CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
AN ULTIMATUM
ALTHEA WAS NOT GRACIOUS ABOUT LEAVING THE FOREDECK. She had seen the oncoming sails, and her fears for Vivacia battled with her hopes of Kennit’s defeat. Wintrow’s urgent pleas went unheeded until Vivacia herself turned to her. “Althea. Please go below. This might be my chance to strike a bargain with Kennit. It will be easier for me if you are not present.” Althea had scowled, but left the foredeck, Jek trailing after her.
Wintrow made a hasty side trip to the galley, to cobble together a large tray of food and drink. By the time he reached the cabin, Althea and Malta were already facing one another across the room. The Satrap had thrown himself onto the bunk and was staring at the wall. Jek sat morosely in the corner. Malta was furious. “I don’t understand why either of you would take his part. He pirated our liveship, killed her crew and holds my father captive.”
“You are not listening,” Althea said coldly. “I despise Kennit. All the assumptions you have made are false.”
Wintrow clashed the tray down onto the small table. “Eat and drink something. All of you. Then talk, one at a time.”
The Satrap rolled to look at the table. His eyes were red. Wintrow wondered if he had been weeping silently. His voice was choked with an emotion, possibly outrage. “Is this another of Kennit’s humiliations for me? I am expected to eat here, in these crowded circumstances, in the company of common folk?”
“Magnadon Satrap, it is no worse than sharing a table with pirates. Or eating alone in your room. Come. You must eat if you are to keep up your strength.”
Wintrow and Althea exchanged incredulous looks at Malta’s solicitous tone. Witnessing this, Wintrow felt suddenly uncomfortable. Were they lovers? His aunt’s admission had made all sorts of unthinkable things possible. “I’m going up on deck, to see what is happening. I’ll try to bring back word to you.” He hastened from the room.
The Jamaillian ships drew ever closer, spreading out as they came. Their obvious strategy was to bar his way south and surround him. The ships on the wings of the formation had picked up their speed. If he was going to flee, he must turn tail soon, before the Jamaillians could close their net. This was no time for talk, but the liveship spoke anyway.
“Kennit. You cannot question my loyalty to you. But my serpents grow weary. They need food and rest. More than anything else, they need me to lead them home soon.”
“Of course they do.” Kennit heard the haste in his own voice and tried to change his tone. “Believe me, sweet sea lady, your concerns are my own. We, you and I, shall see them safely home. I shall give you the time you have asked me to give you, that you may watch over them. Immediately after this.”
One of the smaller ships separated from the fleet and came on. No doubt, it would hail them soon. Kennit needed to be ready, not engaged in conversation. The opportunity for complete victory was as large as the danger of complete failure. If the serpents did not help him, his three ships stood small chance against such a fleet.
“What do you ask of us?” Vivacia asked wearily.
Kennit did not like the sound of that. He tried to change it. “We will ask them to subdue this fleet for us. It would take little effort from them. Their presence alone may be enough to persuade the ships to surrender. Once we show the Jamaillians that we have the Satrap, I suspect we’ll gain their full cooperation. Then the serpents would escort us as we journey to Jamaillia City, in a show of force. Once the Satrap and his nobles have conceded to the terms of our treaty, why then, we will be free to follow our hearts. I will summon every vessel at my command. We will protect and guide the serpents on their journey home.”
Vivacia’s face had grown graver as he spoke. Desperation came into her eyes as she slowly shook her head. “Kennit. Bolt in her rashness made you offers that we cannot keep. Forgive me, but it is so. The serpents do not have that sort of time. Their lives begin to dwindle within them. We must go soon. Tomorrow, if we can.”
“Tomorrow?” Kennit suddenly felt as if the deck were falling away from him. “Impossible. I would have to let the Satrap go, release him to his own ships, and then flee like a dog with its tail between its legs. Vivacia, it would destroy all we have worked for, just when our goal is within our grasp.”
“I could ask the serpents to help you this last time. After the fleet concedes to you, you could take the Satrap onto the Marietta. Have the Motley carry the word to Divvytown, and have it dispersed from there that all your ships are to join you on your journey south. That would be as impressive as weary and dying serpents.” She stopped the sarcasm that had crept into her voice. “Let Wintrow and Althea take me north, with my serpents. They could stay with me while I keep watch over the cocoons, freeing you to firm your kingship. I vow I would return to you by high summer, Kennit.”
