Responsibility of the Crown

by G Scott Huggins

  Tselah looked away. “The only hope we have is to get Ekkaia back to the Grove or kill Haraad. We’ve slowed him down by rigging the sails against him and pushing the ship off his course with the forward winddrivers, but he controls two-thirds of the sail and both rudders. It scarcely matters whether we believe you, whether Haraad is taking us to his riches or our own graves. We are not letting him weasel out of my father’s murder, along with the deaths of all the good men and women his weak-kneed followers have caused. We have risked everything we have, everything we are, to stand against him, and we may lose it all now. We lost too many good people in that attack. Too many of our topmen, who were helping us rig the sails. Maybe if the Consortium officer wasn’t dying, we could—” She choked off. Azriyqam thought she could see the words that Tselah was too proud to say: If we hadn’t burned your airship. “But all we got was you,” she repeated, bitterly.

  At another time, and in spite of the insult, Azriyqam could almost have felt sorry for her. A young woman, come to so much—responsibility, yes—because of who she was and her father’s death. Instead, cold fear drove her into anger. “My brother is not dying. He came here to save you. Which was more than you deserved of him after you threw him in the Cage simply for being adrift. What are you doing to help him?”

  “There’s nothing we can do!” snapped Tselah. “We have enough food and water to hold out forever, but no medicines and no chirurgeons. Your brother will have to live or die on his own the same as the rest of us, unless the, the other one like you can actually help him with all that muttering and chanting she’s been doing. Do you think I wouldn’t give him what we had? He’s the closest thing to a real fighting man on this side of the Ship. The whole reason we attacked in the first place was to kill Haraad and get his help!”

  “There still may be help, if you will open your eyes to see it,” said Elazar, softly, “instead of lamenting over what you wanted and lost.”

  “And where do you suggest I look?” Tselah asked.

  “If you wish for help, I suggest that you ask the princess, as is proper. With her brother wounded, it is Azriyqam who leads us, and we are sworn to her service. If it is beneath you, somehow, because you are human, to accept our aid, please tell us, and we will take our own counsel so as not to trouble you.”

  Azriyqam turned to her mentor and met only dead seriousness. He was ceding control of the mission to her. The cold taste of fear clawed for the back of her throat.

  It was shattered by Tselah’s derisive laughter. “Princess? That is a princess? The scaled freak with crippled hands and crippled wings? What help could you possibly be to us?”

  What could she say? What help could they be? She wanted to shake Elazar, scream at him for help, but he only looked at her, awaiting her command.

  That was it. Command.

  “Elazar,” she said as coolly as she could manage. “Explain it to her.”

  “Yes, kyria,” he said with a short bow. He stepped to the side and with a smooth motion snapped his wings out to half their span. Twin darts of metal shot out. They slammed deep into the wall, bracketing Tselah’s head. Mouth open in shock, she raised her hands slowly to her ears. A thin line of blood creased each of them, drawn there by the darts’ metal fins.

  “Forgive me,” Elazar said to Azriyqam. “But I judged that words were insufficient to our purpose.” He turned to Tselah. “The Princess Azriyqam has already won a duel with a Consortium assassin and, unlike her brother, did so without being gravely wounded. I would suggest that you treat her with more respect if you wish her help.”

  Before she or Tselah could speak, the pounding of feet sounded outside the room. A young boy, no more than ten years old, burst into the room, his eyes wide. “Captain! They’re after the drivers!”

  Tselah wasted no time. “Turn out! Everyone, with me!” She met Azriyqam’s eyes. “Here’s your chance to prove you’re with us, then.” Then she was gone. As fast as Azriyqam moved, Elazar passed in front of her, and they were running up what seemed a never-ending tower of stairs.

  They broke into the open air and into chaos. The attackers were already over the barricades. They wielded axes, pikes, mauls, and heavy cutlasses. The defenders clustered in knots around the small, raised platforms that bore the winddrivers. A rending explosion split the evening air, and one of Haraad’s bravos fell back, dropping his pike to clutch at his shattered chest. His companions roared and pressed in on the defenders while the single man on top frantically reloaded his single-shot musket. One of his human shields tried to retreat and found himself backed into the platform. A pike was rammed under his ribs, pinning him to the wood like an insect. A woman backed up the stairs, and an axe smashed into her knee. She fell, screaming for an instant before her assailant drove an iron-shod boot into her face, silencing her forever.

