Barrett was directing the men as they carefully cut away the packing on the sails. Though referred to as “dropping the sails”, it more closely resembled a bonding. The sails had to fit to the ship and vice versa or they would not respond to the Winds, instead leaving the ship to flounder and be torn apart in the forces whipping through space. Tristan was sure his sails would take to the ship. They had to, he only hoped that something hadn’t happened to prevent that. He closed his eyes and spoke a small spell, feeling the Weaving hum under his feet. He had to make sure the sails caught.
“Are we ready, Mr. Barrett?” he asked, turning his back to the captain as he addressed the first officer in an obvious snub.
“Sir! Everything is set!” Barrett said.
Without sparing Stemmer even the smallest glance, he nodded. “Proceed.”
“Drop the sails!” Barrett called.
“Drop the sails!” Shearer repeated and the men started to sing, a soft rhythmic chanting, and moved the sails into position. “Open the panels!”
Tristan held his breath as the panels that covered the masts and crosstrees while the masts were retracted in the hull opened. He softly repeated the spell that had created the sails, hoping the extra encouragement would help them bond with the ship. Of course, there was no knowing for sure until the moment they moved into the Winds. Life or death was decided in that instant and most people were expecting their deaths, the loss of the ship and an end to the dream. Fenfyr crooned from behind him, one giant claw curling protectively around Tristan’s feet as they waited.
The first sail was dropped off the deck, falling hundreds of feet down towards the bottom of the mainmast. The sound of its passage whistled through the below decks, filtering up in an eerie echo. The boatswain moved to watch its fall. Long seconds passed. “It caught!” he shouted. Cheers broke out as the second sail followed the first, the volume increasing as each fell into place, the crosstrees soon full, the massive sails waiting for their maiden flight.
“Will she fly?” Barrett asked breathlessly.
“I won’t know until you do,” Tristan said as he and Fenfyr walked to the mainmast panel. He peered down into the depths of the ship, seeing the soft sparkle of the willowisps waiting for their first chance to catch the Winds. The dragon nudged him gently, Tristan leaned a shoulder against him, trying to sound casual. “Looks good, we will sail on schedule.”
“Very good, sir,” Barrett replied quickly.
“Soon,” Tristan whispered—to the sails, the ship, he wasn’t sure who, but Fenfyr heard him and answered with a soft huff of breath, before resting his chin on the deck and looking down at the sails as well.
“Your sails passed the first test, Weaver,” Stemmer said from beside him.
“You were expecting something else?” Tristan turned to face the man.
“On this ship? We had no reason to believe you were capable of making them.”
“Odd, then why build it?” Tristan asked mildly. The captain’s face turned red. “Darius asked me personally to see to it, so of course they would catch.”
“We’ll see what happens.”
“Yes,” the Weaver said softly, a warning in his voice. “We will.” Stemmer looked from him down to the sails, grunted and walked away without another word. “We might have problems with him,” Tristan commented.
Fenfyr hummed an affirmative before moving closer, stretching his neck so his head disappeared. A terrified shout wafted up, followed by a warm chuckle from the dragon.
“Some of the men haven’t seen a dragon before,” Barrett said. “The latest group just arrived.”
“Pressed?”
“Not many, mostly volunteers, and only then just the lowest ranks. Almost the entire crew is Skilled at least.” Barrett smiled. “She deserves no less.”
Fenfyr pulled his head out and snorted.
“Did they meet with your approval?” Tristan asked, amused.
“Hmm,” the dragon muttered. “The Dragon’s Roost is too small.”
“You can talk!” Barrett’s eyes were huge.
“Of course I can,” Fenfyr laughed.
“I…” Barrett swallowed nervously. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant—the dragons I’ve served with, they never spoke, I thought they… I mean I know dragons talk to Weavers but…”
“We’re particular, and don’t speak to just anyone.” He nudged Tristan gently. “I am going to inspect things.”
“Don’t scare anyone to death,” Tristan chided.