She spoke her treachery aloud to him. Here, at the pinnacle of his need for her, she would leave him, to return to her Bingtown family. He cursed himself silently for not heeding Bolt. He never should have brought Althea on board. He gripped his crutch and forced calmness on himself. The terrible plummet from dawning triumph to imminent disaster choked him.
“I see,” he managed to say. Behind him, the mood on the deck was jubilant. Unaware of her betrayal, his crew exchanged rough jests as they eagerly awaited the encounter. The ostentatious Captain Red had spread wide the news of Kennit’s negotiations. All expected him to succeed. To fail now, so publicly, was unthinkable.
“Help me as you can today,” he suggested. He refused to think he begged. “And tomorrow will have to take care of itself.”
A strange look passed over Vivacia’s face, like anticipated pain. She closed her wide green eyes for an instant. When she opened them, her gaze was distant. “No, Kennit,” she said softly. “Not unless you give me your word that tomorrow we take the serpents north. That is the price for them helping you today.”
“Of course.” He did not think about the lie. She knew him too well. If he paused to consider it, she would know the falsehood. “You have my word, Vivacia. If it is that important to you, it is important to me as well.” Tomorrow, as he had told her, would have to take care of itself. He would deal with the consequences then. He watched the single ship separate itself from the Jamaillian fleet and come toward him. Soon it would be within hailing distance.
“CAN YOU SEE ANYTHING?” JEK ASKED.
Althea, her forehead pressed to the porthole, did not answer. This tiny, expensive window had been a major indulgence from her father. The rest of her room had changed, but she could not touch this without thinking of him. What would her father think of her now? She burned with shame. This was her family’s ship, and here she was, hiding belowdecks while a pirate negotiated from her deck. “What is going on out there?” she wondered aloud. “What is he saying to them?”
The door opened and Wintrow entered, cheeks red from the wind. He began speaking immediately. “The Jamaillians challenged our passage. Kennit called himself King of the Pirate Isles and demanded they give way. They refused. He returned that he had the Satrap aboard and that the Satrapy had recognized him as the legitimate King of the Pirate Isles. They scoffed at him, saying the Satrap was dead. Kennit replied that the Satrap was very much alive, and that he was taking him to Jamaillia to restore him to his throne. They demanded proof. He shouted back that the proof they would get, they would not like. Then they offered to let him leave if he first surrendered the Satrap to them. He replied he was not a fool.
“Now the Jamaillian negotiating ship has pulled back. Kennit has said they may have time to think, but warns them to stand where they are. All wait to see who will make the next move.”
“Waiting. More waiting,” Althea ground out the word. “Surely he won’t sit still and wait while they surround us. The only logical course is to flee.” Then she stared at the Satrap. “This is true, what Kennit says? You have recognized him as king? How could you be so stupid?”
“It’s complicated,” Malta flung back at her while the indignant Satrap glared. “He would have been more stupid to refuse.” In a lower voice, she added, “We took our only chance at survival. But I don’t expect you to understand that.”
“How could I?” Althea retorted. “I still don’t know how you even came to be here, let alone with the Satrap of Jamaillia.” She took a breath. She evened her tone. “As long as we are stuck here and must wait, why don’t you tell me how you came to be here. How did you leave Bingtown at all?”
MALTA DID NOT WANT TO SPEAK FIRST. A TINY MOTION OF HER eyes toward the Satrap cued Wintrow to her reluctance. Althea did not notice it. Her aunt had never been one for subtleties. She scowled at Malta’s reticence, and Malta was relieved when Wintrow interfered. “I was the first to leave Bingtown. Althea knows a bit of what I’ve been through, but Malta knows nothing. Althea is right. As we must wait, let’s use the time wisely. I’ll tell my travels first.” His eyes were both sympathetic and shamed as he added, “I know you are anxious for news of our father. I wish I had more to tell.”
He launched into an honest but brief account of all that had passed. Malta felt incredulous when he spoke of being tattooed as a slave at her father’s command. What had become of the tattoo, then? She bit her tongue to keep from calling him a liar. His tale of their father’s disappearance was as incredible as the story of rescuing a serpent. When he told of how the ship had cured him and erased the scar, she was skeptical but kept silent.
Althea’s face betrayed that she had not heard a full accounting of Wintrow’s journey. She, at least, looked perfectly willing to believe that Kyle Haven was capable of anything. When Wintrow spoke of his father’s disappearance at Kennit’s hands, she only shook her head. Jek, the hulking Six Duchies woman, listened attentively, as if she appreciated a good yarn. Meanwhile, beside Malta, the Satrap ate and drank, with no concern for the others. Before Wintrow had finished speaking, the Satrap had claimed the bunk and turned to face the wall.
