Voyage of the Basilisk : A Memoir by Lady Trent (9781429956369)

by Brennan, Marie

  I therefore had to wait. Fortunately, we were not always ship-bound, and in time I had my chance.

  The Basilisk stopped in Svaltan to replace the broken stay and repair the other damage inflicted by the sea-serpent, then rounded the northern edge of Anthiope and dropped anchor off the shore of Lezhnema at the mouth of the Olovtun River, some distance north of Kupelyi. We had the goodwill of the tsar; he had not forgotten that we were instrumental in the discovery of a firestone deposit in Vystrana, from which he had profited handsomely. Because of this, not only had we been granted visas, but he had arranged for a guide to take us inland, where we might observe wyverns.

  These haunt the mountains of eastern Bulskevo and up into Siaure. A part of me wished that scientific rigor did not require me to carry out research in such places; even in late Caloris and early Fructis, and even confining ourselves to the foothills rather than going up into the mountains proper, what passed for their “summer” was decidedly on the chill side. The long days gave us ample opportunity to chase our prey, though, while the Basilisk continued down to Kupelyi and the markets there before returning to retrieve us from Lezhnema.

  I will not say much of the wyvern-hunting itself, for it has little bearing on the key aspects of this narrative, and its scientific significance has been recorded elsewhere. Suffice it to say that the limb configuration of a wyvern—wings and two legs, instead of four—was of interest to us, chiefly as a possible link between the near-limbless serpents of the ocean and the quadripedal winged dragons.

  This terrestrial detour gave me ample time to speak with Tom, particularly when we lay in interminable wait for a wyvern to happen past. I recounted what Wademi had said to me, and my speculations as to its possible import.

  He frowned, laying one hand over the stock of his rifle. “I have a hard time believing the Moulish would make such an error.”

  “We must consider the possibility,” I said. “Their usual treatment of the eggs is traditional, handed down to them through who knows how many generations. Things become habit, done because that is how one’s father and grandfather did them, rather than because their import is fully understood.” I paused, dissatisfied, and then was distracted by movement that proved to be some farmer’s errant goat.

  When it was gone, I returned to the point. “But I must consider other possibilities, too. For example: what if the Moulish want queens in the rivers?”

  Tom blew out his breath in a quick huff. “To what end? Do they mean to conquer Bayembe for themselves?”

  We both knew that was ludicrous. The Moulish loved their swampy forest, even when it was trying to kill them; to them, the arid savannah of Bayembe was a wasteland. And they had no government at a scale larger than the elders who happened to be in camp at any given time, no warfare beyond small gangs of young men scuffling over personal insults. They had no desire to conquer Bayembe, nor the means to do so if they did. Not even with dragons.

  “I wish I could go see them for myself,” I murmured—not least because an icy wind chose to blow through at that precise moment, reminding me of how much warmer it was in Eriga.

  Tom knew why I could not. He was no more free to travel there than I. “What you need,” he mused, “is a protégé you can send in your stead.”

  This made me sigh. “I am not likely to ever have one of those.”

  He said nothing. After a moment, I became aware of his gaze on me. When I turned my head to look, he was staring. “What?” I asked.

  “What of all those people who flock to your house every Athemer?”

  “None of them are dragon naturalists.”

  “Well, no—but gather enough bright young things about you, and sooner or later one of them will be. Likely sooner, if you go on a speaking tour after this expedition.”

  I wanted to protest that the speaking tour, if it even happened, would simply be a means of raising money (which I expected to be in short supply by the time I returned home). My talks would be popular, not scholarly. But if I could be inspired to my career by something as trivial as a sparkling preserved in vinegar, was it so ludicrous to think that someone else might be inspired by hearing my tales? I thought of protégés as the sort of thing a man like Lord Hilford had: a respected peer, a Colloquium Fellow. Yet I might someday have one, too.

