then nothingness. As she died, he felt both grief and relief. The heaviness of the cold water in him dragged him down. The waves were getting taller. Soon they would wash over his deck. The fires would go out as the waves took him down, but that was all right. The fire and smoke had accomplished their work.
Then, like an arrow striking home to a target, Amber was suddenly within him. She gasped as she plunged deep into the memories of dragonkind. Paragon felt her floundering, overwhelmed by the unending chain of memories, going from dragon to serpent to dragon to serpent, back beyond to the very first egg. She could not hold it all. He felt her drowning in the memories. She fought valiantly, searching for what the Greater withheld from her as he allowed his memories to flood her.
‘It is not in my memory, but in your own, little fool,’ he told her. He witnessed her struggling as one watches tree sap flow over a trapped ant.
She wrenched clear of him as if she tore her own hands from the ends of her arms. Paragon felt her fall, and knew that she dragged in breath after smoky breath, striving for fresh air that was not there. She began to fade again, slipping below consciousness. Then, slowly, she lifted her head.
‘I know what it is,’ she announced. ‘I know how to save us. But I will not buy my life at Paragon’s expense. I will save us if you promise me this. You will be, not two made one, but three. Paragon must be preserved in you.’
He could feel her fear. It ran from her with her sweat, she expelled it with every breath. He was struck dumb by the idea that someone would be willing to die rather than betray him.
‘Done!’ the Greater announced. A faint thread of admiration shimmered through his words. ‘This one has a heart worthy of being partnered with a dragon-ship. Now let her prove she has a mind as well.’
Paragon felt Amber strive to rise, but she had spent the last of her strength. She fell back against him. For her, he tried to close up his seams. He could not. The dragons would not let him. So he fed her such strength as he could, pouring it from his wood into the frail body that rested against him. She lifted her head in the smoky darkness.
‘Clef!’ she called. Her great exertion produced such a weak call. ‘Clef!’
‘Put your backs into it, damn you!’ Brashen bellowed. Then he went off into a fit of coughing. He let the makeshift ram come to a rest on the deck. The men who had been helping him pound on the underside of the hatch sank down around him. The hatch above was not surrendering and time was fleeting. He pushed his panic away. Wizardwood was hard to kindle. There was still a little time, still a chance for survival, but only if he kept trying.
‘Don’t slack off on that pump! Drowning’s no better than burning.’ At his shouted command, he heard the pump crew go back to work, but the tempo was half-hearted. Too many of the men had been killed, too many injured. The ship was alive with ominous sounds: the working of the bilge pumps, the moaning of the injured, and from above the faint crackling of flames. The bilges were rising, bringing their stink with them. The more water Paragon shipped, the more pronounced the tilt of the deck became. The smoke filtering down into the hold was getting denser, also. Time was running out for them.
‘Everybody on the ram again.’ Three of the men staggered to their feet and took a grip on the beam they wielded.
At that moment, Brashen was distracted by a tug at his sleeve. He looked down, to find Clef. The boy cradled his injured arm across his belly. ‘It’s Amber, sir.’ His face was pale with pain and fear in the uneasy lamplight.
Brashen shook his head. He rubbed at his stinging, streaming eyes. ‘Do the best you can for her, boy. I can’t come now. I’ve got to keep working on this.’
‘No, it’s a message, sir. She said to tell you, try the other hatch. The one in your cabin.’
It took a moment for the boy’s words to penetrate. Then Brashen shouted, ‘Come on! Bring the ram!’ He snatched down a lantern and staggered off without waiting to see if anyone followed. He cursed his own stupidity. When Amber had lived aboard the beached Paragon, she had used the captain’s quarters as her bedroom, but stored her woodworking supplies below in the hold. For her convenience, she had cut a trapdoor in the floor of the room. Both Althea and Brashen had been horrified when they discovered it. Amber had repaired the floor, bracing it from below and pegging it together well. But all the bracing for it was below and accessible from this level. Paragon’s hatch covers had been designed to withstand the pounding of the sea, but the trapdoor inside his stateroom had been nailed and braced shut only.
Brashen’s confidence ebbed when he looked up at the patched deck above him. Amber was a good carpenter and thorough in her work. The list of the ship made it difficult to work here. He was shoving vainly at a crate when his crew caught up with him. With their aid he stacked crates and barrels and then climbed up them to examine the patched floor above him. Clef passed up the tools.
