Dragon Wing

24

The dragonship sliced through the pearly, dove-colored night, its wings gliding on the magic and the air currents that swept upward over the floating isle of Djern Hereva. Strapped into the flight harness, snug in the small steerage room, Hugh lit his pipe, leaned back, and relaxed, letting the dragonship almost fly itself. A touch here or there upon the cables attached to the harness tilted the wings to slice through the air currents, sliding effortlessly across the sky, from one swirl to another, gliding trackward toward Aristagon.

The Hand kept a lazy half-watch for other winged transports—either live or mechanical. In his elven ship, he was most vulnerable to attack from his own kind, for human dragonriders would immediately take him for an elf, probably a spy. Hugh was not particularly worried. He knew the flight paths the dragonriders took on their raids of Aristagon or elven shipping. He was flying higher purposefully to avoid these, and figured it unlikely that he’d be annoyed. If he did run into a patrol, he could always dodge it by slipping into a rift of clouds.

The weather was calm, the flying easy, and Hugh had leisure to think. It was then that he decided not to kill the child. The need to make a decision had been in his mind awhile now, but he had put off thinking about it until this time when he was alone and all around him was quiet and conducive to thought. He had never before defaulted on a contract and he needed to satisfy himself that his reasoning was rational and valid and not swayed by sentiment. Sentiment. Though something within the Hand might have sympathized with a childhood such as Bane’s—a childhood unloved, cold, and bleak—the assassin had grown too callous to feel his own pain, much less that of another. He was letting the kid live for the very simple reason that Bane was going to be worth more to the Hand alive than dead.

Hugh did not have his plans quite worked out. He needed time to think, time to wring the truth from Alfred, time to unravel the mysteries that wound around the prince. The Hand had a hideout on Aristagon which he used when he needed his ship repaired. He would go there and wait until he had his information; then he would either return and confront Stephen with his knowledge and demand more money to keep silent, or perhaps contact the queen and discover what she would pay to have her son back. Whatever his decision, Hugh figured his fortune was made.

He was settling into the rhythm of flying the craft, which he could do with his body and part of his mind, letting the other drift free, when the object of his thoughts poked his towhead up through the hatch into the cabin.

“Alfred’s sent some dinner.”

The boy’s eyes were eager and curious, darting here and there at the cables attached to the harness, Hugh’s arms resting easily on them.

“Come up,” Hugh invited. “Just be careful what you touch and where you step. Keep away from the ropes.”

Bane did as he was told, sliding up through the hatch, placing his foot gingerly on the deck. In his hands he carried a bowl of meat and vegetables. It was cold. Alfred had cooked it before they left Pitrin’s Exile, then packed it away to be eaten later. But it smelled good to a man accustomed to living on the wayfarer’s meal of bread and cheese or the greasy fare of inns.

“Hand it here.” Hugh knocked the ashes from his pipe in a crockery mug he carried for this purpose, then held out his hands to take the bowl. Bane’s eyes glistened. “You’re supposed to be flying the ship.”

“She can fly herself,” said Hugh, grasping the bowl and the horn spoon and shoveling the food into his mouth.

“But won’t we fall?” Bane peered out the crystal windows.

“The magic keeps us afloat, and even if it didn’t, the wings could support us in this calm air. I just have to make certain they stay extended. If I pulled them in, then we’d begin to sink.”

Bane nodded thoughtfully, turning his blue-eyed gaze back to Hugh. “What cables draw them in?”

“These.” He gestured to two heavy lengths of rope attached to the harness at his breast near his right and left shoulder. “I pull them this way, in front of me, and that draws the wings in. These other cables let me steer by lifting the wings or lowering them. This one controls the mainmast, and this cable’s attached to the tail. By flipping it one way or the other, I can control the ship’s direction.”

“So we could stay afloat like this for how long?” Hugh shrugged. “Indefinitely, I suppose, or until we came to an isle. Then the wind currents would catch us and might suck us into a cliff or underneath the island, then slam us up against the coralite.”

Bane nodded gravely. “I still think I could fly it.” Hugh felt satisfied enough with himself to smile indulgently. “No, you’re not strong enough.”

The boy gazed at the harness in longing.

“Try it,” Hugh invited. “Here, come stand beside me.” Bane did as he was told, moving cautiously, being careful not to accidentally jar one of the ropes. Standing on the deck in front of Hugh, the boy placed his hand on one of the ropes that caused the wing to rise or lower. He pulled at it. The rope moved slightly, enough to cause the wing to shiver, and that was all.

Unaccustomed to having his will thwarted, the prince gritted his teeth and, wrapping both hands around the rope, pulled with all his might. The wooden frame creaked, the wing dipped a fraction of an inch. Grinning in triumph, Bane planted his feet on the deck and pulled even harder. A gust of wind, sweeping upward, caught the wing. The cable slid through his hands. The prince released his grip with a cry, staring at his palms, which were torn and bleeding.

“Still think you can fly it?” the Hand said coolly. Blinking back tears, Bane mumbled, “No, Sir Hugh,” disconsolately. He wrapped his injured hands tightly around the feather amulet, as if seeking some sort of consolation. Perhaps it helped, for he swallowed and lifted shimmering blue eyes to meet Hugh’s. “Thank you for letting me try.”

“You did well enough, Your Highness,” said Hugh. “I’ve seen men twice your size who didn’t do as well.”

“Truly?” The tears vanished.

Hugh was rich now. He could afford the lie. “Yeah. Now, go on down and see if Alfred needs any help.”

“I’ll be back to get the bowl!” Bane said, and ducked through the hatch. Hugh could hear his excited voice calling for Alfred, telling the chamberlain how he had flown the dragonship.

