Rain Wilds Chronicles (103 page)

No. There was nothing to go back to. Nothing at all.

His spirits sank and gloom closed in all around him. Even the room seemed to become darker. He closed his eyes and wondered how much courage it would take for him to end it. Once he had imagined he could throw himself into the water and drown, that once that decision had been undertaken, it would be irrevocable. Well, he knew better now. Once in the water he would struggle. Whether he willed it or not, he would shout for help.

And I would come to save you. Again.

As the thought entered his mind, a warm feeling suffused him. Comfort and contentment, without reason, rose up and permeated him as if he were an earthenware mug filling up with hot tea. He struggled briefly, trying to find his way back to his misery. And then, like a flame claiming a wick and sending forth life, he suddenly wondered why he was holding so tightly to that
misery. He let go again. His dragon's affection filled him and warmed him and crowded out the pain that had been there.

There. You see? We're going to be all right. Both of us.

 

“M
Y OLD FRIEND,
we need a private word or two.”

Leftrin looked up from scowling at his mug of coffee. It was the second pot made with the same grindings today, and it was both weak and bitter. He thought about dumping it over the side and then reminded himself that it was marginally better than plain hot water. He turned to his old friend. “Finding a place for a private word is going to be the trick,” he said. He and Carson both turned, putting their backs to the aft rail and looking over the decks of the
Tarman
. Keepers and crew mingled in conversation knots. Harrikin and Sylve and Skelly sat cross-legged on the roof of the deckhouse. Skelly was pointing up at the stars and telling them something about them. Boxter and Kase were belly down on the deck, arm wrestling. Alum and Nortel were keeping them honest while Jerd looked on grinning. Greft stood next to her, scowling. As Leftrin watched, the boy worked his mouth and then rubbed the sides of his jaw as if it pained him. The shape of his face was changing; it looked uncomfortable.

Past the keepers, he could see the silhouette of Swarge and Bellin, heads together, leaning on the railing, talking. As his eyes roved the decks, seeking a quiet spot, he found none.

“My stateroom, then,” he said quietly, and Carson followed him. He lit a candle in the galley and then led the way to his small room.

“So, what is it, then?” Leftrin asked him as he shut the door behind them. He pushed the candle into its holder and then sat down on his bunk. Carson, his face grave, sat down on the chair by the chart table. He took a heavy breath.

“Jess is dead. Believe it or not, Sedric and the copper killed him. Sedric says he had to kill him because Jess was planning to kill his dragon and sell the body parts in Chalced.”

“Sedric killed Jess?” Leftrin's disbelief was plain in his voice. He had been so sure that he had killed Jess. How that bastard
had survived his beating and a drowning was nothing short of a miracle. And then to be killed by a Bingtown fop and a dim-witted dragon?

“He and the dragon both said so.”

Leftrin scrambled for words. “Don't get me wrong, that man needed killing if anyone ever did. It just seems so unlikely that Sedric was up to the job, let alone he'd do it to defend a dragon…” He let his comment trail away. If Carson had killed the hunter and was, for whatever reason, putting the deed at Sedric's door, he wanted the man to know he could own up to it and Leftrin wouldn't think less of him.

“The deed was done before I got there. Nothing left of Jess but some blood in Greft's boat. Dragon ate him.”

“Well, that's fitting,” Leftrin said quietly. He tried not to smile. He wouldn't tell Carson that his earlier fight with the hunter had probably softened him up substantially for Sedric. It was over. He heaved a sigh that was part relief and part amazement. Sedric had finished the deed for him. He owed the man a debt of thanks.

“It's fitting because Jess was on board to harvest dragon parts. Right? And you knew about it. Maybe had an agreement about it?”

Silence filled up the room like cold water filling up a sinking vessel. He hadn't seen that coming. Carson was quiet, waiting. Leftrin cleared his throat and made his decision. Truth time. “Here's how it was, Carson, exactly. Someone had me over the fire and thought they could demand I do this. They said they'd be sending someone on this expedition who would be hunting dragon bits for the Duke of Chalced. I didn't agree to it; it was just done to me. At first, I wasn't even sure who their man was. I even thought it might be you, from one comment you made. Then, not too long ago, Jess made it clear to me that he was the one and he expected me to help him.”