  Elazar was suddenly behind the man on the stairs. With cold efficiency, he jammed his blades through the axeman’s kidneys. The man screamed, a high, cat-like wail. His companion with the pike took aim at Elazar, who had already whirled to face him. Faster than thought, his wings whipped out to their full extent, darting for his foe’s face.

  The pikeman flinched back and raised his hands. His spear thrust went over Elazar’s shoulder and the older halfdragon leaned forward, stabbing. The big man reeled back with the deep puncture wounds.

  A strong young man attacked Azriyqam, his face split with a fierce grin as he sighted an easy victim. He raised a blade in one hand that she recognized as a giant fish-butcher’s knife. He swung wildly at her, clearly intending to slice her in two. Azriyqam stepped to one side, out of the arc of his blow. His body twisted away from her, carried by the force of his own stroke, exposing his side. She struck with both blades, drawing the cut out. His own body did the work of driving the blades deep through layers of thick muscle. Her foe crashed to the deck, screaming and clutching the deep rents in his abdomen. He’s down. Eyes front. Elazar’s and her brother’s training echoed in her ears.

  Just in time. A pikeman ran at her, aiming for her chest. She knelt and thrust upward with her right-wing sword. Her foe overran her, the spear point passing over her head, and impaled himself on her own whip-thin blade up to the hilt. The shock staggered her. He bellowed, and his fist slammed forward.

  Azriyqam saw stars in the blackness. She was on her back, then hands were at her shoulders levering her desperately up in a surge of nausea. She shook her head and felt wet droplets fly from her face. Her vision returned in a blur. Her attacker was slumped over, her sword still buried in his chest.

  Elazar held her in his arms. “Are you all right, kyria? Can you speak?” he shouted. She had never heard such fear in his voice.

  She tried to speak, but a painful cough took her. Then, in a thin, reedy voice, she slurred. “Yes.” Her head began to clear. “A-aaall. Right.” He wrenched her sword from her foe’s body and pressed it between her fingers.

  Another gunshot rang out, and Azriyqam looked up just in time to see a musketeer leap down from the raised platform.

  “The drivers are lost!” snarled Elazar. “Can you fly?”

  Azriyqam nodded. She could see now that Haraad’s men were swarming up the platforms. Some were behind them already, hitting the defenders guarding the doors and hatches to the forecastle.

  “Run!” He followed his own advice, sprinting for the port gunwale. She followed him.

  One man saw Elazar coming and reared back, a giant maul in his hands, but he underestimated the speed of the old halfdragon. Elazar skewered his attacker’s forearm before he had barely begun his swing and then whirled to strike him in the gut.

  The way was clear, and Azriyqam flung herself into the air. Her wings extended and caught the wind in a welcome, natural ache. Behind her, she heard Elazar hit the air as well, with a soft billowing of membrane. The cold of the water sucked them both down, and they beat the air, slowly gaining height.

  Azriyqam surveyed the battle with dismay.

  Haraad’s men had won. The mutin
eers held only the forecastle with its single foremast. Tselah’s crew poured boiling water on their foes from pots held over the beacon-fire, and the attackers fell back, but there were far too few defenders to regain the wall of crates and boxes that was even now being dismantled. Striding past them like a king, Azriyqam could see Haraad, accompanied by two of his captains.

  “Can they retake the forecastle?” Azriyqam called between wingbeats.

  “Not without a hard fight, I think—” Her mentor broke off. “Look to the tops!”

  Azriyqam followed his pointing wing and her throat tightened.

  Tselah had said that they had lost too many of their topmen. Now she could see why that mattered. On the upper spars of the skysails and moonrakers, men climbed and fought. Haraad’s men were attacking the foremast, seeking the vantage point that would allow them to drop down onto the forecastle from above. They had overwhelmed the moonrakers, and were climbing down to the skysail, where Tselah’s men and women were desperately trying to hold them back. More came across the rope bridge that led to the masts in Haraad’s territory.