  It even crossed my mind that Jake might go, though of course he might have been refused on the grounds that he was my son, and in any event it would have been at least six or seven years before he was old enough to send to Eriga on his own. By then, the matter was likely to be resolved in one way or another. But as I soon discovered, he seemed unlikely to follow that path regardless.

  While Tom and I were lying in wait for wyverns (and occasionally venturing into their dens, which did lead to Tom getting poisoned, wyverns having no extraordinary breath but more than adequate venom to take its place), I had left Jake in the keeping of Abby Carew and Feodor Lukovich Gavrilenko, the guide the tsar had provided. This was, to my way of thinking, a splendid example of the sort of education Jake could receive by travelling the world: Feodor Lukovich was a hardy man, very familiar with the environs of the Olovtun Mountains, and could teach my son a great deal about the environment and the creatures to be found there. After more than a month cooped up aboard the Basilisk, I expected Jake would welcome the opportunity to tear about the countryside.

  Upon my return, however, I learned that such was not the case. “It’s cold up here,” Jake complained, huddling inside his coat.

  I might not have been closely involved with his early rearing, but it seemed that some things were transmitted in utero. I had, after all, been shivering in Vystrana when he was conceived. “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “But did you not want to go hiking? Feodor Lukovich told me he would show you how his falcon hunts.”

  Jake shrugged, in the way that only nine-year-old children can manage—and usually male children at that, girls not being permitted the same kind of insouciance. “It would only kill rabbits and such. I want to go back to the ship.”

  Whatever kindred feeling had been engendered by his complaint of cold, it vanished in the face of this inconceivable prospect: that any son of mine might not be interested in something with wings. “At your age, I would have been mad to see a falcon hunt, only no one will take a girl for such outings.”

  This did not sway him. He wanted to go back to the ship; Haward, one of the sailors, had promised to teach him knots. “I am sure Feodor Lukovich could teach you some,” I said, whereupon Jake informed me (with no little scorn) that he already knew all of those.

  Cruel mother that I am, I forced him to stay there a while longer. Tom and I were not done with our work, and I was not about to send Jake down the Olovtun with nobody but his governess for company. If he would not learn about northern Bulskevo, then he could sit and drill Spureni verbs with Abby.

  When I spoke with her privately about his behaviour, she spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “He likes it on board the ship. He’ll settle down once we get back.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said. “If he is this contrary for the entire expedition, there will be no living with him. And I do not want to shackle you to the Basilisk simply because that is where Jake would rather be.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Abby demurred.

  This was exceedingly kind of her to say, but I knew it was not true. “Ah, well,” I said with a philosophical sigh. “He is only nine. I imagine he will tire of it soon enough, and long for some variety.”

  Which just goes to show how little I understood my son.

  * * *

  From Bulskevo we could have continued down the eastern coast of Anthiope, for there were certainly dragons to be found in places like Zmayet and Uhwase and Akhia. But Tom and I, after assembling the most complete list we could of dragons and draconic cousins, had agreed that it would be better if we focused our efforts elsewhere. For one thing, the existing literature on such creatures was heavily biased toward Anthiopean observations, with much les
s known about them elsewhere. For another, there was relatively little taxonomic variation to be found in Anthiope, apart from cousins like sparklings, wyverns, and wolf-drakes. To truly question the nature of dragons, I needed to look farther afield.

  The Basilisk therefore provisioned herself in Kupelyi, then struck out across the ocean toward the continent of Otholé. On this passage—a journey of nearly two months, during which the cramped conditions ceased to be awkward and started to become intolerable—I began to grasp the truth of what was happening with Jake.

  As related in the first volume of my memoirs, a tipping point in my life came early on, when at the age of seven I first learned how to preserve a sparkling and then dissected a dove to study what the wishbone was for. From those two events I formed an obsession with all things winged, which eventually settled more firmly upon dragons (though I still retain a great fondness for birds and some insects).

