“Yes.” Hugh took the scabbard off the dead elf, thrust the sword into it. “The boy”-he jerked a thumb at Bane, who was standing mute, staring curiously at the corpse-“is the son of one Sinistrad, a mysteriarch.”
“How came such a child to be in your care?” The elf was looking at Bane thoughtfully. Bane, his pale face almost translucent, caught the elf’s gaze. Meeting the gray eyes, he smiled sweetly, bravely, and made a grave and graceful bow. The lieutenant was charmed.
Hugh’s face darkened. “Never mind. It’s not your affair. We were attempting to reach the High Realm when our ship was attacked by your people. We fought them off, but my ship was damaged and fell into the Maelstrom.”
“Your ship? Humans do not fly dragonships!”
“Humans named Hugh the Hand fly what they please.”
The elves murmured, the first sounds they had made since the commencement of the duel. The lieutenant nodded.
“I see. That explains much.”
Withdrawing a lace-edged piece of cloth from the pocket of his uniform, the elf used it to wipe blood from his sword blade, then slid the weapon into its sheath. “You are known to be a human of honor-rather peculiar honor, but honor nonetheless. If you will excuse me, humans, I have duties to perform now that I am captain of this vessel. Midshipman Ilth will show you to quarters.”
So might slaves be dismissed from the presence of the master, Haplo thought. The elf has chosen to side with us, but he has no love for us and apparently little respect. The elven midshipman motioned them to follow him.
Limbeck was kneeling beside the body of the dead elf.
“I was right,” he said when he felt Haplo’s hand on his shoulder. “They’re not gods.”
“No,” said Haplo. “They’re not. There are no gods in this world, as I’ve told you.”
Limbeck glanced about, looking very much as if he had lost something and hadn’t the vaguest idea where to begin searching for it. “Do you know,” he said after a moment, “I’m almost sorry.”
Following the midshipman off the bridge, Haplo heard one of the elves ask, “What do we do with the body, lieutenant? Throw it overboard?”
“No,” said the lieutenant. “He was an officer and his remains will be treated with respect. Place the body in the hold. We will stop in the Mid Realm and deposit it and the geir with it. And from now on, mate, you will address me as captain.”
The elf was moving swiftly to command his crew’s respect, knowing that he must knit up the threads of discipline he himself had unraveled. Haplo awarded the elf silent commendation, and accompanied the others below.
The young elf placed them in what Hugh said was the shipboard equivalent of a dungeon. The brig was bare and cheerless. There were hooks on the walls where hammocks could be slung up at night for sleeping. During the day, they were stowed away to leave enough space to move about. Small portholes provided a view of outside.
Having informed them that he would return with food and water once the ship was safely through the Maelstrom, the midshipman shut the door and they heard the bolt slide home.
“We’re prisoners!” cried Bane.
Hugh settled himself, crouching on his haunches, his back against a bulkhead. He appeared to be in a bad mood. Drawing his pipe out of his pocket, he clamped it between his teeth.
“You want to see prisoners, go take a look at the humans working below deck. They’re the reason he’s keeping us locked up. We could take over this ship if we freed the slaves, and he knows it.”
“Then let’s do it!” said Bane, his face flushed with excitement.
Hugh glowered at him. “You think you can fly this ship, Your Highness? Maybe like you flew mine, huh?”
Bane flushed in anger. Hand clutching the feather, the child swallowed his rage and marched across deck to glare out the portholes.
“And you trust him?” Alfred inquired somewhat anxiously. “This elf?”
“No more than he trusts me.” Hugh sucked moodily on the empty pipe.
“So are they converted or whatever happens to elves when they hear that song?” asked Haplo.
“Converted?” Hugh shook his head. “I don’t think so. Elves truly affected by that song lose all awareness of their surroundings. It’s as if they’ve been transported to another world. This elf’s doing what he’s doing for himself. The lure of the reputed wealth of the High Realm and the fact that no elves have ever dared travel up there is what’s drawing him.”
“Wouldn’t it occur to him that it would be easier just to toss us out into the storm and keep the kid for himself?”
