“Of course, sir. Are you dining with the captain, then?” he asked, then stopped, turning pale and ducking his head as if he expected a blow.
“No, Mr. Barrett invited me to the gunroom.”
“Oh!” Riggan scuttled ahead to open a hatchway. “He is a good officer, sir.”
“Are you frightened of dragons?”
“Dragons?” Riggan stopped and looked back at him with wide eyes.
“I should have asked before I had you assigned to me, but Fenfyr said he plans on sleeping on the stern gallery as much as he can get away with, which means he will have his head in the cabin a lot of the time.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Tristan smiled at the man’s happy look.
“Here we are, sir, sickbay.”
“Thank you, Riggan, I will see you later,” he dismissed him and stepped into the room.
Several beds were occupied, each screened from the others by curtains that shimmered almost like sails. In the far corner of the room a group was clustered around a bed. He recognized the uniform of an Air Weaver among them, so he headed towards them. A tall woman, her silver-shot black hair cropped close to her head, turned to him as he approached. She stepped to the end of the bed, eyeing him with the almost purple eyes that marked her as a front-line veteran of the Rim War. The exposure to the toxins on one of the worlds had caused a number of abnormalities in humans, purple eyes being one of the less common.
“Dr. Rose Webber, sir,” she said, extending her hand. The medical services fell under a different jurisdiction than the Navy and most medical officers were less resentful of the Guild than the military.
“Tristan Weaver,” he answered, accepting her hand.
“I heard the dragon saved the crew.”
“Yes, he was sorry that one of them was lost.”
“The ones that survived are damn lucky he was there. They would have been burned alive. Between his efforts and those of the Air Weavers, they were saved.” She turned back to the bed. “Damn crew ought to think about that sometimes,” she muttered to herself.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Theresa Aether.” She nodded at the woman lying on the bed, burns marring one side of her face.
“Sir!” the man in the Air Weaver’s uniform said, snapping to attention. “Sir! I didn’t see you! I didn’t know you were on board until Fenfyr appeared below or we would have been there to welcome you, sir!”
“It’s okay.”
“No, sir, it’s not, Master Tristan! We were so honored to hear it would be you serving on Victory, and then…”
“Calm down.” Tristan raised a hand, the man was turning red. “You are?”
“Sullivan Aether, sir! Theresa is my partner and we are the senior Air Weavers. Seconds are West and Sheea Aether, they are below, helping with the damage.” He glanced down at Theresa, then back up at Tristan. “You have four full Air Weavers, all Aether level, and then we have eight journeymen as well.”
“How is she?” Tristan asked gently, he could tell that for all his information, Sullivan’s attention was focused on Theresa.
“They say she won’t die.”
“She won’t,” the doctor said tersely. “I think I said she would be fine with a night’s rest.”
“She will?” Tristan inquired.
“She will. No lasting damage, a little scarring is all, and that’s not much considering what could have happened.” The doctor turned away. “I have other patients, if you will excuse me.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said, waiting until she left before focusing his attention back onto Sullivan. “Do you know what happened? Fenfyr said he smelled something wrong?” Air Weavers had heightened senses of smell, no one knew why, but it was one of the marks of their trade.
“I’m not sure, there was so much happening. We were trying to keep a small hole blocked so they could work on the plating.” He cocked his head to the side. “Now that you mention it, I thought I smelled something right before the explosion.”
“What?”
“I don’t know for sure, but it was out of place. The kind of thing your brain registers, but you aren’t sure why?”
“I understand. If you think of something, let me know immediately.” Tristan smiled at the Air Weaver. “Let me know when she is awake, I would like to pay my respects. I will expect you all to report to my office at two bells in the forenoon watch tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Dismissed, Sullivan.”
“Thank you, Master Tristan.”
Tristan walked out of sickbay, glancing at the other occupied beds on the way out, the men were burned and unconscious. He silently cursed the prejudice that kept them from allowing Fenfyr to help until it was too late to save the crew member who had died.
