by Roland Green
Three days later, Haimya stood in a corner of the hold, holding a strip of soft metal. The hold was dimly lit with brass lanterns, and in the pallid light the metal had no sheen to tell her what it might be. She had no intention of testing it by bending or gouging with a thumbnail, even if Tarothin had not warned her firmly against any such thing.
Tarothin stood beside Hipparan, just under the dragon’s hurt wing. The mage wore a loincloth and sandals and held his staff in one hand. In the other he held a brass ewer.
Straddling Hipparan’s half-curled tail was Lady Eskaia. She wore a tunic that left shoulders bare, likewise her legs to past the knee, and nothing on her feet. She was squeezing a sponge on to a ragged gouge in the dragon’s scales. The liquid that dribbled down was bluish and foul-smelling-or was the smell just the hold, after three days of holding a dragon under the northern sun?
Hipparan seemed clean enough in all of his habits, but he was a large animal, and large animals in confined spaces left their mark. Haimya had mucked out worse stables as a girl, however, so she had only to recall her old art of pushing the smell to the back of her mind and getting on with her work.
“Is that the last wound?” Tarothin asked.
“Why don’t you ask me?” Hipparan said before Eskaia could speak.
“I was asking both of you,” Tarothin said, his voice edged.
They were all sweating from the heat of the hold, but Tarothin seemed to have run a race or rowed all day in a galley. He had also drunk three jugs of water and one of wine, and eaten the greater share of a basket of bread, cheese, and sausage let down from the deck an hour ago.
“I’ve doused every wound I could see,” Eskaia said. “Is that every wound you can feel, Hipparan? If not, I have the strength if Tarothin has the potion.”
Eskaia’s voice sounded as warm as it had when she had talked with Jemar the Fair. Then Haimya started, as Eskaia lifted the hem of her tunic to wipe her face. Mercifully, she was wearing reasonably discreet men’s short-drawers in red silk under the tunic. Haimya would not have cared to wager that her mistress wore anything under the tunic above the waist.
Haimya wondered for the tenth time whether her mistress was questing for knowledge of magic and the ransoming of Gerik Ginfrayson. No, that was unjust. Say it, rather, questing only for those things she had admitted.
Was another, unadmitted but real, goal amusing herself as much as she could, in ways that would not be tolerated at home, for once in her life? One-in a man it would be called an escapade-one journey on her own like a kender’s, to prove that she was an adult? Then back to the duties of a daughter of House Encuintras, much more than a single year wiser and more sure of herself?
“Haimya!” Tarothin sounded ready to throw something at her. “This is the third time I’ve asked. The metal strip, please. Hand it to me, and the gods spare you if you drop it!”
Haimya marched up to the wizard as she would have marched up to her company’s commander when reporting for duty. Her hands were sweat-slick but steady as she handed the metal to Tarothin.
The wizard thrust his staff into his belt to free both hands. Then he climbed awkwardly up onto Hipparan’s back and bound the metal around the wounded wing. It seemed to grow longer as Tarothin worked, until it made a dull gray ring three times around the damaged member.
“Stand well back, please,” Tarothin said. “This is the simplest healing magic I think will have any effect, but Hipparan is a dragon, and I am not a god.”
“We will learn how powerful you are sooner if you refrain from stating the obvious,” Hipparan said. Haimya had learned enough of his nuances of speech by now to detect boredom.
Eskaia, on the other hand, was biting her lip to keep from giggling as she came over to join her maid. Both watched as Tarothin stepped back, then touched the tip of his staff to the metal band and began chanting an incantation.
It was not in a language either woman knew, and for all Haimya could have said it did not even contain words. He might have been reciting the multiplication tables in the tongue of some long-lost clan of elves, for all she knew.
Hipparan was feeling something, however. His eyes were shut, and he was stretching his neck, rather like a cat being rubbed in a particularly congenial spot. His crest quivered faintly, like the same cat’s ears.
This went on for some time without any visible change, and Haimya’s mind began to wander to her wager with Pirvan, which was even more of a mystery than Eskaia’s reasons for this voyage.