“Yeah, maybe. But elves have a ‘peculiar’ honor. In some way-we’ll probably never know how-we did this elf a service by delivering his captain into his hands. His crew witnessed it. He’d lose standing in their eyes by slaughtering us just to make things easier on himself.”
“Honor, then, is important to the elves?”
“Important!” Hugh grunted. “They’d sell their souls for it, those souls the vultures don’t get first.”
Interesting to know. Haplo stored up the information. His lord was in the market for souls.
“So we’re taking a boatload of elven pirates up to the High Realm.” Alfred sighed, then began nervous fussing. “Your Highness, you must be tired. Let me put up one of these hammocks …” Tripping over a plank, the chamberlain sprawled facefirst on the deck.
“I’m not tired,” protested Bane. “And don’t worry about my father and these elves. My father’ll take care of them!”
“Don’t bother getting up,” suggested Hugh to the prostrate chamberlain. “We’ll be flying through the Maelstrom and then no one’ll be on his feet. Everyone sit down and brace yourself.”
Sound advice. Haplo could see the first storm clouds scudding past. Lightning flashed blindingly; thunder boomed. The ship began to pitch and buck. The Patryn relaxed in a corner. The dog curled up, nose to tail, at his feet. Alfred hunched miserably against the bulkhead and pulled a protesting Bane down by the seat of his pants.
Only Limbeck remained standing, staring entranced out the porthole.
“Limbeck,” said Haplo. “Sit down. It’s dangerous.”
“I can’t believe it,” murmured the Geg, without turning.
“There are no gods … and I am going to heaven.”
CHAPTER 43
DEEPSKY, MID REALM
LIEUTENANT BOTHAR-IN, NOW CAPTAIN BOTHAR’EL [19], SAILED THE DRAGONSHIP SAFELY through the Maelstrom. Keeping clear of encounters with other elven ships, he steered for the Aristagonian port town of Suthnas-a safe haven recommended by Hugh the Hand. Here he planned to stop briefly to take on food and water and to rid his ship of the geir, the former captain’s body, and the geir’s little box.
Hugh knew Suthnas well; he had put up there when his ship needed the magic strengthened or repairs. He gave the elf captain the name because he, the Hand, intended to leave the ship himself.
The assassin had made up his mind. He cursed the day he met that “king’s messenger.” He cursed the day he had saddled himself with this contract. Nothing had gone right; now he had lost his own dragonship, almost his life, and damn near his self-respect. His plan to capture the elven ship had worked, but like everything else he touched these days, not the way it was supposed to. He was to have been the captain, not this elf. Why had he let himself get caught up in that damn duel? Why hadn’t he just killed them both?
Hugh was shrewd enough to know that if he had fought, he and all the others would probably be dead right now. But he ignored the logic. He refused to admit that he had done what he had done in order to save lives, to protect Alfred, Limbeck … the prince.
No! I did it for myself. Not for anyone else. No one else matters and I’ll prove it. I’ll leave them, disembark at Suthnas, let these fools go on to the High Realm and take their chances with a mysteriarch. Forget it. I’ll write off my losses, toss in my cards, get up and leave the table.
The port of Suthnas was run by elves who
se purses meant more to them than politics, and it had become a haven for water smugglers, rebels, deserters, and a few renegade humans. The prisoners had a good view of the town from the porthole and most, after seeing it, decided they were better off where they were.
The town was nothing more than a squalid assemblage of inns and taverns built near the harbor; the homes of the town’s inhabitants bunched like a flock of sheep on the side of a coralite cliff. The buildings were shabby and run-down; a smell of cooked cabbage-an elven favorite-hung in the air, undoubtedly because mounds of it were rotting in the garbage-infested alleyways. But, because it stood in the sun, with blue sky above it, Suthnas was a beautiful and awe-inspiring sight to the Geg.