Carson was sitting quietly, listening as only he could. He nodded slowly and let Leftrin take his time and pick how he told his story.

“Just before the wave hit? I was on the beach, doing my best
to throttle the life out of Jess. All this time, I've been thinking that I'd done the job, or maybe the wave had finished it. So I'm surprised it was Sedric. But I'll admit that I'm just glad it was done.”

“So that's all there was to it? You don't have plans to butcher a dragon and sell the parts to Chalced?”

Leftrin shook his head. “I'm a lot of things, Carson, and a lot of them aren't nice. But I'd never betray the Rain Wilds that way.”

“Or Alise?” Carson watched his face as he asked him.

“Or Alise,” Leftrin agreed.

Day the 29th of the Prayer Moon

I
t was strange to move upriver again, as if nothing had happened. Thymara stood on the
Tarman
's deck, the tool in her hand forgotten, and watched the jungly riverbank slowly slide by her. When she was in her own little boat, she'd never really had a chance to look down at the shore like this and see how the banks of the river changed as the hours of the day passed by. She missed being in her small boat but was almost glad it was gone. If it still existed, she'd have been paired with someone who wasn't Rapskal, and it hurt to imagine that.

Counting Carson's boat, they were reduced to five small boats, and only three had a full complement of gear. The
Tarman
had shipped extra oars for all the boats, she had discovered to her relief. Even so, the keepers had to rotate their days on the water. And when they were not in the small boats, they served on board the barge, doing whatever the captain asked them to do.

The expedition was now short on everything; knives, bows and arrows, spears, and fishing tackle had been lost, not to mention blankets, spare clothing, and the few personal items that each keeper had brought along. Greft had repeatedly congratulated himself on how well he had stowed his gear. It made Thymara want to hit him. It was sheer luck that his boat had wedged in the same tangle where the Bingtown man washed ashore. If it hadn't, he would have been as beggared as the rest of them. As it was, he now functioned as a hunter alongside Carson. Those two boats had departed at dawn, with Davvie helping Carson and Nortel riding along with Greft. She was just as glad; Nortel had come to her with a bruised face and muttered an apology for “treating her like trade goods” and then walked away. She wondered if the words were his or Tats's, and if Tats hoped to gain anything by forcing Nortel to apologize to her.

And there was her other painful subject. She didn't want to think about Rapskal's death, and she didn't want to waste time thinking about Greft's stupid plan for their lives.

“You won't finish it that way.”

Tats's voice called her back from her pondering. She considered her clumsy attempt to shape a piece of wood into an oar. She knew next to nothing about woodworking, but even she could see that she was making a bad job of it.

“It's just busywork, anyway,” she complained. “Even if I get this to where someone can use it, the river will eat it in a matter of days. Even our old oars were beginning to soften and fuzz at the edges, and they'd been treated against the acid water.”

“Even so,” Tats said. “When the ones we're using give out, the oars we're carving now will be our only spares. So we'd best have some.” His effort did not look much better than hers, except that he was further along with it. “Any oar or paddle is better than none,” he comforted himself as he looked at his handiwork. “Would you brace this for me while I try to use the drawknife on it?”

“Of course.” She was happy to set her own tools down. Her hands were tired and sore. She braced the half-finished oar as Tats went to work with the drawknife. He handled the tool
awkwardly, but still managed to shave a short curl of wood from the oar's handle before the tool bounced over a knot.

“I'm sorry about the other day,” he said quietly.

They hadn't spoken about it since the incident. He hadn't tried to put his arms around her or kiss her since then; he probably knew the reception he'd get. His face wasn't as battered as Nortel's had been, but a black eye was still fading. “I know,” she said shortly.

“I told Nortel he had to apologize to you.”

“I know that as well. I suppose that means you won.”

“Of course!” He seemed insulted that she had to ask.

He'd stepped right into her trap. “What you won, Tats, was a fight with Nortel. You didn't win me.”

“I know that, too.” From being apologetic, he was moving toward angry.

“Good,” she said, biting the word off short. She picked up her chisel again, trying to decide where to set the blade to take another chunk out of the wood when Tats cleared his throat.

“Um. I know you're angry at me. Would you still hold the oar while I try to shape it?”

That wasn't really the question he was asking. She picked up the end of the oar and braced it again. “We're still friends,” she said. “Even when I'm angry with you. But I don't belong to you.”