When Wintrow finally ran out of words, Althea looked at her expectantly. But Malta suggested, “Let us tell our stories in order. You left Bingtown next.”
ALTHEA CLEARED HER THROAT. WINTROW’S SIMPLE TELLING HAD moved her more than she was willing to show. Decisions she had faulted him for were now made clear. Truly, she should have allowed him to speak of this before. She owed him an apology. Later. Given what he had gone through with Kennit, it was no wonder he had sided with the man. It was understandable, if not forgivable. She realized she was staring silently at him. His face had reddened. She looked aside and sought order for her own thoughts. There was so much she did not wish to share with these youngsters. Did she owe Malta the truth about her relationship with Brashen? She would give them, she decided, the facts, not her feelings. Those belonged only to her.
“Malta will remember the day we left Bingtown on Paragon. The ship handled well, and the sailing was good for the first few days, but—”
“Wait,” Wintrow dared interrupt his aunt. “Go back to the last time I saw you, and tell me from there. I wish to hear it all.”
“VERY WELL,” ALTHEA CONCEDED GRUFFLY. FOR A TIME, SHE looked at the sky outside the porthole. Wintrow could see her deciding how much to share with him. When she spoke, she told things in a bare, bald way, her voice becoming dispassionate as she approached more recent events. Perhaps it was the only way she could speak of them. She did not look at Wintrow, but spoke directly to Malta of the sinking of Paragon with all hands, including Brashen Trell. In a cold flat voice, she spoke of her rape. Wintrow lowered his eyes, shocked by the flare of both understanding and hatred in Malta’s eyes. He did not interrupt her. He kept his peace until she said, “Of course, no one aboard believes me. Kennit has impressed them all with his gentlemanly ways. Even my own ship doubts me.”
Wintrow’s throat and mouth were dry. “Althea. I don’t doubt you.” They were among the most painful words he had ever spoken.
The look she gave him near broke his heart. “You never spoke out for me,” she accused him.
“It would have done no good.” The words sounded cowardly, even to himself. He lowered his eyes and said honestly, “I believe you because Etta told me she believed you. That was why she left the ship. Because she could not live as witness to what he had done. Sa help me, I remained, but kept silent.”
“Why?” The flat, one-word question came not from his aunt but his sister. He forced himself to meet Malta’s eyes.
“I know Kennit,” he found himself saying. The truth he acknowledged now cut him. “He has done good things, even great things. But one reason he could do them was because he does not bind himself by rules.” His eyes went from Malta’s doubting face to Althea’s frozen one. “He accomplished much good,” he said softly. “I wanted to be part of that. So I followed him. And I looked aside from the evil things he did. I became very good at ignoring that which I could not countenance. Until finally, when the evil was directed at one of my own blood, it was still easier not to avow it aloud.” His voice had become a whisper. “Even now, to admit it makes me . . . part of it. That is the most difficult part. I wanted to share in the glory he gained for the good he did. But if I claim that, then—”
“You can’t play in shit and not get some on you,” Jek observed succinctly from her corner. She reached up to set a large hand on Althea’s knee. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.
Shame burned in him. “I am sorry, too, Althea. So sorry. Not only that he did this to you, but that you suffered my silence.”
“We have to kill him,” Jek continued when neither Althea nor Malta spoke. “I see no alternative.”
For an icy moment, Wintrow supposed she spoke of him. Althea shook her head slowly. Tears stood in her eyes but did not spill. “I’ve thought about that. At first, I thought about little else. I would do it in an instant, if I could do it without injuring the ship. Before I take that step, she must see him for what he is. Wintrow. Are you willing to help me with that? To make Vivacia see him as he truly is?”
Wintrow lifted his chin. “I must. Not for you, not for the ship. For myself. I owe myself that honesty.”
“But what of Father?” Malta demanded in a low agonized voice. “Althea, I beg you, consider that. If not for his children, for Keffria, your sister. Whatever you think of Kyle, please do not endanger my father’s return to us. Hold back your hand from Kennit, for at least that long—”
A LONG LOW SOUND SUDDENLY TRAVELED THROUGH THE SHIP. Althea heard it with her ears, but her bones shook with the sound. A meaning she could almost grasp ran along her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She forgot all else, reaching after it.
“It’s Vivacia,” Wintrow said needlessly.