She was not afraid that he would behave improperly. A more complete gentleman where a woman was concerned could hardly be imagined, let alone found. One might search the menfolk of a large city before finding another such as Pirvan.
No, it was that she feared she was behaving as someone in her position ought not to. She had grown to wonder if she and Gerik would be as they had been when they met again after he was ransomed. She was more than doubtful that the betrothal would survive any great changes, if they were both free to decide.
But they really were not. The line of Leri Ginfrayson (sometimes called Leri the Good) ought to continue-at least Eskaia would see it that way. There was also the matter of Haimya’s position in House Encuintras if she and Gerik parted. She would forfeit the substantial dowry Eskaia’s father had set aside for his daughter’s maid and confidante, and have small choice but to go again for a sellsword.
It was a profession she had followed with better than average success for six years. There would be neither shame nor mystery in taking the field again. But she had seen a whole other world than one saw from a place in a marching column, half choked by dust and thinking mostly of your saddlesores and the rust spot on your sword. She wanted to stay in the new world, and Gerik Ginfrayson was an honorable means to that end.
Also, he was in many ways a better man than Pirvan. He had served Istar honorably in the fleet, if not much at sea. He was more filled out; his beard might be scant, but his hair was long and fine; and his nose was more in proportion to his face.
Pirvan was all bone and sinew, like an alley cat that has foraged for every meal. His hair was a dubious mouse color and showed signs of departing before long, and his nose would make kissing him a somewhat uncertain manner.
His eyes, though, and the way he moved, and the gentleness of his speech (except when he was angry at things that would infuriate the least worldly cleric) and those hands that had found so much unlawful employment but were so fascinating to watch in movement. Fascinating, too, when the time came for them to touch her-or her them …
“Done!” Tarothin said. He sagged backward, and without the help of his staff and Eskaia, he would have fallen to the deck. Instead he sat down and rummaged in the basket for a few extra crumbs.
Haimya looked at Hipparan. At first she saw no difference. His eyes were still closed, and his crest still quivered faintly. Both wings now stretched out across the straw-covered bottom of the hold, as limp as candy held over a fire and turning soft.
Then she saw that the wound on Hipparan’s tail was gone. She looked for other wounds that she’d seen, and saw none of them. She turned her gaze back to the wings, saw them twitch-then Hipparan opened his eyes and let out his familiar warbling cry.
It seemed different now. The bone was out of the bird’s throat. Instead the call rose like a chorus of the greatest singers of some race known to neither gods nor men. It filled the hold, and Haimya wanted to hold her hands over her ears.
She did not, partly because the others weren’t, and partly because it would have seemed cowardly, even impious.
“Open the hatch,” Hipparan said. He did not raise his voice, nor did it sound as different as his call. But it was clearly a command, from one who thought he had every right to give it.
Haimya was not going to argue. She scrambled up the ladder and pounded on the hatch cover.
“Open!” she shouted. “Open, for the dragon!” That was nearly a scream. She would be hoarse if she had to call again.
&nbs
p; Chains clanked, canvas hissed, and the hatch cover slid aside, pulled by a dozen sailors. Haimya wondered how long they had been waiting there, and what they were expecting. She would be happy to tell them, if she knew herself.
Hipparan reared up on his hind legs. His forelegs caught the rim of the hatch, the claws scoring deep furrows in the wood. Splinters pattered down on Eskaia and Tarothin, and one sailor cursed briefly at the damage to the ship.
He fell silent as Hipparan turned his great, dark eyes on the man. Then the dragon warbled again, and the sailors scattered as he half sprang, half climbed out of the hold. Haimya hurled herself up the last few rungs of the ladder, stumbled, and went to her hands and knees.
She was still there when Hipparan took three steps, then flung himself over the side. He dropped from sight for a moment, but then ropes snapped and sails bellied in the blast of wind as he snapped his wings to full extension and rose into view again. Legs and belly were dripping, but he continued to rise.
