The Dragon Round (6 page)

Jeryon doesn't know which galls him more: that he's lost four hours from his schedule or that he needs Solet so he doesn't lose any more.

Then again, maybe he doesn't need Solet that much. He can't get the image of the harpoon pointed at his head out of his mind. A different employment for Solet occurs to him.

Solet feels Jeryon's eyes on him.
He knows
, he thinks.
He has to know what Livion and I have been talking about. But he can't do anything until we get to port
.

On the stern deck he tells Livion, “He's not going to render the dragon.” From up here he can see just how many sharks are roiling the water and banging against the hull. “That'd pay for all this damage ten times over. A hundred times.”

“We have to get back to Hanosh,” Livion says. “Shall I relieve you of your post? Your insolence—”

“My insolence?” Solet says. “You're the one who left the captain to die.”

Livion struggles to keep his jaw from dropping. “You said—”

“Here's how it will sound to the Trust at the inquiry. First, you took the ship into danger against orders, then you saw a way to confirm your new command. Who else would get the
Comber
but the man who brought her valuable cargo in after the ship was damaged and the captain died?”

“I'll tell you what will go in my report,” Livion says. “How you tried to undermine the captain—”

“The captain who disobeyed the Trust's clear rules?” Solet says. “Who attacked the dragon, who left his post to save a couple of
sailors
, and who risked its cargo? That's the definition of unfit.”

“They'll understand,” Livion says. “The city will understand.”

Solet laughs. “You're as foolish as him, trusting up. That attitude will ruin you. We'll all be heroes whenever we get in, however many die in the meantime, but to let a fortune slide off the rail into the sea: the Trust won't consider that heroic.
Poor judgment
, they'll say.
Hardly command material
, they'll say. What would your woman's father think?”

Livion says through grinding teeth, “Your sailors are waiting for you to remove the mast.”

“Tristaban will think you threw her away along with your career.”

Jeryon mounts the stern deck. Behind him are two sailors. He says, “This conference has gone on long enough. Solet, the rowers are exhausted. If we're going to get in as soon as possible, the sailors will have to take a turn at the oars. As a good example, you will lead them.”

Solet says, “But I'm a mate.”

Jeryon says, “Then I won't need to chain you to a bench.” He tells the sailors, “Take Solet to his new station.”

Solet says, “Livion.”

Whining
, Livion thinks,
is not Ynessi
.
Deception, though, is very Hanoshi. Has the captain overheard them? Has he divined Solet's scheming? It would surely leave its stench on him. And it's better to fire a maid, Trist once said, before the jewelry's gone. If Solet is put in chains once he's below, how long until I am too? If we don't hang together now, we could hang separately later
.

“Livion,” Solet says.

Livion curses Jeryon under his breath. “Belay that order,” Livion says to the sailors. “As first mate I am declaring the captain unfit for command: for disobeying the rules of engagement, for endangering the ship and her cargo, for putting us behind schedule, for abandoning his post, for doing so during an emergency, and for failing to seek reliable profit by not rendering the dragon.”

“As second mate,” Solet says, “I concur.”

“Ha!” Jeryon says. “Using the book against me. The Trust will see through that.”

“Lock him in the hold,” Livion says.

“You can't hold me,” Jeryon says as two sailors grab his arms.

“Wait,” Solet says. He pushes out Jeryon's arms and runs his hands over his torso and hips. Solet smiles, digs out the razor case from the captain's pocket, and flips it into the sea. “Now we can hold you,” he says.

Whatever confusion and anger the sailors
feel as the captain is dragged below is quickly replaced with the joy of avarice and potential advancement as Solet gathers a rendering crew. An Ynessi could expect nothing less from a Hanoshi crew.

“This is wrong,” Beale says. “He saved us. They're relieving him because he saved us.”

“What could we do?” Topp says. “We just float on the waves. The mates, they are the waves.”

“At least the shares will buy us a better boat,” Beale says.

Tuse says, “Your charges are true.
Your motives are nonsense. This is mutiny, plain and simple.”