The Naval prejudice, even hatred, of the Guild was beginning to become a serious problem. It had been there since the Weavers spun the first sail. The problem was getting worse, after the Edicts that set the Guild apart, and in many ways above the Navy, the one-time dislike had grown into full-blown hatred in many parts of the service. The Navy was even dividing itself between “sympathizers”—those that supported the Guild—and the old line. The hatred had over-flowed in the Stars Plot when an attack had been made on the Weavers’ Guild Council, and the first council hall was destroyed in an act of terrorism. Most of the Masters had been killed, the few who escaped barely survived. No one could trace the attack to the Navy, the perpetrators had been incinerated in the blast, but there was enough intelligence to arrest two ranking Naval officers.
Tristan absently scratched the scar on his back as he followed the shimmering stripe marked “quarterdeck” towards his quarters. When he opened the door, Riggan stopped what he was doing and snapped to attention. Glancing around the room, Tristan stepped in and closed the door. “I need to know something about you, Riggan.”
“Sir?” the man said timidly.
“Where do you stand on the Guild?” the Weaver asked quietly, in case there were listening devices in his quarters.
Riggan smiled. “Oh, talk freely, sir, I checked around and I removed all the monitors in the place, sir, and out the airlock they went first thing when I walked in. Ask Mr. Barrett, sir. We would have no ships without our sails and no sails without our Weavers, sir. And, well, the dragons, they serve as our eyes, they defend us, and I was there sir, when Darius came out to defend the supply line! I saw it, sir!” Riggan’s eyes sparkled with life and his face glowed with light. “I was serving on the Constellation then. She was a beautiful ship, her loss…” He hung his head. “Did you know Master Griffith, sir?”
“I did, we trained together.” Tristan said softly, remembering the huge man, full of laughter and life. The Constellation had been destroyed during the Jupiter Incursion. The Guild suspected that the attack by the Vermin played right into the hands of the Stars Plot and the destruction of the Constellation and her very pro-Weaver captain were a little too coincidental for comfort.
“He was my friend.” Riggan looked up, his eyes sad. “Your uniform is ready for dinner, sir, though the gunroom isn’t as formal as the captain’s table.”
“I know,” Tristan said, with a smile.
“I know you know, sir.” Riggan answered his smile with a knowing grin. It was as close to an open insult as Tristan dared on his first day on board.
“We’re going to get along fine, Riggan.”
“Yes, sir.”
IX
Several hours later, Tristan was sitting at the desk on the portside of his cabin when there was a soft scratching at the Stern gallery door. Riggan glanced at him for permission before opening the portal. Fenfyr stuck his nose in and the small man stumbled back a step.
“Riggan, this is Lokey Fenfyr of the Guild Dragons. This is Riggan, my assistant,” Tristan said.
“I’m his servant, sir,” Riggan said, speaking to Fenfyr.
The dragon let out a puff of laughter that was enough to blow t
he man into the side of the desk. “Sorry,” Fenfyr said, a smile in his voice. Tristan was glad to hear it, Fen must have “flown” himself free of the earlier incident.
“Assistant,” Tristan corrected for the fourth time in an hour. They had been arguing about it since one of the crew had brought a message from the captain.
“Servant. I’ll just nip off and see about that information on Theresa Aether you wanted. I’ll be back. It is a pleasure to serve with you,” Riggan said, bowing to Fenfyr. “Sir.” He sketched a salute and scuttled out the door.
“Servant?” Fenfyr chuckled, easing further into the room.
“He was the captain’s.”
“Oh.” The dragon’s head tufts quivered. Fenfyr was laughing at him. “I went to speak with Darius after I flew.” Fenfyr moved a little further so the entire starboard side of the room was filled with dragon.
“Darius?”
“Yes, he is concerned. We are keeping word of the explosion quiet, but we are also taking measures to protect you and this ship more than we had originally planned.”
Tristan didn’t like the sound of that. “Oh?”
“Yes, and you will accept with good grace. When do you leave to dine with the captain?”
