Rain Wilds Chronicles (114 page)

Leftrin had glanced back over his shoulder at the keepers assembling on the deck behind him. “That's keeper business.” He spoke flatly. “It has nothing to do with my boat or my crew. That's for you to discuss with the keepers.”

“All the keepers are taken,” Kalo responded. “There were never enough to begin with.”

“I have no keeper!” the silver dragon suddenly bellowed. “Am I not a dragon? Where is the one who will serve me?”

“Silence!” Kalo roared at him. “This is my time, lump!”

In response, Spit flung his head back. Sintara knew what would come next and saw with absolute clarity that his venom would hit not just Kalo but that the drift would encompass the ship and keepers as well. Thymara had reached the railing and was staring in horror.

Sintara and Mercor hit Spit simultaneously, crashing into the smaller silver dragon from both sides. She feared the water would not be deep enough, but they both bore him down and succeeded in submerging him. His venom sprayed, silver-gray, into the water. All around them, dragons were trumpeting in anger and dismay as they moved hastily away from the spreading toxins. The current here was not swift. As it spread visibly in the water, Tarman raised himself on his stumpy legs and scuttled
sideways to avoid it, dragging his anchor after him. On board the ship, Captain Leftrin was roaring threats of vengeance at Spit while the keepers and crew shouted in dismay and fear. For a time, noise and disorder prevailed. Then, as Spit struggled to his feet, Mercor clamped his jaws on the smaller dragon's throat. He dragged him upright and spoke through his teeth. “Will you keep the peace while we speak, or shall I kill you now?”

Spit rolled his eyes wildly. Mercor's threat was unprecedented. He had no right: this was no battle for a mate. But none of the other dragons offered Spit support in any way. Even so, Spit did not concede. His trumpeting was strangled, but his thoughts reached them all. “I've a right to a keeper! More right than Kalo! He did not teach his keeper proper respect and now he discards him and demands a new one. When I have not had one at all! Is this fair? Is this just?”

Mercor did not relax his grip. To the contrary, he lifted his head even higher, stretching Spit's silver throat. The smaller dragon made a noise, a sound that was pain but not surrender. Mercor growled through his teeth. “You have not been neglected. My own tender spent hours upon you, as did others, grooming you and bringing you meat at a time when you were scarcely better than a riverpig. No one owes you anything. I release you now. Keep silent until Kalo has finished. Then speak your words. But if you spit venom again, or try, I will kill you and eat your memories.”

Disdainfully, he flung the smaller dragon aside. Spit splashed into the shallow water, righted himself, scrabbled away, and then turned back to face them all. He tucked his head tight to his neck, a threatening gesture as if he were filling his poison sacs. When Mercor turned slowly to stare at him, the smaller dragon rumbled quietly but lifted his head. There were angry glints of red in his spinning silver gaze. Trickles of blood ran down his neck, outlining his scales in scarlet.

Kalo slowly moved closer to the
Tarman.
The blue-black dragon had grown since they'd left Trehaug. He now looked down on the ship and the humans aboard it when he stood alongside it. “I require a keeper,” he said quietly.

Leftrin stood his ground. “All the keepers are spoken for, unless you wish to take Greft back into your service.”

From the stern of the boat, Greft shouted angrily, “I will serve no dragon!”

Jerd had been standing beside him. She gave him a look the dragon could not read, and then she walked away to join the cluster of keepers who stood at the railing looking anxiously at their dragons.

Sintara was shocked when Thymara lifted her hand. “Kalo! I will serve you, if it will mean no harm to this ship or the humans aboard him. Sintara has indicated her dissatisfaction with me more than once. Still, I have continued to hunt what meat I could and to groom her as she requests. This I will do for you, also, if it brings peace to us.”

“And what about me?” Spit demanded furiously before Kalo could even reply. Several dragons turned to hiss at him warningly.

But before Kalo could speak further, Sintara surged forward. She lifted her head to pin Thymara with a glare. “I have not released you from my service, human.” She turned to face Kalo, who had looked intrigued at the girl's offer. “This girl is not free for your choosing. She is of my blood and my shaping. You cannot have her.”

“Of your blood!” Thymara sounded outraged. “You have not given blood to me, nor spoken to me of shaping.”