Livion says, “So you'll oppose us.”

“Yes,” Tuse says. He tightens a seeping bandage. “You can't deal me into a game I won't play. I won't have him killed.”

“No one said anything about—” Livion said.

“Are you soft-hearted or soft-headed?” Tuse says, holding up a burned hand. “Do you think you can just take him to Hanosh and make your case at the inquiry? Sort this whole thing out? Have everything be normal?”

Livion says, “We're going by the book.”

“You're holding it upside down,” Tuse says. “Let me explain something to you: When you punch a man, you put him down. Otherwise, he'll put you down.” He jerks his thumb at Solet. “He'd agree with me.”

Solet guides the half-completed rendering. The dragon has been tied to the galley, and, not having a cutting stage, sailors work on it from the starboard rail and the ship's dinghy. Its head, feet, and wing claws have been hacked off with axes, wrapped in canvas, and put in the captain's cabin. The dragon's body is tied to the starboard rail, and is being spun so the skin can be stripped off in great sheets. This work is easier. The trick was flaking some vertebrae into blades, attaching them to handles, and using these shards, incredibly sharp and difficult to dull, to cut the skin and flay it from the meat.

Meanwhile the sharks work on the meat, exposing more bone, which they'll harvest next.

Livion wishes he had more spit in his mouth. He says, “If we have to kill him, Tuse, we have to kill you. He'd agree with that too.”

“You don't have the stones,” Tuse says.

“I don't need them. See that bolt of skin?” Livion says. A sailor carries one to the captain's cabin. “It's worth more than the
Comber
. You don't think that sailor would flay you as well if you do something to take it away?”

“You're a good man, Livion,” Tuse says. “I like serving under you. But what you're doing here, it'll destroy you. The rot's already setting in.”

Livion keeps all expression from his face. He wants to admit he's only saying what he imagines Solet would say, but that would prove Tuse's point. Instead he says, “Are you with us? Or him?”

Tuse slumps into his rowers' deck posture. “My chances are better with you. But here's my price: We give him the captain's chance. We let the sea decide.”

“And confirm this was a mutiny,” Livion says, “not a legal action.”

“Only if he gets back,” Tuse says, “and that's the chance we take. We'll say he was lost overboard saving Beale. A hero's end. Who's to complain that it was improper? And our hands are clean.” He can see this appeals to Livion.

Livion says, “What about your rowers? Can we count on them?”

“I think so,” Tuse says. “They'll need the money soon. The guild is
finished. Soon the only rowers will be prisoners. They're half as effective as brothers, but half the cost. And you can whip them.”

“Will they keep quiet?” Livion says.

“And risk the gibbet?” Tuse says. “Sure. But the poth won't.”

On the rowers' deck the poth
wishes she had another bottle of wine and a sharper saw. She's treated those who needed her help the most, and now she can consider those she thought would live regardless. She starts with a brother slumped over his oar.

Sleep is usually the best medicine. Nonetheless, Everlyn clears her throat. He doesn't stir. Everlyn pats his shoulder. He topples slightly. She puts two fingers on his neck. It's warm and wet and without a pulse. She raises his head. His eyes are wide and red; his lips and nostrils covered with sizzling foam the color of fire powder. Everlyn lowers his head then lowers herself to the edge of his bench.

When she looks up, Tuse is standing over her. “Livion's waiting to see you.”

“I know,” she says. She stands up, her chin thrust at his chest. He slides aside to let her get to the ladder. “No,” she says, and heads forward again. “Let him wait. These men shouldn't have to any longer.”

As she passes him, Tuse looks at the slumped-over rower. “This one all right?”

“He got the job done,” she says.
So did I.

7

Livion orders Jeryon brought up and the dragon cut loose. They've rendered all they can, stuffing the captain's cabin with bones, bolts of skin, and sheets of wing membrane. The dragon's head has been carefully packed to ensure the phlogiston doesn't escape, and so that it
could later be made into a trophy. Crates stacked on deck are moved to the hold as soon as Jeryon emerges. Some people prize dragon meat as an aphrodisiac, but little could be taken that wasn't ruined by the water, a dozen astounded sharks, the sandals of the renderers, and that bit which is being cooked over a brazier by the foredeck.