“I was not invited to his table.”
Fenfyr fluffed up like an angry kitten “What?” he demanded, the question coming out in a hiss of shock.
“The captain has not invited me.” Tristan straightened the papers on his desk, most of his notes were in Latin, it prevented people from reading them, even if they got a hold of them. He also enjoyed the process of writing in the ancient language. He felt that using it for notes and things other than spells kept the language “alive” somehow. “I informed the Guild of his oversight.” Tristan smiled, remembering Rhoads’ reaction to the news. It was an outright snub of both his rank and position and the Guild. Brian was making a formal protest to the Navy, so Tristan was half-expecting an invitation to arrive at any moment.
“I am shocked, Tris, that is a breach of protocol that is almost unforgivable.”
“For you or me?”
“Well, I sure as the Winds move won’t leave him one single grapefruit within easy reach.”
A soft tap, and the door opened. “Theresa Aether is recovering very well, sir. She will not need a Healer at all. Dr. Webber assured me of that. You should get ready for dinner, sir. Seven bells just went.”
“Thank you, Riggan.” Tristan stood and walked around the desk. “What?” He could tell Fenfyr was amused.
“Just remember to use the right fork,” the dragon said with a snort. “I’m staying here, you won’t get me in one of those death-trap uniforms.”
“Death traps?” Riggan asked.
“He thinks it looks like the uniforms are strangling the wearer,” the dragon said.
“They are, I have heard you say it more than once.”
Tristan sighed. “I said it feels that way.”
“Same thing.” Fenfyr put his head on the deck and watched as Tristan got ready.
At five minutes before eight bells in the second dog watch, he stepped over the threshold and into the Gunroom. When humanity had embarked into the stars in sailing ships, they had reclaimed the old names from the Great Age of Sail and the Gunroom was now, as then, the dining area for the officers. The first officer presided over the group, and it included the sailing master and the boatswain—the only deviation from the old days of sail.
Tristan smiled at Shearer as he entered, and waited for Barrett to introduce him to the rest of the officers. There were two men and a woman in Naval uniforms, a Marine colonel in bright red and, to Tristan’s surprise, the formal black uniform of the Dragon Corps—worn in this case by a grinning Chris Muher. That must be part of the extra security Darius had been talking about.
“Sir, welcome to the Gunroom!” Barrett said, approaching him with a smile. “I’d like you to meet the officers of Winged Victory. The Air Weavers often dine with us, but they have opted to stay with Theresa Aether.”
“Of course,” Tristan said with a smile.
“This is Second Officer, Commander Patrick Aubrey; Navigator Elizabeth Avila; Third Officer and Gunner Richard Fuhrman. You know Shearer, and our Ship’s Master is Geoffrey Kinser. Colonel Steven Hall leads the Marines, and I believe you know General Muher?”
“Yes.” Tristan nodded to each as he was introduced, smiling at Muher. “Thank you for inviting me for dinner.”
“Our pleasure,” Aubrey said. “Believe me!”
Barrett indicated that Tristan should take the seat of honor at the foot of the table and then they were all seated. The first course was served, the wine glasses filled with a rich dark red wine. Tristan took a sip, but no more. He knew that there was more food—and alcohol—yet to come. By the third course, several of the officers were speaking more freely, and from what Tristan could tell, they seemed to be generally loyal to the Guild, although Fuhrman was keeping quiet.
Interestingly, Aubrey had served on the Constellation, but had been transferred before the ship’s final battle. He was a man in his early fifties, comfortable in his rank and his place in the ship’s day-to-day operation. He didn’t seem to be one of the overly ambitious men that ended up never reaching their desired commands, although there was something—Tristan couldn’t put his finger on what—that was upsetting the man about his position on the Victory. It wasn’t anything he said directly, only an offhand comment or two that got him a growl from Avila once and a kick under the table from Colonel Hall.