Malta got a distant look. “She calls the serpents,” she said softly.
Althea stared at Malta, as did Wintrow. Her eyes were wide and dark.
In the silence that followed, a long snore sounded from the Satrap’s bunk. Malta jerked as if awakening, then gave a small sour laugh. “It sounds as if I may now speak freely, without interruptions, corrections and accusations of treachery.” To Althea’s surprise, Malta swiped at sudden tears, smearing the paint from her face. She drew a shuddering breath. Then she tugged off her gloves, revealing hands scalded scarlet. She snatched her headwrap off and threw it down. A shocking ridge of bright red scar began high on her brow and stood up well into her hairline. “Get the staring part over with,” she ordered them in a harsh hopeless voice. “And then I will speak. . . .” Her voice broke suddenly. “There is so much. What happened to me is the least of it. Bingtown is destroyed; when last I saw it, fires smoldered and fighting was widespread.”
Althea watched her niece as she spoke. Malta spared them nothing. Her tale was in its details, but she spoke swiftly, the words tumbling from her lips, her voice soft. Althea felt the tears run down her cheeks at news of Davad Restart’s death; the strength of her reaction surprised her, but what followed left her numbed and reeling. The rumors of unrest in Bingtown were suddenly a personal disaster. She was devastated when she realized Malta had no idea if her grandmother or Selden still lived.
Malta spoke of Bingtown and Trehaug with detachment, an old woman telling quaint stories of her vanished youth. Emotionlessly, she told her brother of her arranged marriage to Reyn Khuprus, of fleeing to his family in Trehaug when Bingtown fell, of the curiosity that had drawn her into the buried city and the quake that had nearly claimed her life. Once, Malta would have made an extravagance of such a tale, but now she simply recounted it. When Malta spoke of Reyn, Althea suspected the young Rain Wilder had won her niece’s heart. Personally, she felt Malta was still too young to make such decisions.
Yet as Malta spoke on, her voice hushed and hurrying through her days with the Satrap, Althea realized the girl faced the world as a woman. Her experiences aboard the galley left Althea shuddering. Malta laughed, a terrible sound, at how her disfigurement had preserved her from worse treatment. By the time Malta finished, Althea loathed the Satrap, yet understood the value Malta placed on him. She doubted he would keep his promises to her, but it impressed Althea that even in her time of danger, Malta had thought of her home and family and done all she could for them.
Truly, the girl had grown up. Althea recalled ashamedly that she had once felt that some hardship would improve Malta. Undoubtedly she had been improved, but the cost had been high. The skin on her hands looked as coarse as a chicken’s foot. The cicatrix on her head was a monstrous thing, shocking in both color and size. But beyond the physical scarring, she sensed a dulling of her high spirits. The girlchild’s elaborate dreams of a romantic future had been replaced with a woman’s determination to survive tomorrow. It felt like a loss to Althea.
“At least you are with us now,” Althea offered her when Malta finished. She had wanted to say, “Safe with us,” but Malta was no longer a little girl to be cozened with falsehoods.
“I wonder for how long,” Malta replied miserably. “For where he goes, I must follow, until I am sure he is safely restored to power, and that he will keep his word to me. Otherwise, all this has been for nothing. Yet, if I leave you here, will I ever see you again? Althea, at least, must find a way to get off this ship and away from Kennit.”
Althea shook her head with a sad smile. “I cannot leave my ship with him, Malta,” she said quietly. “No matter what.”
Malta turned aside from her. Her chin trembled for an instant, but then she spoke harshly. “The ship. Always the ship, distorting our family, demanding every sacrifice. Have you ever imagined how different our lives would have been if Great-great-grandmother had never bargained our lives away for this thing?”
“No.” Althea’s voice went cold. She could not help it. “Despite all, I do not begrudge her anything.”
“She has made a slave of you,” Malta observed bitterly. “Blind to all else.”
“Oh, no. Never that.” Althea tried to find words to express it. “In her lies my true freedom.” But did it? Those words had once been true, but Vivacia had changed. She and the ship no longer completed one another. A tiny traitor portion of her mind recalled her stolen day with Brashen in Divvytown. If he had lived, would she have been able to say such words? Did she cling to Vivacia because she was all that was left to her?
The whole ship suddenly reverberated with the trumpeting of serpents. “They come,” Malta whispered.
“It would be safest for all of you if you stayed here,” Wintrow announced. “I’ll find out what is going on.”