  “They’ll never hold,” Azriyqam shouted.

  “Not without aid. Follow me.”

  Their climb seemed to take an eternity, but she stuck with him until at last they were looking down on the moonrakers. A half-dozen men were on the spars trying to join their fellows. Elazar folded his wings and dropped through the air. Azriyqam yanked the two small lead weights that rode at her shoulders out of their pins. Immediately, she snapped her wings out flat and set herself on a diving glide path.

  She sighted on a big man just stepping off the rope bridge, finding his footing, and released her weights.

  The man abruptly curled around himself, gasping with the pain of the heavy lead shot. He staggered and stepped into empty air. She heard his fading scream and its abrupt end. Another joined it, and she knew Elazar had found his mark as well. He wrenched himself around to Ekkaia’s starboard. She saw he intended to land on the portside of the moonraker’s spar.

  Azriyqam snapped herself into a banking turn to port. She backed wing and landed heavily, gripping the spar as best she could, toeclaws digging into the wood.

  The young man clinging to the spar stared at her as though she were a demon materialized out of the air. Straightening, he raised his cutlass.

  Azriyqam charged, running lightly along the narrow cylinder of wood. At twice his reach away, Azriyqam stopped, flicking her wings in a quick one-two feint at his face. Beating the air, they kept her steady and balanced. The young man raised his sword to deflect the incoming blows, lost his balance, and windmilled his arms to recover it.

  But arms were not wings. He almost recovered anyway, but Azriyqam took two quick steps and stuck him through the upper arm with her airsword. With a cry of dismay, he fell.

  The next man clung to the ropes that led down to the skysails and brandished a long knife in his right hand. She slashed her airsword across his knuckles. He opened them reflexively, and he, too, fell to the deck. Now she was at the rope bridge; at least four men were climbing along it, moving with deceptive, crab-like speed toward her.

  Then, Elazar was at her side.

  “I said to stay behind me, kyria!”

  “I couldn’t have done anything behind you!” she protested.

  “You nearly got yourself killed.” With the heavy dirk in his left hand—and where did he get that?—Elazar sliced the hand-rope with a smooth sawing motion. The bridge shook. The nearest man yelled in panic and lunged forward. Elazar threw a lead weight. It smashed him in the nose, and he reeled back, cursing and flailing at the ropes. He caught himself, but by that time, Elazar had sawn through another rope. Behind their leader, the men scrambled back, shouting. A third rope parted.

  One of Haraad’s men, trying to drive them off, reached their level. Azriyqam stabbed at his upturned face. She missed, but he slid away from the needle-pointed airsword. Elazar sliced the fourth rope and the bridge dropped away. One man fell, whipcracked viciously to the deck below. Then Elazar turned his attention to the ratlines leading downward. They fell away.

  “That will keep them off. Tselah’s men can take care of those below. Now get down to the forecastle,” Elazar said.

  Azriyqam launched herself forward. A new battleline had been formed around the forecastle. She and Elazar touched down on the forecastle top, where Tselah and her officers were ordering their archers to save their arrows as the light faded. They brought up pieces of the old barricade to serve as shelter. Slowly, men descended out of the tops, looking exhausted. One staggered over and muttered thanks.

  One of the officers touched Tselah on the shoulder. She looked sharply at where Azriyqam and Elazar stood, their chests heaving. Tselah approached, her eyes narrowed.

  “You can fly,” she said. It came out halfway between wonder and an accusation.

  Any number of responses collided in Azriyqam’s head, but she only nodded.

  “You never flew before. You only glided down from your perch when you wanted to make trouble.”

  Azriyqam glared at her. “How would you have learned to walk if you had grown up surrounded by cripples? Would you even have known what your legs were for?”

  Tselah blinked as if she had been slapped. Obviously, that had never occurred to her before. “Thank you,” she said. It was obvious that the words hurt her to say, but she had absorbed at least some of her father’s honesty. She called to a cabin boy. “Gehar! Get our guests refreshment and a place to rest.” Then she began barking orders to set the night’s watch.