With hammer and crowbar, Brashen pulled away the bracing. This close to the ceiling, the smoke was thicker. In the lantern light, he saw the drifting grey tendrils reaching down through the seams of the deck. If they broke through, they might find fire above them. He didn’t hesitate. ‘Use the ram, boys,’ he directed them, scrabbling out of the way.
There was no strength behind their swing, but on the fourth attempt, Brashen saw the boards give way a bit. He waved the men aside and they fell back, coughing and wheezing. Brashen climbed his platform again and hammered at the wood blocking him from life. When they suddenly gave way, the planks of the patch cascaded bruisingly down around him. Yellow firelight illuminated the grimy faces below him.
He jumped, caught the edge of the hole, and hauled himself up. The wall of the room was burning, but the fire had not spread within yet. ‘Get up here!’ Brashen shouted with as much force as he could muster. ‘Get out while you can!’
Clef was already at the lip of the hole. Brashen seized him by his good arm and hauled him up. The boy followed him as he made his way out onto the deck. Cold rain drenched him. A quick glance about showed him that Paragon was alone in the water. A single white serpent circled curiously. The pouring rain was an ally in putting out the fire, but by itself, it would not be enough. Flames still licked up the main mast and ran furtively along the sides of the house. Fallen rigging sheltered small pockets of burning wood and canvas. Brashen dragged smouldering debris off the top of the main hatch, undogged it, and flung it open. ‘Get up here!’ he shouted again. ‘Get everyone up on deck, except for the pump crew. Clear this –’ He had to stop to cough his lungs clear. Men began dragging themselves up onto the deck. The whites of their eyes showed shockingly in their sooty faces. Groans and coughing came from below. ‘Clear away the burning stuff. Help the injured up on deck where they can breathe.’ He turned and made his way forwards through a litter of charred debris. He threw overboard a tangle of rope and a piece of spar that still burned merrily. The cold downpour was as blinding as the smoke had been, but at least the air was breathable. Every breath he drew helped to clear his lungs.
He reached the foredeck. ‘Paragon, close up your seams. Why are you trying to kill us? Why?’
The figurehead did not reply. The uneven light of flames danced illumination ove
r the figurehead. Paragon stared straight ahead into the storm. His arms hugged his chest. The knotted muscles of his back showed the tension of his posture. As Brashen watched, the white serpent rose before them. It cocked its maned head and stared with gleaming red eyes up at the figurehead. It vocalized at the ship, but received no answer.
Clef spoke suddenly behind him. ‘I went back for Amber. She’s safe now.’
No one was safe yet. ‘Paragon! Close up your seams!’ Brashen bellowed again.
Clef tugged at Brashen’s sleeve. He looked down at the boy’s puzzled, upturned face. ‘He awready did. Din’t you feel it?’
‘No. I didn’t.’ Brashen seized hold of the railing, trying to will contact with the figurehead. There was nothing. ‘I don’t feel him at all.’
‘I do. I feel ’em both,’ Clef said cryptically. An instant later, he warned, ‘Hang tight, ser!’
With a startling suddenness, the ship levelled itself. The sloshing of the bilge left the deck rocking. As it subsided, Brashen heard wild oaths of amazement from the deck behind him, but he grinned into the darkness. They were riding low in the water, but they were level. If the ship had closed up its seams, if they could keep the bilge pumps going, if the storm grew no more violent, they would live. ‘Ship, my ship, I knew you wouldn’t let us die.’
‘It warn’t him. Least, not exactly.’ The boy’s voice was dropping to a mumble. ‘It’s them and him. The dragons.’ Brashen caught the boy as he sagged to the deck. ‘I bin dreamin’ ’em for awhile now. Thought they was jes a dream.’
‘Take them up,’ Kennit barked at Jola. He watched in annoyance as Wintrow and Etta were brought aboard. Frustration threatened to consume him. He had anchored in this cove to wait out the squall and decide what he wished to do. His initial plans to return to Divvytown might have to be changed. He had hoped to have more time alone with Althea, not to mention Bolt.
‘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 judgement? My honour?’ He set his face in lines of bitter remorse. ‘I fear you are justified. I showed poor judgement in my promise to Wintrow, and little honour 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 forwards 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.
23
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 wingbeats. She needed to rest soon. But for his presence, she had told him, she could have plunged down into shallows near an island, a
llowing 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 towards 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 to 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.