“Nonetheless, you have had my blood and I am aware of your shaping. I do not need to speak to you if I do not choose to do so! This one is mine, Kalo. I keep her. Choose another.”

“I have told you. There are no others!” Leftrin tried to put thunder in his voice and failed. Kalo's head was hovering over the ship, considering the bunched keepers as if he were selecting a ewe from a flock of terrified sheep. How clearly that ancient memory came to Sintara. Those had been good times, of easy feeding on the pasturelands outside Kelsingra. The sheep and cattle had been fattened for them, grained on oats that grew in abundance in the cultivated fields there. And higher up the slopes, in the surrounding hills and mountains, there had been
goats, gamy and delicious. For a moment, her thoughts and life were abducted to that other time, to being a dragon who was tended and fed, not by one small human but by a city of Elderlings and the humans who served them.

In the context of those memories, she saw Kalo lower his head. She saw the keepers cringe, just as sheep had once cowered before a dragon. But Kalo swept past them, to Leftrin's crew and the hunters who stood on the roof of the deckhouse. With his muzzle, he nudged a boy, nearly sending him flying. “This one I will have.”

“No,” shouted Carson, but before the hunter could speak another word, the youngster shouted, “Yes!” Davvie turned to Carson and spoke quickly and clearly. “I want to do this, Uncle.” He glanced down at the gathered keepers, caught the eye of one of them, and grinned. He turned back to Carson. “I'll be Kalo's keeper.”

“Why is he choosing you, Davvie?” Carson demanded.

The dragon responded before the boy could. “I've seen him walking among us. He hunts well. He doesn't show fear. I'm taking him.”

“It will be all right,” Davvie responded. “You'll see, Uncle. I think it's the place in the world that I've been looking for. I'll be with friends.”

“You had rather stay with the dragons and your friends than go where I go?”

Davvie looked at him. “I know you, Uncle. You will stay with them, also.”

“Then he can be
my
keeper!” This announcement came from Spit. “If Kalo can claim a hunter as his own, then I can take one for myself as well. I take Carson the hunter as my keeper, to tend me and to be changed by me as I require. There, that's done.”

“Nothing is done!” Leftrin roared again, and this time he did manage the thunder. “We are not your cattle!”

“Leftrin. It will be all right.”

Sintara was surprised to hear Carson accede to Spit's demand. Was it because of the boy? She watched as the hunter glanced once at the boy, but twice at the man at his side, Sedric. Now
why was a keeper standing with the hunter? Why was he not with the rest of the keepers? It was a curious thing but not one that she felt she had to decipher. Humans were, after all, only humans. Their intellect was limited by the short span of their years. Perhaps that was why Carson was willing to serve Spit. It was almost certain the dragon would shape him as an Elderling. The man had changed quite a bit already, and he was not as young as the other keepers. If Spit wished to have a servant for a reasonable number of years, he would have to change the man just to increase his life span.

Just as she would have to change Thymara. She swung her gaze to stare at her keeper. Yes. What was sensible for Spit was sensible for her as well. She would have to pay attention to the changes in the girl lest they become deadly. And if she was going to have her for longer than an ordinary human's brief span, then she might as well make her attractive as well as useful. She examined her more closely than she had for days and was almost startled at what she noted. Well,
that
was unusual, especially for an unguided change. She searched her memories and found no precedents for such an unusual development. Well, the changes had begun; she could shape them but not undo them. The girl would live or not, as humans always did. Thymara was returning her gaze with the same diffidence that she felt for her. That almost warmed her toward her. The human didn't wish to cling and hide in her shadow. Good. She had no desire to be encumbered that way.

“Mercor!” Leftrin began, but the dragons paid him no attention. It was settled: whatever the human had to say was of little importance.

“It's time to leave,” Mercor announced.

Sintara was not the only dragon who cast a longing glance at the warming place; but once the platform had sensed the dragons' departure from it, it had ceased to create warmth. It was visible now only as an area of open water in the reed-choked slough. She lifted her head and scanned the area, trying to match it to her dragon memories of Elderlings and their habitations. But if any of her ancestors had been here, she either did not recall it, or
the area had changed so much that it no longer stirred the recollection. A small dread unfolded inside her. What if Kelsingra was equally changed? What if the marvelous city and the rich farmlands that surrounded it were no more?