KENNIT STOOD ON THE FOREDECK, RELIEF COURSING THROUGH his body. The serpents were coming. He had spoken boldly to the envoy from the fleet, wondering all the while if the serpents would aid him. When he granted the Jamaillians time to confer, he was secretly stealing time for Vivacia to persuade the serpents. When first Vivacia had called them, the water about the ship had boiled with the serpents, but they had dispersed suddenly, and for a time, he feared that they had forsaken him. The Jamaillian ship rejoined its fleet and boats from the other vessels converged on it. Time dragged for Kennit. There, across the water, men discussed strategy to crush him while he waited docilely on his foredeck in the biting wind.
After a time, the Jamaillian boats returned to their ships. He had not dared ask Vivacia what was happening. His crew had come to the ready and now waited. The anticipation aboard the ship was palpable. Kennit knew every pirate waited to see the serpents suddenly flash toward the fleet. At a distance, he would see a sudden turmoil of serpents and hear their muted calls. But none came near. Soon he would have to make a decision: stand and confront the Jamaillian fleet, or flee. If he fled, the fleet would certainly give chase. Even if they didn’t believe he held the Satrap, the odds against him were too great for the Jamaillians to resist. His piracy and his destruction of the slave trade would rankle with all of them.
Then, with a suddenness that roused whoops of delight from his crew, a forest of serpent heads on supple necks rose suddenly around the Vivacia. They spoke to the ship, and she answered in their tongue. After a time, she glanced at him. He drew close to her to hear her soft words to him.
“They are divided,” Vivacia warned him quietly. “Some say they are too weary. They will save their strength for themselves. Others say, this last time, they will aid you. But if we do not take them north tomorrow, all will leave without us. If I fail to keep my word—” She paused before stiffly resuming, “Some talk of killing me before they leave. Dismembering me and devouring the wizardwood parts of me for my memories might be helpful to them.”
It had never occurred to him that the serpents might turn on Vivacia. If they did, he could not save her. He would have to flee on the Marietta, and hope the serpents did not pursue them.
“We’ll take them north tomorrow,” he confirmed to her.
She murmured something that might have been agreement.
Kennit considered only briefly. Tomorrow, this weapon might no longer be his to control. He would wield it one last time, in a way that would become the stuff of legend. He would break Jamaillia’s sea power while he had the strength to do so. “Attack them,” he commanded flatly. “Show no mercy until I say otherwise.”
He sensed a moment of indecision from Vivacia. Then she lifted her arms and sang in that unearthly voice to the gathered serpents. The maned heads turned toward the fleet and stared. As silence fell, the serpents surged forward, living arrows flying toward their targets.
The serpents flashed and glittered as they streamed toward the oncoming ships. Only about a third of them went. Those that remained were impressive, he told himself, flanking his ship like an honor guard. He became aware of Wintrow behind him.
“I did not send as many this time,” Kennit hastily told him. “No sense in risking sinking the ships, as they did with Paragon.”
“And safer for the serpents as well,” Wintrow observed. “They will be more spread out, and harder to hit.”
This had not occurred to him. Kennit watched the phalanx of serpents. Perhaps no other human eye could have discerned that they did not move as swiftly as they once had, or swim as powerfully. Even their colors were less jewel-like. Truly, the serpents were failing. Those who surrounded his ship still confirmed his fears. Once-gleaming eyes and scales had dulled. Rags of skin hung from a maroon serpent’s neck as if it had tried to slough its skin but failed. No matter, he told himself. No matter. If they would get him through this final battle, he would have no further need of them. He had pirated well before the serpents allied with him. He could do so again.
The decks of the oncoming Jamaillian ships teemed with activity as war machines were readied against the advancing creatures. Human shouts mingled suddenly with serpent calls. The smaller ships released volleys of arrows. Rocks arced over the glittering water, finishing in silvery splashes as several large ships released their catapults. By the sheerest luck, they struck a serpent on the first volley. Harsh cheers of triumph rose from the Jamaillian ship. The injured creature, a skinny green serpent, shrilly trumpeted its pain. The other serpents flocked to its cries. Its long body wallowed on the surface, sending up sprays of silver water as it thrashed.
“Broke its back,” Wintrow harshly whispered. His eyes were narrowed in pained sympathy.
The figurehead gave a low moan and dropped her face into her hands. “My fault,” she whispered. “He lived so long and came so far, to die this way? My fault. Oh, Tellur, I am so sorry.”