“Very well.” He placed the drawknife carefully and then drew it down the shaft of the oar. She watched how his brown hands gripped the handles of the tool, how the muscles in his forearms stood out. This time the curl of wood he shaved away was longer. “Let's turn it this way,” he said and guided the oar through a half turn. As he set the drawknife to it again, he asked, “What would I have to do to win you, Thymara?”

It was a question she had never considered. As she thought about it, he said into her quiet, “Because I'm willing to do it. You know that.”

She was startled. “How can you be willing to do something when you don't even know what I might ask?”

“Because I know you. Maybe better than you think I do.
Look, I've done some stupid things since we left Trehaug. I admit it. But—”

“Tats, wait. I don't want you to think that I'm going to give you a list of tasks you have to do. I won't. Because I wouldn't know what those things would be. We've been through a lot lately. You're asking me to make a big decision. I'm not playing a game when I say that I don't think I'm ready to make that decision. I'm not waiting for you to do something or give me something or even be something. I'm waiting for me. There's nothing you can do to change that. Nothing Greft can do.”

“I'm not like Greft,” he said, instantly insulted.

“And I'm not like Jerd,” she replied. For a moment, they stared at each other. Thymara narrowed her eyes and firmed her chin. Twice Tats started to speak, and then paused. Finally he said, “Let's just make this oar, shall we?”

“Good thought,” she replied.

 

E
VENING WAS FALLING
as Sedric emerged from his room. He'd spent the day alone and in darkness, for his last candle had burned down to nothing and he hadn't wanted to ask anyone for another one. He'd fasted as well. He'd half expected Davvie to come tapping on his door with a tray of food, but that hadn't happened. Then he'd recalled that Carson had told him he'd be keeping the boy clear of him. Just as well.
Just as well if everyone stayed clear of me,
he'd thought. Then he'd heard the self-pity in that statement and despised himself.

Hungry, thirsty, and bleak of spirit, he emerged onto the deck as the sun was going down. He found the barge nosed up in a creek bed, one of numerous tributaries that fed the Rain Wild River. Sometimes the water they offered was clear and almost free of acid. It seemed to be the case with this one, for most of the keepers and crew had gone ashore, leaving the ship almost deserted. When he paused at the railing to look, most of the boys were engaged in a water fight. The stream was shallow and wide, the water running swiftly over a sculpted sandy bed. The shirtless keeper boys were stooping to splash one another,
laughing and shouting. The last light of the summer's end sun glinted on their scaled backs. Green, blue, and scarlet glints ran over them, and for one brief instant, he saw beauty in their transformations.

Beyond the youths, he saw Bellin kneeling by the stream as Skelly poured a stream of water over her soapy hair. Good. At least now there would be plenty of fresh water to replenish their supplies.

The dragons, too, were enjoying the water. Their gleaming hides showed that their young tenders had given them a good grooming. Relpda was among them, shiny as a copper coin. He wondered who had groomed her, and he felt guilty. He should take better care of Relpda. He didn't know how. He scarcely knew how to take care of himself, let alone anyone else.

The beach near the stream mouth was not large, but there was enough room for the dragons to be comfortable for the evening and for the keepers to have a bonfire. The fire was small now, but as he watched, two of the keepers approached with a branchy evergreen log and tossed it onto the flames. For a moment he thought they'd smothered the fire; then the darker smoke of burning needles rose, followed by a sudden leap of tongues of flame. The sweet smell of burning resin perfumed the evening air. The wave had left plenty of firewood scattered along the banks of the river. So. They would build a large fire for the night, and the keepers would be sleeping ashore.

He sniffed the air and realized that the smell of baking fish rode on the bonfire smoke. His stomach rolled over with an audible gurgle. He was suddenly horribly hungry and thirsty as well. He wondered where Alise and Leftrin were. They were the last people he wished to encounter right now, Alise because of what she knew about him and Leftrin because of what he knew about the man. It troubled him that he had not found a way to tell Alise yet. He didn't want to talk to her at all, let alone dash her dreams. But he would not betray her again. He would not stand by and watch her deceived.