  Jake’s tipping point was the Basilisk. From the moment he set foot on her decks, he knew—though he did not articulate it this way until years later—that he was home. He loved the great and complex array of rigging and sails that brought the ship to life. He loved the clever way the necessities of life were miniaturized and tucked into every available corner. He loved the tang of salt water and the whip of the sea wind and above all, the sheer feeling of freedom that came from being in flight across the waves.

  I did not understand this at first. While I enjoyed being at sea, it was not an unmitigated delight. And Tamshire, my childhood home, is a landlocked county, so I had no personal familiarity with the way in which the ocean calls to some hearts. It was inexplicable to me that Jake, who had grown up in the quiet suburb of Pasterway and the busy streets of Falchester, would take so instinctively to the sea. But so it seemed to be; and if indeed it was a passing infatuation, as I had at first assumed, then it was exhibiting a notable failure to pass on schedule.

  Of course, Jake being nine, he did not take to shipboard life in anything like a dignified fashion. Despite that early admonition from the captain and his experience with the sea-serpent, he went where he should not, touched things he should not. And one day when we were in the middle of the ocean, with the Basilisk standing almost motionless on a glassy plate, Aekinitos hauled my son before me by the scruff of his neck.

  We were then in the region sailors call “the doldrums,” near the equator. Here the winds sometimes fail altogether, leaving sailing ships utterly becalmed. The sky was hot copper above us, the water flat gold below. I was on deck, taking advantage of the stillness to produce more finished drawings of the sea-serpents and wyverns. I did hear the commotion down below, but I disregarded it, as I had learned to disregard many of the noises and activities that periodically roiled the crew.

  I did not even look up when a clump of people began moving toward me across the deck. Not until they stopped before me did I pause in my pencil work. Then, to my dismay, I saw Aekinitos standing with one hand clenched around the collar of my son’s shirt, and Jake looking both sullen and guilty. Sweat plastered his hair to the edges of his face in damp swags that could not muster the will to be curls.

  “What is going on?” I asked.

  Aekinitos gave a quick shake of his hand, making my son twitch. “Mr. Dolin caught him playing with this.”

  The first mate handed him an object, which Aekinitos then thrust toward me. A sextant, I saw. “Whose is that?”

  “Mine,” the captain rumbled. “Your boy stole it, and was using it as a toy.”

  I had no doubt that Jake had borrowed rather than stolen it; what would he do with a sextant of his own? But such a distinction would not mean much to the captain, nor should it. “Jake,” I said, my own voice hardening, “is this true?”

  Shame-faced, my son nodded.

  We were gathering more of a crowd: not just the sailors who had followed Aekinitos and Dolin and Jake from belowdecks, but others who were up above, and Tom and Abby besides. The captain raised his voice slightly, no doubt for their benefit. “I cannot have such disobedience aboard my ship. For theft, the penalty is flogging.”

  “Now see here,” I said, shooting to my feet. My drawing board and pencil clattered to the deck. I knew enough of sea life to know there was a world of difference between the switching a disobedient boy might get at school and the sort of flogging practiced on board ships. Aekinitos could not be serious.

  Nor was he. But neither was he speaking in jest. I met his gaze, and saw that while he did not intend to flog my son like a common sailor, he did intend to leave an impression Jake would not soon forget.

  And I had a notion of how to accomplish that.

  “You will not flog my son,” I said, the words as firm as I could make them. Then I allowed myself to wilt, sighing. “But you are right. You cannot have such behaviour on the Basilisk. This is not the first time Jake has been disobedient, and it will not be the last. Our next port of call is, what—Axohuilli? Not ideal, but it can’t be helped, I suppose. If the winds will cooperate and take us there, then I will make arrangements for Jake and Miss Carew to sail back to Scirland.”

  “Mama, no!” Jake cried, jerking in the captain’s grip.

  I met his gaze, letting my sorrow show. “I am sorry, Jake. I said too much of the adventure to be had here, and not enough of the responsibilities that would come with it. I did not prepare you adequately for this, and perhaps you are simply too young.”