The colonel had served in the Rim Wars and was in the middle of a particularly gory story when dessert was served—unfortunately for the diners, it was a cake drizzled with raspberry syrup that almost perfectly matched Hall’s description of the blood-smeared severed limbs he’d encountered on the ground. Most of the officers looked a little white and turned away, but Tristan ate. He knew they were watching him, gauging his reaction, and he suspected this had been, in part, staged.
When the meal was over, Hall and Kinser left together, staggering towards a hatchway that was on the far side of the room from Tristan. Shortly after they left, Fuhrman stalked off alone, then Shearer, Avila and Aubrey, leaving only Tristan, Muher and Barrett.
“A glass of wine before you turn in, sir?” Barrett asked, turning away from the table. “I have some stock in my room…”
“Of course,” Tristan agreed, he half-expected Muher to leave, but the man merely stretched his legs under the table and leaned back in the chair.
“It’s quite an honor, having the Dragon Corps serving with us,” Barrett said, returning with three glasses and a bottle of wine. “My family owns a vineyard.” He poured them each a glass and Tristan could tell the difference in the quality of the wine even before he picked it up. The wine served with dinner had been good, but this—this was in the “great” wine category and more what he would expect from the Captain’s Table. He frowned at Barrett for a moment. He needed to find out more about him.
“It’s a pleasure to be in space again,” Muher said, pulling Tristan from his musings. “I was out to the Rim but was recalled to Earth when the Stars Plot raised its ugly head. I’ve been following the threads of that for some time.”
“It sickens me to think there were Naval officers involved,” Barrett said, sitting down again. He glanced casually around, and Tristan got the message. The room was monitored. They could speak a little, but not much.
“Yes, but many more were loyal,” Tristan said, then stopped. Muher had been in charge of the Stars Plot investigation—and as far as he knew the case was still unsolved. They had caught some of the conspirators but not all of them. If the general was on the Victory, did that mean that they suspected… “What was that?” He looked up when he realized they were speaking to him.
“How do you like the wine?” Barrett asked.
“It’s magnificent! I’m not just saying that because I prefer Zinfandel, this is magnificent!”
“Don’t get
him started on wine. He can get boring about it,” Muher said to Barrett with a laugh.
“Just the one time,” Tristan replied. “And that doesn’t count.”
Barrett grinned at them. “Why not?”
“It was a wine tasting. I was supposed to talk about the wine.”
“Not for four hours,” Muher grumbled.
“It wasn’t four hours,” Tristan corrected him. “Closer to three.” He smiled at Barrett. “There was a lot of wine.”
“I can be boring about it, I will admit it,” Barrett said, smiling. “My elder brother inherited the vineyard, it’s been in the family since the Second World War in the Twentieth Century. There is even a rumor that one of the vines is from a planting made by the very first Barrett to till the earth. I’m not sure I believe it, but I loved the story as a child.” He sighed. “We were very lucky, the family’s land actually abuts one of the Sanctuaries, and so was protected during attacks and never destroyed by developers.”
“I am sure I have consumed many a bottle of your family’s wine then.” Tristan took another sip, watching the man. “Are you looking forward to sailing?”
“I am!” Barrett said enthusiastically. “I am not even sure why the Navy was delaying the launch. The only reasonable delay I could see was for the sails, but once they were finished and the Warrior attuned, there was no reason to just sit in dry dock! How is the original Warrior?”
“He lost an eye and an arm,” Tristan said quietly. “He’s a good man.”
“I’m sure, or he wouldn’t have been chosen, although having the Master Weaver here is such an honor! And not only you, but we’re also assigned a ranking member of the Dragon Corps and Lokey Fenfyr himself!”
“Don’t talk like that around him,” Muher said under his breath. “We’ll never get him to shut up.”
“What was that?” Barrett asked.
“Never mind,” Muher said, standing. “It’s getting late. Master Tristan, can I escort you to your cabin?”
Tristan stood, and bowed his head to Barrett. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Mr. Barrett. Perhaps you can join me in my office tomorrow at two bells in the afternoon watch? If it’s convenient?”
The Sail Weaver Page 8