He crossed the deck quietly, almost surreptitiously. At the door of the deckhouse he paused and listened. All was quiet
within. Almost everyone had gone ashore, he imagined, to take advantage of the opportunity to bathe, to enjoy themselves at the bonfire, and to share hot fresh food. He opened the door and entered as silently as a scavenging rat. As he had hoped, a large pot of coffee was on the back of the small iron stove in the galley. The only light in the room came from the fire gleaming through the door crack of the stove. A covered pot was muttering; probably the eternal fish soup that was always kept simmering for the crew. He'd seen water and fish and vegetables added to the pot; he could not recall that he'd ever seen it emptied and washed. No matter. He felt as if he were still hungry from his days of isolation. Hungry enough to eat anything.

He did not know his way around the small galley. Moving carefully in the dimness, he found mugs hanging on hooks and plates stored vertically in a rack. He filled a mug with some dubious coffee, and finally found a stack of bowls on a shelf with a railing. He took one down, ladled soup into it, and got a round of ship's bread from the sack. He could not find spoons or forks. He sat down at the small galley table alone and took a sip of the coffee.

Weak and bitter but coffee all the same. He lifted the bowl of soup with both hands and sipped from the edge. The flavor was strongly fishy with overtones of garlic. He swallowed and felt warmth and strength funneling down his throat. It was good. Not delicious or even tasty but good. He suddenly understood the copper eating the rotted elk. On a basic level, when a man or a dragon was hungry enough, any food was good.

He was eating the soft chunks of fish and vegetable from the bottom of the bowl, scooping them up with his fingers, when the door of the deckhouse opened. He froze, hoping that whoever it was would walk past to the bunk room. Instead, she came into the galley.

Alise looked at him, hunched over his food, and without a word, opened a cupboard and reached into a bin. She took out a spoon and set it on the table for him.

Still silent, she poured herself a mug of the horrid coffee and stood, holding it in her hands. In the gloom, he was not sure
if she was staring at him or not. Then she sighed, came to the table, and sat down opposite him. “I hated and despised you for several hours today,” she said conversationally.

He nodded, accepting the judgment. He wondered if she could see his face in the dark.

“I'm over it now.” Her voice was not gentle but resigned. “I don't hate you, Sedric. I don't even blame you.”

He found his voice. “I wish I could say the same.”

“I've grown so accustomed to your witty remarks over the years.” Dead. That was how her voice sounded. Dead. “Somehow they are not as amusing as they once were.”

“I mean it, Alise. I'm ashamed of myself.”

“Only now.”

“You sound as if you are still angry.”

“Yes. I'm still angry. I don't hate you; I've decided that. But I'm angry in a way I've never been angry before. I think that if I hated you, I'd just hate you. But once I realized that only someone I loved could hurt me this badly, I realized I didn't hate you. And that is why I'm so angry.”

“I'm sorry, Alise.”

“I know. It doesn't really help, but I know you're sorry. Now.”

“I've been sorry about it for a long time, actually. Almost from the beginning.”

She flapped a hand at him, as if to shoo his excuses away. She sipped her coffee and seemed to debate something with herself. He waited. Finally, she spoke, in an almost normal voice. “I have to know this. Before I can go on with anything, before I can make any decisions, I have to know. Did you and Hest, did you make fun of me? Laugh at how gullible I was, how sheltered that I never even suspected? Did Hest's other friends know? Were there people I knew, people I thought were my friends, who knew how stupid I was? How deceived I was?”

He was silent. He thought of small dinner parties, held late in the evening, in the private upper rooms of inns in Bingtown. Brandy after dinner in Hest's den with some of their circle, and merriment that went on long after Alise had tapped on the door to wish them good night and retired to her bed.

“I have to know, Sedric.” Her words called him back to the cramped and grubby galley. She was watching him, her face pale in the dimness. Waiting for the truth.

In her position, he would have felt the same way. The need to know how foolish he had appeared, how many people had known. “Yes,” he said. The word cut his mouth. “But I didn't laugh, Alise. Sometimes I spoke out for you.”

“And sometimes you didn't,” she added ruthlessly. She sighed and set her mug down on the table. It was a small sound in the quiet room. She lifted her hands and hid her face in them. He feared she was crying. If she was, he knew he should comfort her, but he would have felt like a fraud doing it. He had been a party to creating this humiliation for her. How could he offer the comfort of a friend? He sat still, not speaking, waiting for her to make a sound.