“Not all the way,” Fenfyr rumbled softly before he disappeared over the edge of the opening, shortly after muffled screams drifted up from below decks. The Weaver smiled as he watched the soft glow reflecting off Fenfyr’s wings move deeper into the darkness along the masts.
“Would you like to see the ship, sir?”
Tristan pulled his attention from the dragon and focused on Barrett. “I would, thank you, Mr. Barrett.”
A bright smile lit the officer’s face as he led the way across the deck. “The plating is the latest design,” he said, gesturing at the dome that soared over their heads. “Winged Victory’s masts are the largest ever constructed, when fully extended the mainmast is more than seven hundred feet. The sails…” He stopped and coughed. “Of course, you know about the sails, sir! We have eighteen decks, nine of which are gun decks with a full sweep. We have a crew of twelve hundred.” Barrett opened a hatch and held it while Tristan stepped through into an elevator. “We have four main engines and thirty thrusters. The crew is housed primarily on the decks twelve through fifteen, the officers on deck sixteen, with the captain’s quarters directly below yours.”
The elevator slid to a stop and Barrett stepped out, waiting for Tristan before he started down a corridor. He stopped in front of a large hatch and swung it open to reveal a huge greenhouse. “This is our farm, most of our foodstuffs are raised here. Very little is brought in, and once we are deep space sailing, everything will come from here. It also contributes eighty percent of our oxygen below decks, letting the Air Weavers focus on the open areas of the ship.”
Tristan stepped into the vast compartment. Trees soared over his head, the scent of blossoms filled the air. Hydroponic tanks dangled from the ceiling, giving the place the feel of a jungle, vines and flowers intertwining to hide the walls in a mass of greenery. “The fruit is on a rotation?” he asked, spying a tree heavy with pears.
“Yes, at least a third of the trees are always bearing.” Barrett trailed behind him. “We also have a collection of flowers and ornamental plants so there is some place green for the crew to visit.” The officer made a face. “Some people didn’t think that was a good idea.”
“It’s sound thinking, humankind needs green sometimes.”
“Thank you!” Barrett said, beaming.
“I should warn you that dragons occasionally like greenery.” Tristan smiled. “And grapefruit.”
“We have several grapefruit trees.”
“I will make sure he leaves a few.”
“They are the captain’s favorite.” The officer was looking at him with a glint in his eye, as if he were testing the waters.
“I’ll tell Fenfyr to take as many as he wants.”
“Very good, sir,” Barrett said, nodding smartly before turning to lead the way out.
“Mr. Barrett?”
“Sir?”
A hail suddenly broke the quiet. “First Officer Barrett report to the quarterdeck.”
Barrett pulled a small phone out of his pocket. “I am escorting the Weaver on a tour of the ship.”
“The… The captain says you must come, sir,” a voice stammered.
“I am with the Weaver, Riggan.”
“I don’t care who you are with,” Stemmer’s shout blasted out. “Get up here now.”
“Sir…” Barrett glanced at Tristan.
“You are dismissed, Mr. Barrett,” Tristan said with a smile.
The officer nodded his thanks and walked quickly out of the c
ompartment, leaving the hatch ajar as he exited. Tristan watched him thoughtfully.
“There will be trouble with the captain,” Fenfyr rumbled, coming up behind him.
“I think so.”
“We’ll handle it, Tris,” the dragon assured him.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“It never is.” Fenfyr laughed, a gust of grapefruit-scented breath washing over Tristan. “It never is.”
VIII
The crew was busy on deck, some of them high up on the plating that covered the ship until the sails were raised. Tristan tried to imagine how it would look with the ugly plates gone and the massive sweep of sails and stars over his head. It was still hard to believe that there would be nothing but a spell between the crew and death in deep space. Even Tristan had been unnerved the first time he’d sailed and the massive plates gave way to the vastness of space.
“We had a jumper on my last ship, sir,” Barrett said, coming up silently beside him.
“A jumper?” Tristan turned to him with a frown.