  “I’m not,” he said desperately. “I won’t do it again, I promise. I’ll behave—don’t send me home!”jake’s promise

  “And when you grow tired of behaving? I cannot leave you in a situation where you might be flogged. It would be very irresponsible of me.”

  Reckless, he said, “I won’t get tired of behaving. I’ll prove it! If I don’t, you can beat me, just like he said.”

  To Jake, who had never suffered anything worse than a spanking, a flogging probably sounded very romantic. (I had overheard him talking gleefully to Tom about keelhauling not three days prior.) I sighed again, putting my head in my hand, then lifted it and addressed the captain once more. “Surely there can be some sort of allowance made for first offenses—provided there is not a second. What else would you do to punish a sailor who had erred so grievously?”

  “I would break an officer,” Aekinitos said. “But this boy has no rank to strip from him.”

  I opened my hands, half in pleading, half a shrug. “Then treat him as if he did. Demote him to—oh, I do not know my sailing terms well enough. Some lowly position, from which he might learn proper naval conduct.”

  Jake’s face, which had fallen like a mudslide when I spoke of sending him home, began to light up. To him, this would sound less like punishment, more like a wondrous treat. But I trusted Aekinitos to disabuse him of that notion. “Boy,” Aekinitos rumbled. “That is the lowest position he could have, and if there were a lower, I would give it to him.”

  “What sort of tasks does a ship’s boy do?” I asked.

  Although his fate hung in the balance, Jake could not resist saying, “Swabbing the decks?”

  Aekinitos’ heavy brows drew inward and down. I imagine his glare must have looked very fierce from below, for Jake quailed. “The bilges,” the captain said.

  He was as good as his word. Aekinitos could guess as well as I could that Jake adored the notion of learning to be a proper sailor; accordingly, the captain at first did not let him do anything that seemed sailorly in the least. Jake spent that first day down in the filth of the bilge, about which the only good thing one could say was that it was out of the blistering sun. After that he assisted the cook in the galley or helped drag stores about in some arcane maneuver designed to improve the balance of the ship—always supposing its sole purpose was not to keep a disobedient boy busy.

  It would have broken the spirit of any child staying on a whim. Had Jake come to me and begged for mercy, I would have told the captain to desist … and then, as I had said before, put him on a ship for home. I could neithe
r torment my son nor ask Aekinitos to tolerate his misbehaviour. But Jake’s desire to stay was no whim, and so he persevered, though he be up to his eyebrows in muck. And so, one step at a time, Aekinitos began to teach him more.

  Not directly, of course. The captain of the Basilisk had better things to do with his time than train a single boy. But he put Jake into the care of his bosun, a fellow of mixed Anthiopean and Erigan ancestry named Cranby, and that fellow undertook to make my son a sailor. Jake learned the parts of the ship, the points of the compass, how to tie more knots than I knew were geometrically possible. He did tedious work like picking oakum out of old ropes, scraping barnacles off the hull, and (yes) swabbing the decks. Eventually he did more interesting things like holding the reel when someone else threw out the log-line to measure our speed. Much, much later, Aekinitos let him hold the sextant again, and learn how to take a sighting so as to chart our position.

  And Jake loved it. Sailing is exhausting, back-breaking work, but the complaint I heard most often from my son was that he was neither large enough nor strong enough to do more. A boy his age was no use in handling sails or hauling on ropes; he would only get in the way. But Jake vowed that he would someday be like those men, and after seeing the labor he was willing to endure so long as it was on a ship, I believed him.

  The bulk of that, however, lay in the future. In the immediate term, we finally escaped the doldrums, and when we came to port at Axohuilli in Coyahuac, I did not send Jake home. We reprovisioned and asked some questions, then set sail for Namiquitlan … where, we were told, there were feathered serpents to be found.

  FIVE

  Namiquitlan—The cliff diver—Meeting Suhail—Among the ruins—Suhail’s theory—The feathered serpent—More taxonomy—Domestication