Mercor seemed to sense her apprehension. “Water flows from somewhere, and it always flows downhill. If we keep following the current, we will come to higher ground eventually. Somewhere in this world, there must be a place for dragons. We will find it.”

Kalo trumpeted loudly and set out. The other dragons fell in behind him and followed. None of them looked back to see if the barge would follow. It had to. It must.

Day the 19th of the Gold Moon

Day the 22nd of the Gold Moon

T
hymara blinked her eyes, then squeezed them shut. Vertigo spun her. She had been sitting on Tarman's bow, dangling her legs over the side and considering how big the world had become. The dense cloud and steady rains of the last few days had finally ceased; overhead was an endless canopy of stars that stretched from horizon to horizon. She'd stared up at them too long and had suddenly felt as if she were falling off the deck of the boat and up into the sky. She opened her eyes again and stared out at the water.

The forest was gone. It had retreated, day by day, until now it was no more than a smudge on the horizon. The ship was lost in a flat slough of reeds and rushes. Short trees and bushes with stilt roots stuck up in isolated groves. They had learned these indicated not only the shallowest water but also areas where gallators enjoyed sunning themselves. The dragons did not fear the gallators; they regarded them as a larger meat source. But
the larger gallators felt the same way about the keepers and their small boats. The keepers had learned to hang back and let the dragons feed off the gallators before coming close to the stilt bushes. The dragons liked to overnight near the groves. All of them were tired of standing in water, but at least it was shallower by the groves. Captain Leftrin accommodated them, but she knew that he feared grounding Tarman in water so shallow that not even he could scuttle out of the mud.

The retreating forests had taken all her familiar food sources with them. Now the keepers set nets for fish at night and pulled up reeds and rushes for their thick, starchy roots. A few days ago, they had been lucky when a flock of waterfowl had got entangled in Carson's fish nets. They'd had fresh meat, but they paid for it in long hours of attempting to mend the tattered nets. She didn't like the monotony of the food now and disliked even more her feeling of being useless. With her hunting gear lost in the wave, all she could do was gather. And the only things to gather were the starchy roots or the seedheads from the tall grasses.

At least Sintara had become more attentive to her, if not any kinder. The dragon demanded nightly grooming now. The water made it difficult, and she had had to submit to Thymara climbing on her back and neck in order to reach the parts of her that needed cleaning. Bundled handfuls of reeds and grasses made coarse brushes for dislodging insects and polishing the dragon's scales, but they were harsh to human hands. Thymara felt sorry for those whose hands were less scaly than her own.

Despite the difficulty of grooming her, Sintara insisted that Thymara be thorough. Thymara had spent most of her evening on the dragon's wings. Despite her differences with the creature, she had enjoyed it. When Sintara opened her wings now, the delicate traceries of the bone and cartilage and the panels and patterns of her coloring meant that it was like cleaning stained glass. The scales with their serrated edges reminded her of translucent feathers. As large as the dragon's wings had become, the skin of them remained thin and fine. The overlapping scales could scarcely be separated. Her wings folded so compactly that
it seemed almost impossible that so large a spread of wing could fit so smoothly against the dragon's back. Insects were an irritant when they crept into the folds, and the constant moisture of the river invited wet sores. There was no question that her wings needed daily attention of a kind the dragon could not easily give them. Even so, it seemed to Thymara that Sintara made her spend a ridiculous amount of time on them. Over and over, Sintara demanded that she praise the color and patterns that were developing, that she note the delicate strength of the structure and the fine barbed claws at the tips of each wing rib.

As a result, despite the fact that she'd traveled aboard the barge today rather than paddling one of the boats, she was tired. Tired to the bones, and they ached, too. Her hands hurt, and her back ached around her never-healed injury. That was a pain she was growing accustomed to; she seldom thought about it until a chance touch woke a stab of agony. Furtively she glanced around, and when she was sure no one was looking at her, she slid her hand up under her shirt and cautiously touched the area between her shoulder blades. Hot. Swollen. And a nasty scabby valley down the middle that made her feel queasy. It was almost a relief that Tats wasn't currently speaking to her, let alone trying to kiss her or touch her. Keeping his wandering hands away from her back had been a challenge, and a behavior that completely confused him. She should have let him touch her there; that would have put a quick end to his heat.