“He actually climbed the plates as they were coming down, there was no way the Air Weavers could save him in time.” Barrett stared up at the massive dome over their heads. “It’s hard for the pressed crew to understand. It was hard for me the first time. I know in theory how it works, the ships are in the dome until we need the sails, and the Air Weavers make the atmosphere so we can function on deck and still take advantage of the sails. But the fact that it is all…”
“Magic?” Tristan supplied helpfully.
“Yes, that makes it hard to understand. The plating I know. The decks I know like that back of my hand, the fact that it will all be open to space soon is still a little disturbing.” He grinned. “Exciting too, sir, don’t get me wrong.”
“Barrett! You have better things to be doing than standing around on deck!” the captain snarled, walking towards them, a small man following behind him.
“He was discussing the sails with me,” Tristan said simply. It should have been enough.
“He needs to be at his duties,” Stemmer snapped.
“He is,” Tristan dropped his voice to a growl. “When I dismiss him, he may return to his other duties.”
The small man was tugging desperately at the captain’s sleeve, trying to get him away from the Weaver. “Get off me, Riggan!” the captain snapped. Without a thought Stemmer hit the man hard enough to knock him down. Tristan ground his teeth together, he knew that kind of treatment happened on some ships, especially the bigger ones, but he had no intention of allowing it on his ship.
“Stop,” Tristan said softly when Stemmer raised his hand again.
“What did you say to me?”
“I said stop!” He stepped forward.
“Captain! We need you on the lower deck!” Shearer called from the hatchway nearest to them. Stemmer turned and stalked away from them, slamming the hatch hard enough for the sound to buzz through the deck under their feet.
“Do I have a servant assigned to me yet?” Tristan didn’t wait for an answer. “Assign him.” He pointed at Riggan, still crouched on the ground.
“But, sir,” Barrett said softly, then stopped. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.” He waited until the man scuttled away before turning to the First Officer. “How much of that is there on this ship?”
“Sir?”
“I know you are a new crew, but you would know something about it already. Is he a flogging captain?”
Barrett looked at him, his jaw clenching, bright spots on his cheeks. “He follows Naval procedure for discipline, sir.”
“Of course. You don’t agree?” Tristan needed to know where the officers stood on the regulations. If things got out of control he needed to know who he could go to for help.
“Sir, I…” Barrett stood straighter. “I believe the men respond well to orders without the need for the whip. I believe that there are those that require more, but it is certainly not needed regularly.”
“Very good, Mr. Barrett, thank you. Please have Riggan escorted to my servant’s quarters.”
“Yes, sir.” Barrett turned to go, pausing to look over his shoulder. “You know he was assigned to the captain?”
“I guessed as much.”
“Sir, you need to know, I’ve heard rumors that…”
A loud crash came from the panel to the mainmast and shook the ship. Barrett was running and Tristan right behind him before the sound died away. The crew was gathered around the open panel. Tristan didn’t even pause to think about the fact that it should have been closed as he moved through the crowd to where the panel opened to the lower parts of the ships. There were muted screams from somewhere below, the grinding of metal and over it all the shouts of officers trying to get control over the crew below.
“What’s happened?” he heard Barrett demand.
“Part of the mast collapsed under the sails,” a voice crackled through the comm. “We have several men… What’s going on?”
“Shearer!” Barrett nearly shouted.
“Let me help,” Fenfyr’s deep growl rumbled through the ship.
Tristan bent closer to the edge, he could see the soft glow of the dragon. “Fenfyr?” he shouted, his voice echoing through the emptiness.
“They are trapped, bleeding, I can free them faster. Tell them,” the dragon replied.
“Mr. Barrett?” Tristan looked at the first officer.
“Let the dragon help! What are you thinking!” Barrett snapped.