Limbeck had never seen streets drenched in sunlight, the firmament glittering like a million jewels in the sky above. He had never seen people strolling about aimlessly, not scurrying hither and yon on some business of the Kicksey-Winsey. He had never felt a gentle breeze upon his cheek or smelled the smells of living, growing things, or even things that were rotting and dying. The houses that Hugh told him were hovels seemed to the Geg to be palaces. Limbeck looked on all this splendor, and it came to him that what he saw had been bought and paid for by the sweat and blood of his people. The Geg’s face saddened, he became silent and withdrawn, and Haplo watched with a smile.
Hugh paced about the hold, staring out the portholes, fidgeting and inwardly fuming. Captain Bothar’el had given the assassin permission to leave if he wanted.
“You should all go,” the captain said. “Leave now, while you have the chance.”
“But we’re going to the High Realm! You promised!” Bane cried. “You promised,” he repeated, gazing up at the elf with pleading eyes.
“Yes,” said the elf, staring at the child. Shaking his head, as if to break a hold, he turned to Alfred. “And you?”
“I stay with my prince, of course.”
The elf turned to Limbeck, who, not understanding, looked at Haplo.
“I’m going to see the world, the whole world,” said the Geg firmly when he heard the translation. “After all, it exists because of my people.”
“I’m with him,” said the Patryn, smiling and jerking a bandage-wrapped thumb in the direction of the Geg.
“So,” said Bothar’el, turning to Hugh, “only you are leaving?”
“It looks that way.”
Hugh didn’t leave, however.
While they were docked, one of the midshipmen looked into the brig. “Are you still aboard, human? The captain is returning. You should go now, quickly.”
Hugh didn’t move.
“I wish you would come with us, Sir Hugh,” said Bane, “My father would like very much to meet you and… thank you.”
That cinched it. The kid wanted him. He’d leave right now. Right … now.
“Well, human?” demanded the midshipman. “Are you coming?”
Hugh fished around in a pocket, dragged out his last coin-payment for assassinating a child. Grunting, he tossed it at the elf. “I’ve decided to stay and find my fortune. Go buy me some tobacco.”
The elves did not linger long in Suthnas. Once the geir reached civilized lands, he would report the mutiny and the Carfa’shon would be sought by all the ships of the line. Once in deepsky, Captain Bothar’el worked the human slaves, the crew, and himself to the point of exhaustion until the ship was, he believed, safely beyond possible pursuit.
Hours later, when the Lords of Night had cast their cloak over the sun, the captain found time to speak to his “guests.”
“So, you heard the news,” were the captain’s first words, addressed to Hugh. “I want you to know that I could have made a nice profit off the lot of you, but I have a debt to repay to you. I consider at least part of it canceled.”
“Where’s my tobacco?” Hugh demanded.
“What news?” asked Alfred.
The captain raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know? I assumed that was the reason you didn’t leave the ship.” He tossed a pouch in the assassin’s direction.
Hugh caught it handily, opened it, and sniffed. Removing his pipe, he began filling it.
“There’s a reward out for your head, Hugh the Hand.”
Hugh grunted. “Nothing new.”
“A total of two hundred thousand barls.”
The Hand looked up and whistled. “Now, that’s a fine price. This has to do with the kid?” His glance shifted to Bane. The child had begged pen and paper from the elves and had done nothing but draw ever since he came on board. No one interfered with his latest amusement. It was safer than letting him pick berries.
“Yes. You and this man”-the elf gestured at Alfred-“are reported to have kidnapped the prince of Volkaran. There is a price of one hundred thousand barls on your head,” he said to the horrified chamberlain, “two hundred thousand for Hugh the Hand, and the reward is good only if one or both are brought in alive.”
“What about me?” Bane raised his head. “Isn’t there any reward for me?”
“Stephen doesn’t want you back,” Hugh growled.
The prince appeared to consider this, then giggled. “Yes, I guess you’re right,” he said, and returned to his work.
“But this is impossible!” cried Alfred. “I … I am His Highness’s servant! I came with him to protect him-“
“Exactly,” said Hugh. “That’s just what Stephen didn’t want.”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Captain Bothar’el. “I hope, for your sakes, you are being honest about the High Realm. I need money to run this ship and pay my crew and I’ve just passed up a lot.”