Before the green serpent sank out of sight, the rest of the serpents left Vivacia’s side. The purposeful wave of creatures cut the water in a multitude of wakes as they sliced toward the oncoming ships. On board the threatened ships, crews worked frantically, rewinding and reloading the catapults. The serpents no longer roared. The shouts of the frightened humans carried clearly across the water. Beside him, Kennit heard Wintrow draw in a deep breath. A deep mutter swelled behind him. Kennit glanced over his shoulder. His crew had halted in their tasks. They were transfixed in the anticipation of horror.
They were not to be disappointed.
The serpents encircled the ship that had fired the successful shot. The long-necked serpents reminded him of the closing tendrils of a sea anemone. Roaring and spraying venom, they engulfed the ship. The canvas melted from the masts, and then rigging tumbled to the deck like an armful of kindling. The shrill screams of the crew were a brief accompaniment to the serpents’ roars. Then the larger serpents threw themselves across its deck like living heaving-lines. Their great weight and thrashing coils bore the ship under, where it swiftly broke apart.
From behind Kennit came hushed exclamations of awe and horror. Kennit himself could vividly imagine how Vivacia could come apart in their coils.
As the Jamaillian ships retreated from the serpents’ victim, they continued a hail of stones. The serpents snatched up the drowning crewmen and devoured them, then turned their attention to the other ships. Several vessels sought to flee, but it was already too late for that. The serpents spread throughout the fleet, as yielding but capturing as a bed of kelp. The efforts of the creatures were divided now, the results not as swift. Serpents circled the ships, spraying venom. Some of the larger serpents resorted to ramming. One ship lost its sails. Another serpent was hit. It screamed furiously, and lunged at the ship before falling away lifelessly. That ship became a target for the surviving serpents’ concentrated fury.
“Call them back,” Wintrow pleaded in a low voice.
“Why?” Kennit asked conversationally. “If we were in their hands and dying, do you think they would be seized with sudden mercy for us?”
“Please, Vivacia! Call them back!” Wintrow cried out to the ship herself.
Vivacia shook her great head slowly. Kennit’s heart soared to find her so loyal to him, but then in a mutter meant only for Kennit and Wintrow, she slew the pirate’s dream.
“I cannot. They are beyond anyone’s control now. They are in a frenzy, driven as much by despair as revenge. I fear that when they are finished, they will turn on me.”
Wintrow’s face paled. “Should we flee now? Can we outrun them?”
Kennit knew they could not. He chose to put a brave face on it. Well, at least no one would outlive him to tell any tales. He clapped Wintrow on the shoulder. “Trust the luck, Wintrow. Trust the luck. All will be well. Sa did not bring me through all this to leave me serpent bait at the end.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Signal Sorcor on the Marietta. Tell him to send Etta back to me.”
“Now? In the midst of all this?” Wintrow was horrified.
Kennit laughed aloud. “There’s no pleasing you, is there? You told me that Etta belonged at my side. I’ve decided you’re right. She should be beside me, especially on a day like this. Signal Sorcor.”
TINY CHALCEDEAN GALLEYS FLANKED A SAILING SHIP ON THE seas below them.
“Shall we liven up their day?” Tintaglia suggested in a low rumble.
“Please, no,” Reyn groaned. The deep bruises on his chest made even breathing painful. The last thing he wanted was to be shaken in her clutches as she swooped and darted above the ships. He felt a shudder of anticipation run through her and groaned, but she did not dive on the ship.
“Did you hear that?” she demanded.
“No. What?” he demanded, but instead of answering, her great wings stroked with a sudden energy. The ocean and the ships upon it receded beneath him. He shut his eyes as she beat her way higher still. When he dared to open them again, the ocean below them was a rippling fabric, the islands scattered toys. He could not get his breath. “Please,” he begged dizzily.
She did not reply. Instead, she caught a cold current of air with her wings and hung there. He closed his eyes and endured miserably. “There!” she cried out suddenly. He did not have the breath to ask her what. They tipped and went sliding down the sky. The cold wind bit to his bones. Just when he thought he could be no more miserable, Tintaglia gave vent to an ear-shattering scream. The sound rang in his ears even as his small human soul was consumed by her mental shout of triumph. “See them! There they are!”
“SOMETHING’S HAPPENED!” ALTHEA ANNOUNCED TO THE others in the room. “The serpents cease their attack. They all turn their heads.” She stared out of the small porthole. She could see a small segment of the battle, but by it she judged the whole. Of the five ships she could see, all had taken damage. On one, sails drooped in tatters and there was little deck activity. It would never see port again. The serpents had broken the fleet’s formation and scattered them, forcing each ship to battle individually. Now the serpents had suddenly ceased their attacks and stared up at the sky with their huge gleaming eyes.