The screech of metal being dragged over metal trembled through the ship, then a huge crack shook the deck. Tristan tried to see what was happening, all he could see was shifting shadows and the confused sparkling of the willowisps on the sails. Fenfyr’s growls punctuated the calls of the crew and suddenly an alarm started blaring, followed shortly by a hail, “Medical emergency Deck Thirteen, Med team respond. Medical emergency Deck Thirteen, Med team respond.”
Several long moments later Fenfyr appeared over the edge of the panels, his great claws bloody and his eyes sad. “One of them was… I couldn’t get to him in time.” He hung his head, his chin resting on the deck plating. Tristan walked over and laid his hand on the dragon’s neck as Fenfyr let out a soft sigh, the dragon equivalent of silent tears. “One of the others injured is an Air Weaver.”
“What?” Tristan asked.
“I know they were working on the lower plating, we always have an Air Weaver there in case of emergency,” Barrett replied.
“They weren’t going to let me help,” the dragon lamented. “If they had, I could have saved them all.”
“I am sorry about that, sir,” Shearer said, approaching them. “It will never happen again. I want to thank you for myself and on behalf of the crew for what you did. Without you, all of them would have died.”
“What happened?” Barrett said, looking at the boatswain.
“I don’t know, sir. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a rigged explosion.”
“Why?” Tristan glanced at the man as Fenfyr lifted his head off the deck.
“The way things fell, the way it happened. I will be in there checking as soon as the metal cools enough to touch,” Shearer assured them.
“Let me know as soon as you do, Shearer, so we can deal with the problem,” Barrett said softly, a threat in his voice.
“Yes, sir!” Shearer agreed with a growl. Before leaving he stopped in front of the dragon and looked up at him. “Thank you again, sir, and welcome aboard, we are glad, very glad to have you.”
Fenfyr bobbed his head in acknowledgment and watched the man go before he said, “Something smelled wrong down there.”
“Wrong?” Tristan asked.
“I’m not sure, but wrong,” the dragon said, before standing. “I need to fly.” With that he headed towards the gangplank so he could use the station’s portal into space.
There was an uncomfortable silence after the dragon left. Barrett was focused on the hatchway to the lower deck and Trist
an was staring up at the huge dome over their heads, imagining Fenfyr wheeling through the stars. He sighed, Fenfyr was deeply affected by what had happened, he could tell from the droop of the dragon’s feathers as he walked away.
“If someone sabotaged my ship,” Barrett growled, “I will keel haul them.”
“Keel haul?”
“Yes.” Barrett shook himself.
“Can someone show me to sickbay? I would like to check on the injured Air Weaver. They should have introduced themselves when they heard I was onboard.” Tristan frowned, annoyed by the breach in protocol, but then, he had only recently arrived and they had purposefully not announced his arrival time.
Barrett pulled out his phone. “Riggan? Report to the quarterdeck, the Weaver needs to be shown to sickbay.”
“Thank you.” Tristan tried not to look too embarrassed, he’d forgotten about his servant already. Of course, he wasn’t accustomed to having one. There had been students assigned to him at the Guild, but that was an entirely different thing.
“Sir?” Barrett suddenly sounded young and unsure.
“Yes?”
“Would you dine at my table this evening?”
Tristan paused. To not dine at the captain’s table the first night would be considered a huge insult, but the captain had made no move to invite him. He weighed his options. If he did this, it would send a definite message. Even though Tristan had his own “table” it was traditional that on the first night the Weaver was invited to dine with the captain and his officers. “Thank you, Mr. Barrett. When do we dine?”
“Eight bells in the last dog, sir. Thank you, sir!” He snapped off a salute, then grinned sheepishly.
“Sir,” someone said, tugging at Tristan’s coattail.
“Yes?” He looked down, Riggan was hunched over beside him. “Riggan, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the man mumbled.
“Look up when you speak to me, Riggan,” Tristan said firmly. “I need to go to sickbay.”
“Yes, sir, this way, sir,” Riggan said to the decking. “After I show you, would you like me to unpack your things, sir?”
“My formal uniform needs pressing, if you can see to that for me?”
The Sail Weaver Page 7