“Of course it’s true!” cried Bane, lower lip thrust forward in a charming pout. “I am the son of Sinistrad, Mysteriarch of the Seventh House. My father will reward you well!”
“He had better!” said the captain.
The elf glanced around sternly at his prisoners, then stalked out of the hold. Bane, looking after him, laughed and returned to his scribbling.
“I can never go back to Volkaran!” murmured Alfred. “I’m an exile.”
“You’re dead unless we can figure some way out of this,” said Hugh, lighting his pipe with a coal from the small magepot they used to heat their food and to keep themselves warm at night.
“But Stephen wants us alive.”
“Only so that he can have the pleasure of killing us himself.”
Bane, looking up at him, smiled slyly. “So if you had gone out there, someone would have recognized you and turned you in. You stayed because of me, didn’t you? I saved your life.”
Hugh made no comment, preferring to pretend that he hadn’t heard. He relapsed into a brooding, thoughtful silence. When his pipe went out, he didn’t notice.
Coming back to himself sometime later, he noted that everyone-except Alfred-had fallen asleep. The chamberlain was standing beside the porthole, gazing out into night’s gray gloom. The Hand, rising to stretch his stiff legs, wandered over.
“What do you make of this fellow Haplo?” Hugh asked.
“Why?” Alfred jumped, stared at the assassin fearfully. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Calm down. I just wanted to know what you made of him, that’s all.”
“Nothing! I make nothing of him at all! If you will excuse me, sir,” Alfred interrupted when Hugh would have spoken, “I’m very tired. I must get some sleep.”
Now what was that all about? The chamberlain returned to his blanket. He lay down, but Hugh, watching him, saw that Alfred was far from sleep. He lay stiff and rigid, rubbing his hands, tracing unseen lines upon the skin. His face could have been a mask in a play called Terror and Misery.
Hugh could almost pity him.
Almost, but not quite. No, the walls Hugh’d built around himself were still standing, still strong and unbroken. There had been a tiny crack, letting in a ray of light-harsh and painful to eyes accustomed to darkness. But he’d blocked it up, covered it over. Whatever hold the child had on him was magic-something bey
ond the assassin’s control, at least until they came to the High Realm. Retreating to a corner of his cell, Hugh relaxed and went to sleep.
The flight to the High Realm took the elven dragonship almost two weeks, far longer than it should have, according to Captain Bothar’el’s calculations. What he hadn’t calculated on was that his crew and slaves all tired far too quickly. Magical spells cast by the ship’s wizard enabled them to withstand the reduced air pressure, but he could do nothing to relieve the thinness of the air that left them always feeling as if they were short of breath.
The elven crew grew nervous, sullen, and uneasy. It was eerie, flying through the vast and empty sky. Above them, the firmament glittered and sparkled brightly by day, glistened with a pale sheen at night. Even the most gullible person aboard could see that the mysterious firmament was not made of jewels floating in the heavens.
“Chunks of ice,” announced Captain Bothar’el, studying it through the spyglass.
“Ice?” The second in command appeared almost relieved. “That’s stopped us, then, hasn’t it, captain, sir? We can’t fly through ice. We might as well turn back.”
“No.” Bothar’el snapped his spyglass shut. It seemed he was answering himself, replying to some inner argument rather than to the words of his mate. “We’ve come this far. The High Realm is up here somewhere. We’re going to find it.”
“Or die trying,” said the second in command, but he said it to himself.
On they sailed, higher and higher, drawing nearer the firmament that hung spanning the sky like a monstrous radiant necklace. They saw no sign of life of any type, let alone a land where dwelt the most highly skilled of human magi.
The air grew colder. They were forced to wear every article of clothing they possessed, and even then it was difficult to keep warm. The crew began to mutter among themselves that this was mad folly, they would all perish up here, either of the cold or stranded in deepsky, lacking the strength to fly back.
Dragon Wing (The Death Gate Cycle #1) Page 36