She sighed. Rapskal came to her mind. Not for the first time, she missed him intensely. If he were alive, he'd be sitting here beside her tonight, nattering on about something inane, cheery, and optimistic. He had been her friend without any obligations or expectations. She hadn't worked for him to like her, and he'd always just assumed that she liked him. He'd made friendship so simple. She missed that. Tonight, she longed for it.

She turned and looked back amidships. All of the keepers were on board tonight. Some of them were sitting on the roof of the deckhouse. They'd been playing dice until it got too dark to see the gaming pieces. Now Boxter was tormenting everyone by talking about the spice rolls his mother used to make.
Sylve and Kase and Alum were huddled around a pile of rush roots, peeling the tough outer skin off the thick tubers and then passing them to Bellin who was chopping them into chunks for tomorrow's breakfast. Thymara knew she should go and help them.

“Greft. Can we have a word with you?”

She turned at the sound of Tats's voice. He and Harrikin were standing behind Greft. She hadn't noticed him leaning against the railing not far from her. Lately he'd been quiet, withdrawn, and hostile toward the other keepers, and it had seemed wise to avoid him. Trust Tats to think it would be best to prod him out.

“You've already had several. Why stop now?” Greft replied sarcastically. His words were badly formed. She wondered if his lips were stiffening. She'd heard of that happening to heavily scaled people. It had been days since Leftrin had hit him. His mouth should have healed by now.

“We noticed you didn't take the boat out today.”

“Didn't feel well.”

“Well, yes, that's what I thought. So Harrikin and I, we're going to take it out tomorrow and see if we can't get some fish or some of those water gophers that we saw a few days ago. Or even one of those gallators. The dragons seem to think they're tasty. Any kind of fresh meat for the keepers and crew would be welcome.”

She noticed he wasn't asking Greft if he could take it. He was telling him that they were going to do it. Harrikin wasn't speaking, but he stood ready to back Tats up. Greft looked from one to the other. His voice was low and serious as he said, “Don't like loaning my gear. No.”

“It's keeper gear,” Tats said.

“And a keeper boat,” Harrikin added.

Greft looked from one to the other. “Gear was issued to me. I took care of it, stowed it right. That's why I've still got it.” She marked how he said only the words he needed, and she suspected that speaking was painful, or an effort.

“Luck,” Tats insisted. “Just luck, Greft. You weren't the only
keeper who stored his gear tight. You were just lucky enough that your boat washed up where it was found. That's all. It's not fair for you to hold it back from everyone.”

“It's mine.”

Tats lowered his voice slightly. “I seem to remember standing near an elk that Thymara had killed and hearing you sing a different tune about how things should be shared out.”

Tarman was not a large vessel. Silence rippled out from Tats's words. The conversation on the roof of the deckhouse stilled. Heads turned.

“That was different.” Greft tried to clear his throat. He leaned over the side and spat, but it didn't come off his mouth cleanly. He wiped his ragged sleeve across his mouth, looked from Tats to Harrikin. “No. Or fight now.”

Tats and Harrikin exchanged glances. Tats spoke for them. “No fight, Greft. I know you're not a healthy man. And I don't want to cross Leftrin about fighting on his deck. I didn't come to you to start a fight. I came to let you know that tomorrow we're taking the boat and the gear out at first light, to try to get some serious hunting and fishing done. No insult intended, but you're not holding up that end of things anymore. So, for the good of us all, Harrikin and I are stepping up to it. And we need to use the boat and gear.”

Greft turned away from them to look out over the water again. “No,” he said in a neutral but factual voice. Did his back dare Tats to attack him? If so, Tats refused the bait.

“Just saying that's what is going to happen,” Tats said quietly. He glanced again at Harrikin, who nodded. As one, they turned away from Greft and sauntered off down the deck. Whispers in the dark behind them turned into muted conversation. Thymara stayed where she was, staring out over the water and darkness. She did not care for Greft, but she felt heartsick it had come to this.

Greft seemed to feel her regard. “Funny?” he asked her in a voice gone harsh.

“No,” she replied shortly. “Tragic. I'm sorry this happened to you, Greft. For what it's worth, you have my pity.”