“What?” Malta asked anxiously, sitting up straight.
Jek gave up her vigil at the door. “Let me see,” she demanded, coming to the porthole. Althea ducked out of her way and stepped to the middle of the room. She reached overhead to put her hands flat to a beam. “I wish I were more closely linked to Vivacia. I wish I could see with her eyes, as I once did.”
“What does she feel? Wait! Where are all the serpents going?” Jek demanded.
“She feels too much. Fear and anxiety and sorrow. Are the serpents leaving?”
“They’re going somewhere,” Jek replied. She turned away from the porthole with an impatient snort. “Why are we staying in here? Let’s go out on the deck and see.”
“Might as well,” Althea replied grimly.
“Wintrow said we’d be safer here,” Malta reminded them. She lifted her hands suddenly to her head as if even the thought of venturing onto the deck pained her.
“I don’t think he expected things to go this way,” Althea replied reassuringly. “I think we should find out what is happening.”
“I demand that you all remain here!” the Satrap shouted suddenly. He sat up, his face creased with anger. “I will not be abandoned! As my subjects, you owe me loyalty. Remain here, to protect me as necessary.”
A grin twisted Jek’s mouth. “Sorry, little man. I’m not your subject, and even if I were, I’d still go up to the deck. But if you want to come with us, I’ll watch your back for you.”
Malta dropped her hands from her face. She drew a sudden breath through her gaping mouth, then announced, “We have to get to the deck. Right now! Tintaglia comes! The dragon calls to the serpents.”
“What? A dragon?” Althea demanded incredulously.
“I can feel her.” Wonder was in Malta’s voice. She jumped to her feet, her dark eyes growing ever larger. “I can feel the dragon. And hear her! Just as you can know things through the ship. Don’t doubt me, Althea. This is true.” Then she paled, her wonder turning to despair. “And Reyn is with her. He comes, all this way, seeking me. Me!” She lifted a hand to cover her mouth and her face crumpled.
“Don’t be frightened,” Althea said gently.
The girl hunched on her chair. Her fingertips prodded the ridged scar on her brow. She dropped her hands away as if burned, then stared at her claw-like fingers. “No,” she whispered. “No, it’s not fair.”
“What is the matter with her?” the Satrap demanded disdainfully. “Is she ill? If she is ill, I wish her taken away.”
Althea knelt beside her niece. “Malta?” What ailed the girl? “Stop.” The word was as much command as plea. Malta pushed herself ponderously to her feet. She moved as if she were made of separate pieces, none of which fit together very well. Her eyes were flat. She picked up her headwrap from the table, looked at it, then let it fall from her fingers. “It doesn’t matter.” Her voice was distant, impartial. “This is who I am now. But . . .” She let her thought die away. She walked toward the door as if she were entirely alone. As she passed through it, Jek held it wide for her. The Six Duchies woman gave Althea a quizzical look. “Are you coming?”
“Of course,” Althea murmured. She suddenly grasped what her mother must have felt down the years, wanting good things for her daughters, but so powerless to make them go well. It was a sickening feeling.
“Halt! What about me? You cannot leave me here, unattended,” the Satrap protested angrily.
“Well, hustle along then, little man, or be left behind,” Jek told him. But she did hold the door for him, Althea noted.
KENNIT STARED UP, AWARE THAT HE GAPED BUT UNABLE TO DO anything about it. He was dimly aware that Vivacia gazed upward also, her hands clasped before her bosom as if she prayed. Beside him, Wintrow did pray, not a prayer for mercy, as Kennit might have expected, but instead a joyful flow of words that celebrated the wonder of Sa. The boy sounded as if he were chanting in a trance. “The wonder, the glory is yours, Creator Sa. . . .” He could not tell if Wintrow mouthed familiar words or if the majesty of the creature above them had spurred him to spontaneous worship.
The dragon circled again, blue scales glinting to silver as the winter sunlight ran along its flanks. Again, it gave cry. When the dragon spoke, Kennit felt Vivacia’s response. A terrible deep yearning ran through the ship and infected him. She longed to move that freely through the sky, to soar and dip and circle at her own pleasure. It put the ship in mind of all she was not, and never would be. Despair like poison seeped through her.