Then he no longer rose, but soared. The great wings beat strongly, carrying him up to the base of the nearest cloud. He vanished into the cloud, men groaned, then he dived out of it and they groaned louder as he continued his dive straight for the sea.
Groans turned to gasps as he came out of his dive with his claws above the wave tops. Then he flew straight at the ship, wings thundering. A long bowshot from Golden Cup, he climbed again, turned upside down, and flew over the ship with his crest pointed down at the deck and his feet at the clouds.
The Encuintras banner stood out as rigid as a board from the wind of Hipparan’s passage.
The dragon climbed again, and called. It was not his warbling cry again, but something harsher, less musical, almost a roar. It still sounded like something that one god might have used in place of words to speak to another. Haimya expected the whole world to be silent until the sea and the sky swallowed that cry.
It almost was, except for Eskaia’s quiet sobbing. She and Tarothin had reached the deck and stood close together. The lady’s head was not quite on the wizard’s shoulder, but it would certainly be allowed there.
Tarothin looked as close as a wizard ever could to being humble, even awed. But then he had healed a creature of the race that was closer to the gods than any other created beings.
It began to seem to Haimya that frivolity and pleasure had lost any place in this quest.
* * * * *
Six days later, land was far behind Golden Cup. The captain had laid their course straight north out of the Gulf of Karthay, then north. They were staying well clear of North Cape, to avoid any ships of Synsaga’s that might be disposed to board first and negotiate afterward.
There was also the matter of the dragon. The fewer eyes outside Golden Cup that saw Hipparan, the better.
Pirvan was turning to descend the ladder from the forecastle when the dragon broke out of a low-lying cloud-bank far off toward the sunset. The ship was rolling gently eastward under easy sail with a steady breeze from almost dead astern.
Hipparan spread his wings and glided in for a landing before Pirvan was halfway down the ladder. As he reached the deck, the dragon folded his wings and landed on his hind legs, slipping in between the shrouds as if he’d been practicing for years.
From ports and hatches bearded faces thrust themselves forward. The sailors were now only wary of Hipparan, not frightened. He had done no harm, some of them appreciated his grace and splendor, and all appreciated a fine haul of fish to which he had guided them two days ago.
They still preferred to leave dealing with the dragon to their officers, among whom Pirvan and Haimya now ranked. As Grimsoar One-Eye put it, “The feeling is, the dragon’s done no harm so far. But why risk being too close when he changes his mind?”
This, Tarothin said, denied the basic concepts of good and evil. Grimsoar replied that the wizard might know a great deal about good and evil, even if he was neutral himself, but how much did he know about dragons? Or sailors, for that matter?
Tarothin departed in something of a temper, after this setdown at the hands of someone he had to force himself to respect. When matters seemed well with Haimya, Pirvan had tried to change the wizard’s mind, but lately he had no time to spare for this.
Haimya had returned to her old distance. Pirvan did not unreasonably regret the lost laying on of hands, and indeed was not sure who had won the bet. Nor did the warrior-maid return to the chilly manner that had made it hard for them to work together.
But their friendship seemed part of a distant past, like the elves’ Kinslayer Wars, a thing of legend. This worried Eskaia, and Pirvan had no idea how much Haimya had told her mistress and how much the young lady had guessed. Not much and quite a lot were Pirvan’s own guesses.
Unfortunately, he and Eskaia could not safely put their heads together and combine their knowledge in the hope of finding a solution. He had no such rights over Haimya, and neither did Eskaia, even if she might think otherwise. Such a well-meant conspiracy would most likely end with Haimya sundered from her mistress and disposed to geld Pirvan with a dull blade.
“Hoha, Pirvan Thief,” Hipparan said. “I have sighted a storm to the northwest. Its course seems toward this ship.”
That brought one of the faces, the mate of the deck, out in plain sight. “Can you tell us more?”
Hipparan described a storm fierce enough to make everyone within hearing look dubiously at one another, then up at the rigging. Golden Cup’s hull and belowdecks were sound enough to weather anything short of the end of the world, but its deck gear and rigging still had scars and weaknesses from the first blow. They would not have to worry much about shoals and reefs this far north, but Pirvan had heard that the storms blew longer and harder.