When he turned to face her, the blue in his eyes shone with anger. “Keep your pity for yourself. Useless, stupid whore.”

The insult stunned her, not just for the seething vehemence in his voice but because it baffled her. Useless? Stupid? Whore? Greft had turned and was walking away before she realized that it wasn't intended to make sense, only to insult. He'd actually expected her to be enjoying his downfall. “You don't know me at all,” she said into his absence. She glanced toward the other keepers. “I don't think anyone does anymore.”

The other keepers had resumed their activities. Alum was trying to give Boxter a haircut, with helpful advice from Kase and Lecter. Davvie was watching and laughing. Tats was sitting with Harrikin; Sylve was leaning against Harrikin. All three were talking softly about something. “I miss you, Rapskal,” she said to the night. “I miss having a friend.”

An unexpected echo bounced back to her.
Stop being stupid. You have a dragon. You no longer need human companions. Go to sleep.

“Good night, Sintara,” she muttered and went to take the dragon's advice.

 

T
HE RIVER WAS GONE.
It was time to admit that. Leftrin wasn't sure what to properly call this body of water that he was on, if it could be termed a body of water at all. For three days, Tarman had been making agonizingly slow progress. They followed the dragons, but he doubted that they had any sense of where they were going. Were they following the main channel? Was there a main channel? The current was barely a current anymore. He watched the dawning light reflected in the still surface of the water, broken only by the faint stirring of the reeds and rushes as the morning wind passed through them.

The walls of the world had retreated. For as far as he could see from Tarman's deck, they were in an immense slough filled with water plants. Even from the roof of the deckhouse, he gained no vantage or sense of it ever ending. Perhaps this had once been a river system or a lake. Now he wondered if it were not a wide drainage for distant hills, a place of water that was scarcely
deeper than a man was tall.
Like a flat plate,
he thought. He tried not to wonder what might happen when the rains began in earnest. If a deluge started and the water began to rise, there was nowhere for the dragons to retreat. He shook the useless worry from his head, certain that Mercor was aware of it. Daily he led them on, to Kelsingra or death. They'd find out which when they reached there.

He scanned the wide circle of horizon and saw nothing promising. He had never felt he was such a tiny spark of life floating on a twig as he did now. The sky overhead was wide and gray with high clouds. He missed the shady riverbanks he'd known all his life. The light seemed relentless during the day, and on a clear night, the blanket of stars overhead reduced him to insignificance.

Somewhere in the distance a hunting bird, hawk or eagle, screamed a long, lonesome cry. Tats's dragon roused and lifted her head from where she dozed. She made a questioning sound, but when no response came, she once more tucked her head under her wing. The dragons stood in a huddle, like a flock of exhausted waterfowl, heads tucked to their breasts or resting on the back of an adjacent dragon. It could not have been relaxing sleep for them. They slept on their feet like sailors kept on watch too long. He pitied them but could do nothing for them.

Insects had become more plentiful, but at least on this river, bats abounded by night; and during the day, tiny darting swallows feasted on the mosquitoes and gnats. There was still no lack of stinging, buzzing insects, but watching them be devoured in turn gave him satisfaction.

Habit made him take his pipe out of his coat pocket. He looked at it, turning it in his hands, and then put it away. Not even a shred of tobacco remained anywhere on the boat. It wasn't the only supply that was exhausted. The sugar was gone, as was the coffee. The tea that remained was more powder than leaf. There were two more casks of ship's bread. When that was gone, their dependence on what they could hunt and gather as they traveled would be absolute. He scowled and then resolutely shook off his gathering worries.

Where there's clean water, there's food,
he reminded himself. Fish there were in plenty, and some of the rushes had thick, starchy roots. For the last couple of nights, Carson had been deliberately setting out nets for waterfowl. He hadn't had much luck yet, but when he did, not if, there'd be roast duck on the menu. Or more likely boiled, he reminded himself, to use less firewood. Large pieces of wood had become scarce of late. They watched avidly for driftwood now, any snag deposited in days of higher water. Until then, all the keepers had the task every evening of gathering as much dried reed-grass as they could. It burned quickly; they gathered bushels every night and twisted it into bundles to try to make it burn longer. Thank Sa the nights had remained mild so far.