The serpents had ceased their attack on the Jamaillian ships and swarmed in the open sea. Some were near motionless, heads raised high, great eyes spinning as they stared aloft. Others frolicked and cavorted as if their antics could attract the dragon’s attention. The Jamaillian fleet had seized this opportunity. From certain death, they grasped at survival. One smaller vessel was sinking, her decks awash. Her crew was abandoning her for another ship. On other decks, men sought to make order out of chaos and disaster. They cut fallen rigging free and threw canvas overboard. Yet even there, despite all they had endured, men shouted and pointed at the dragon as their ships retreated.
In the boat that Sorcor had dispatched, Etta crouched low. Her gaze darted from the cavorting serpents to the circling dragon. Her face was pale, her eyes fixed on Kennit. The men in the boat with her pulled savagely at the oars, their heads hunched down between their shoulders.
On every circling pass, the dragon swooped lower. Unmistakably, Vivacia was at the center of its gyre. It clasped something in its front legs, Kennit saw. Prey, perhaps, but he could not make out what it was. Was it sizing up the ship before an attack? Would it land on the water like a gull? It swept past yet again, so close that the gust of its wings buffeted the ship’s sails and set her to rocking. The sea serpents set up an ungodly ululation that rose in volume and pitch as the dragon descended. Then, as it passed right over Etta’s rowboat, the dragon let its burden drop. Whatever it was narrowly missed hitting the boat; it landed beside it in a gout of water. With a ponderous flapping of wings, the creature rose laboriously. It roared and the serpents clamored an answer. Then it flew away, much more slowly than it had come.
The serpents followed it. Like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind, they trailed after the dragon. The swift led the way, while others hummocked painfully through the water in the foaming wake, but all were leaving. The dragon gave a final, drawn-out cry as it flew away, taking Kennit’s triumph with it.
IT WAS A MAN, AND HE WAS ALIVE. ETTA HAD A SINGLE, astonishing glimpse of him as he plummeted into the water. His legs kicked wildly as he fell, then the splash of his impact swallowed him. The dragon had dropped him so near the boat that he had nearly swamped it. Etta would have sworn it was deliberate. The boat rocked wildly in the surge of his dive. Despite that, she seized the edge of the boat and leaned over the side, looking after him. Would he drown? Would he come up at all? “Where is he?” she shouted. “Watch for him to come up!”
But the men in the boat paid no attention to her. The serpents were flowing away with the retreating dragon. They seized the opportunity to make all speed for the Vivacia. On the main deck, amidst pointing and babbling crewmen, both Kennit and Wintrow stared after the dragon.
Only the figurehead shared Etta’s concern. Vivacia gave one last, anguished look after the dragon. Then her eyes, too, scanned the waters around the small boat. Etta was still the first to see a pale movement under the waves and she pointed, crying, “There, there he is!”
But the creature that shot gasping to the surface of the water was not a man. He had the shape of a man, but his staring eyes gleamed copper. His dark wet curls, streaming water, reminded her of tangled kelp. He saw the boat, and strained toward it with a reaching hand, but Etta saw that his hand shone with more than wet. He was scaled. With a bubbling cry, he sank again. The rowers who had seen him roared with dismay and leaned into their task. Etta was left transfixed, staring at the place where he went down.
“Take him up! Please!” a girl’s voice shrieked. Etta lifted her eyes to an elegantly garbed girl on the deck. Why, the Satrap’s Companion looked no older than Wintrow!
Then Vivacia pointed a large and commanding finger at the water. “There! There, you fools, he comes up again! Quickly, quickly, take him up!”
Panicked as they were, the rowers had ignored Etta’s plea, but the figurehead’s command was another matter. White-faced, they slacked their oars. Then, as the man bobbed up again, they dug their oars in to spin the boat toward him. He saw them and reached desperately. He tried to claw his way toward them, but went under.
“That’s it for him,” one of the rowers predicted, but an instant later grasping hands broke the surface of the water. His drowning white face appeared and Etta heard him gasp for breath. A rower thrust an oar within his reach. He seized it so strongly he nearly tore it from the man’s grip. They pulled him closer to the boat. In another moment, he had managed to seize the side. He could do no more than cling there. It took two men to haul him on board. When they had him in, he lay in the bottom, water streaming from his garments. He gagged. When he snorted his nose clear of sea water, blood followed it. He blinked his inhuman eyes up at Etta. At first, he did not appear to see her. Then he mouthed silent words. “Thank you.” His head fell to one side and his eyes closed.