“Any magic in it?” Haimya asked. Pirvan saw eyes and mouths open, wanted to snap at her for her indiscretion, then realized that such discretion would require Hipparan’s cooperation. Haimya could whisper her question in the dark of the nightwatch, and still have it shouted from the masthead the next day if Hipparan was in the mood.
Besides, Pirvan wanted the question answered himself.
“How should I know?” Hipparan said. He sounded testy. “I flew along the storm front close enough to see clearly. At that distance, I sensed no spells. But if I had flown close enough to sense them, they might have caught me. Then where would we all be?”
Hipparan’s strength had improved. His manners had not. But everyone seemed to know the answer to his final question, and none seemed to like it.
Hipparan left his audience standing, and scrambled down into the hold. A party of sailors began dragging the hatch cover back into place.
“I hope our scaly friend doesn’t mind being a little stuffy when the gale hits,” the mate of the deck said. “I won’t have leaking hatches for all the dragons on Krynn.”
Pirvan wondered how many they might be now. He also wondered where Jemar was. Even Jemar’s own ship might make a difference to the quest; his whole squadron would almost ensure its success. Synsaga could not afford to lose the men and ships that a fight with Jemar would eat.
Haimya merely stared through him. The thief wandered to the railing and looked to the north. Faint and far off, riding high above the crimson sunset glow, he could see the wispy clouds that were so often the vanguard of a storm.
Chapter 13
Jemar the fair kept bis broad-brimmed hat on his head with one hand, but nothing could keep the breeze from making its feathers dance madly. A whitecap broke against Windsword’s side, and spray doused his face. He blinked his eyes clear and again counted the ships in the bay.
“I see only four ships.”
The first mate shrugged. “I won’t try to guess, until I see who’s missing. At least nobody seems to be burdened with a prize.”
“Some don’t call that a burden,” Jemar said. “No prizes at all can unsettle men faster than leaving ones they’ve taken.”
The mate shrugged again. Nearing thirty, he still had a boy’s love fo
r the romance of seafaring and not much respect for anyone who merely wanted to make a living on the great waters. He was worth his rations and shares many times over for the inspiration he gave the new recruits, but he needed to be brought down from the clouds every so often.
“Ahoy, the deck!” came the hail from the foretop. “I make out Youris, Geyon, Shilriya, and Zyrub.”
“Good watch,” Jemar shouted. “Double wine for you tonight.”
He turned to the mate. “Much as I expected. Nersha was complaining about that crack in the keel all last summer. I suspect she found she couldn’t really face the open sea in Blaze.”
“She could always have sailed and moved to another prize. A ship wouldn’t have to be much to be more seaworthy than Blaze. Or has she gone on piling up cabin furniture the way she used to? Perhaps she couldn’t find a ship large enough to carry-”
Jemar cleared his throat. “For all we know, that furniture is as precious to her as that set of jeweled earrings is to you.” The mate had the grace to flush slightly. Jemar grinned.
“It hardly matters, anyway. Five ships can give Synsaga enough of a fight to make him prefer talking, unless he’s lost his wits or found an entire dragonarmy.”
“Who knows what’s behind the rumors?” the mate said. “Besides, will all five ships be united?”
Jemar opened his mouth to rip the mate open like a reef tearing at a fishing boat for withholding information. Then he realized that the mate was merely looking on the dark side. He usually did when it came to the intrigues and schemes of a council of captains, which he hated with a holy passion.
“You don’t earn a mate’s rations and shares as a prophet of doom,” Jemar said shortly. “Right now, you earn them by having the longboat swung out and the decks manned for signaling and hospitality.”
“Aye, aye, Jemar,” the mate said. He moved off fast enough to ease the sea barbarian chief’s temper for the moment. However, he would have felt a trifle better if he hadn’t sent the second mate off with Golden Cup. It never hurt a man to know that there was someone to take his place if he opened his mouth too often at the wrong times.