“Tastes like chicken,” Beale says.

“
Fire
chicken,” Topp says.

The rest of the carcass sinks quickly. The sharks follow it, and by the time Jeryon is marched the length of the ship past piles of stray flesh to the stern deck, the sea is empty but for the dinghy, now tied to the starboard rail.

Jeryon surveys the
Comber
and his crew without comment. He sees the poth in the rowers' deck, hurrying aft. He says nothing to her either.

The mates stand together by the unmanned steering oar. The poth climbs up behind Jeryon and his escort.

“Have you come to your senses?” Jeryon asks.

Livion says, “We've decided to give you the captain's chance.”

Jeryon tsks. “
We've
, Captain? There is no
we
in captain. Only
I
.”

The poth says, “What's the captain's chance?”

“A practice old as pirates,” Jeryon says without turning around. “The judgment of cowards.”

Livion says, “You will be set adrift without food or water, sail or oar, and the waves will decide your fate.”

The poth says, “That's monstrous.”

“That's prerogative,” Livion says.

“He could have me executed,” Jeryon says, “but he's too weak.” He looks at Solet. “Pliable.”

“And you're too rigid,” Livion says. “Four hours. That's how long it took to render the dragon. The rowers needed the rest, too. Four hours. And a fortune. That's what you traded for this.”

The poth pushes past the escort to stand between the mates and their captain. “And what have you traded?” She looks at them in turn.
“Four hours. How many more got sick in Hanosh? How many more are dead? A body must seem awfully light when it's weighed against a full purse.”

“I wanted to explain things earlier,” Livion says. “This isn't your business.”

She shoots a look at Tuse. “It became mine when I signed on, but not for this. I won't be a party to it. I've got enough blood on my hands.”

“Then you can take the same chance we're giving him,” Livion says.

Jeryon says, “I didn't want some Aydeni landlubber on this ship. I don't want one in the dinghy either.”

“Think of her as provisions then,” Solet says. Several sailors, still armed with their gory tools, laugh.

“Stay with us,” Tuse tells the poth. “The men need you. Hanosh needs you. And you'll get your share. You've earned it.”

“I don't heal for money,” she says. “I won't kill for it either. I'll take the chance.”

Jeryon says to Tuse, “You don't like this, do you?”

“It's not the choice I would have made,” Tuse said.

“Did make, Tuse,” Jeryon says. “Putting me in a boat is one thing. Putting her in one is another. You didn't think of that, but you can't stop, can you?” Jeryon shakes off the escort and stands beside the poth. “She'll be the one you see at night, not me. As for you two, if anyone cracks, if anyone lets slip what he's done while he's drunk in a bar, it'll be Tuse. Then I won't need to tell the Trust my side of the story.”

Livion and Solet give Tuse a warning look. He returns it.

The poth says, “I'd like to put on a fresh smock.”

“No,” Solet says. “And let's check those pockets.”

“I'm going freely,” Everlyn says. “I will not be searched.”

“I could take the whole dress,” Solet says, “and give you to the sea in whatever's under there.”

She tightens her lips and pulls from the deep hip pockets several bottles of lotion and powders. From those in the folds around her legs emerge bandages, small tools, and, improbably, two limes. From the pockets inside her sleeves come bandage ties, a pot of unguent, and packets of medicinal herbs. She drops it all in a clatter.

Solet says, “Is that it?”

“Yes,” the poth says.

“Let's check one more place,” Solet says, “just in case.” He reaches for the thick floral brocade that extends from the deep vee of her collar. She covers her breasts. He taps her wrists. Resigned, she lowers her arms. He reaches behind the brocade and pulls from a pocket there a flat knife with a bone handle. He admires it. It's like the full-size version of his finger blade. He pockets it.