  Azriyqam and Elazar followed the cabin boy below.

  “So, we’re guests, now,” she muttered, as they sat and accepted watered wine and cheese.

  “It is certainly an improvement over prisoners,” said Elazar.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 16

  Zhad’s voice whispered. “Avnai is awake. He wants you.”

  Azriyqam sat bolt upright and nearly fell out of the hammock she had been sleeping in. “Take me to him.”

  Zhad took her by the wing. For once, their positions were reversed, and he was her guide in the darkness that made no difference to him. Finally, her eyes adjusted to the dimmed lamps of the Ship’s night, and she could follow Zhad more quickly down the maze of corridors.

  Elazar stood outside a door, awaiting them.

  “He is awake?” Azriyqam asked. The hope that had touched her voice fell when she saw his grim face.

  “Kyria, he is dying.”

  A cold hand gripped her heart.

  “He will live for a time yet,” Elazar continued, “but he cannot survive without the skills of a trained healer or a surgeon. I have asked Tselah, and there is no one aboard this Ship with any such skill.”

  Azriyqam nodded. She could have told him that. “It’s difficult for him to speak, so don’t make him waste words. And don’t speak to Merav unless she bids you. Keeping him alive, much less awake, is taxing her to the limit of her powers. Truth be told, I fear she is winging too close to the Void already.”

  Her mouth was suddenly dry. “I understand.”

  She entered the cabin. It stank of blood and was heavy with heat. Nonetheless, beneath the blankets, Azriyqam could see Avnai shivering. She knelt by his side.

  Merav was kneeling at his head. Her skin under her fine scales was pale, and her wings were half-spread over Avnai’s cot like a haggard gargoyle. Dark circles lay under her closed eyes, and her lips moved in a soundless chant. Avnai’s eyes snapped open, fever bright, and he drew in a long, shuddering gasp.

  “Azriy,” he whispered. “You came.”

  “Of course, I came,” she said. Then floundered, lost for words. “How do you feel?” she ventured.

  “Rather poorly,” he wheezed. “Listen. Not much time. Can’t think right.” He struggled not to cough. “Consortium must not succeed. This Ship. Must save it. Offer them Crown’s help. Asylum. Crown Land. Elazar will explain.”

  A fit of coughing took Avnai.
Blood splashed his lips, and all she could do was hold his hand until the fit passed, and Merav’s chanting grew in volume and urgency. At last, he quieted.

  “No time. You must get winddrivers. Can stop the Ship.”

  “But we’ve lost the sails, and—”

  He waved her to silence. “Don’t need sails. Remember our escape. What I did? Winddriver has three parts: forward, the kinetic sink; aftward, the focus array; between them, inertial reverser. Inertial reverser has twenty runes. You destroy third and seventeenth. Must shatter completely. Fasten it down. Hard. Then you start it. Hold kinetic sink and read the runes on it. Destroy ninth rune on inertial reverser. Winddriver will push backward, instead of forward. Stronger than ever. Point it away from direction you want to go. Law of Reaction.” He started coughing again.

  Laboriously, he made her repeat it until she could say it from memory. When he was sure she had it memorized, he grasped her hand. “Tell Tselah. Elazar will help. Tell her to bring this Century Ship home. To us.”

  “But what about you, Avnai?”

  He shook his head, nearly bringing on another coughing fit. Stopped. “Doesn’t matter. Die anyway. With all the rest. If Consortium wins.” He looked her in the eyes and then fell back on his pillow. Azriyqam glanced aside at Merav, but her face was unchanged from its taut inwardness. Her chanting dropped into a whisper.

  “Your dreams,” Merav rasped. “Tell me about them.” The young halfdragon’s eyes were wide and burning. She looked as though she had passed from girl to crone by skipping over the intervening years.

  “Why are you asking—”

  Merav cut her off. “Tell me what you dream!” she said.

  “The same as it ever was. Fire. Burning. Only the Ship turns into the Kreyntorm and I can’t get out of it!”

  Merav closed her eyes and took a long, shuddering breath. “Then it is true. This is the Foreseeing.”