Eating in silence, Hugh idly scanned the skies. He decided that the first thing he would do upon landing on Aristagon would be to take that feather to Kev’am, the elven wizardess, and see what she could make of it. One of the lesser mysteries he had to solve.

Or so he thought at the time.

Three days passed. They flew by the night, hiding during the day on small, uncharted isles. It would take a week, Hugh said, to reach Aristagon. Bane came every night to sit with Hugh, watch him handle the ship, and ask questions. The Hand answered or not, depending on his mood. Preoccupied with his plans and his flying, Hugh paid no more attention to Bane than he was forced to. Attachments were deadly in this world, bringing nothing but pain and sorrow. The boy was cold hard cash. That was all.

The Hand was, however, puzzled at Alfred. The chamberlain watched the prince nervously, anxiously. It might have been an overreaction to the tree’s fall, but Alfred wasn’t being protective. Hugh was strongly reminded of the time an elven fire canister had been hurled over a battlement of a castle he’d been caught in during a raid. Rolling about on the stone, the black metal container appeared harmless. But everyone knew that at any moment it could burst into flame. Men regarded that canister in exactly the same way Alfred was regarding Bane.

Noting Alfred’s tension, Hugh wondered—not for the first time—what the chamberlain knew that he didn’t. The assassin increased his own watchfulness over the boy when they were on the ground, thinking the child might try to run away. Bane meekly obeyed Hugh’s command that he not leave the campsite unless escorted by Alfred, and then only to forage in the woods for the berries that he seemed to take such delight in finding.

Hugh never went on these expeditions, considering them foolish. Left to himself to find food, he would have made do with whatever came to hand, so long as it kept life in his body. The chamberlain insisted that His Highness have what he wanted, however, and each day the clumsy Alfred sallied forth into the forest to do battle with overhanging limbs, tangled vines, and treacherous weeds. Hugh stayed behind, resting in a half-wakeful, half-dozing state that allowed him to hear every snap and crash.

The fourth night, Bane came up to the steerage way and stood staring out the crystal windows at the magnificent sight of cloud and vast empty sky below.

“Alfred says dinner will be ready soon.”

Hugh, puffing on his pipe, grunted noncommittally.

“What’s that big shadow I can see out there?” Bane pointed.

“Aristagon.”

“Is it? Will we be there soon?”

“No. It’s farther away than it looks. Another day or two.”

“But where will we stay between here and there? I don’t see any more islands.”

“There’re some, most likely hidden by the mists. Small isles, used by small ships like us for overnight stays.”

Standing on tiptoe, Bane peered down beneath the dragon. “I can see great dark clouds way, way below us. Whirling round and round. That’s the Maelstrom, isn’t it?”

Hugh saw no need to reply to the obvious. Bane stared more intently.

“Those two things down there. They look like dragons, but they’re bigger than any dragon I ever saw.”

Rising from his chair, careful not to disturb the cables, Hugh glanced out.

“Elven corsairs or waterships.”

“Elves!” The word was tense, eager. The boy’s hand went to stroke the feather he wore around his neck. When he spoke next, it was with studied calm.

“Shouldn’t we run away from them, then?”

“They’re far from us, probably don’t even see us. If they did, they’d think we were one of them. Besides, it looks like they’ve got business of their own to tend to.”

The prince looked out again, saw two ships and nothing more. Hugh, however, could tell what was transpiring.

“Rebels, trying to escape an imperial warship.”

Bane barely gave them a glance. “I think I heard Alfred calling. It must be time for supper.”

Hugh continued to watch the confrontation with interest. The warship had caught up with the rebels. Grappling hooks snaked out from the imperial dragonship and landed on the rebel’s deck. It was to an attack similar to this, made by humans, that Hugh owed his escape from the slavery of the elven waterships.

Several of the rebel elves, in an attempt to boost their level of magic and escape capture, were performing the dangerous maneuver known as “walking the dragon wing.” Hugh could see them running swiftly, surefootedly, out on the wing’s mast. In their hands, they carried charms given them by the ship’s wizard, that they would touch to the mast.

The move was dangerous, foolhardy, and desperate. That far from the ship’s center, the magical canopy could not reach them, could not protect them. A gust or—as was happening now—an enemy arrow could catch them and carry them over the wing’s edge, to tumble down into the Maelstrom.

“Walking the dragon wing.” It had become a term among elves for any risk-taking adventure worth the price. The saying had always, Hugh felt, held a special meaning for him and his way of life. He had named his ship in its honor.

Bane returned with a bowl.

“Where’re the elves?” He handed the bowl to Hugh.

“Back behind us. We’ve flown out beyond them.” Hugh took a mouthful and choked, spitting it out. “Damn! What’d Alfred do, spill the pepper pot into this stuff?”

“I told him it was too spicy. Here, I brought you some wine.” The prince handed Hugh the wineskin. He took a deep drink, swallowed, and took another. Giving it back, he shoved over the bowl of uneaten food with his foot. “Take that gunk back and feed it to Alfred.” Bane picked up the bowl, but he didn’t leave the steerage way. Fingers toying with the feather, he stood watching Hugh with a strange, calm expectancy.

“What is it?” the Hand snapped.

But at that very moment, he knew.

He hadn’t tasted the poison. The pepper had masked it. But he was feeling the first effects. Cramps clenched his bowels. A burning sensation spread through his body, and his tongue seemed to swell in his mouth. Objects in his sight elongated, then flattened. The boy grew huge, leaning over him with a sweet, charming smile, the feather dangling from his hand.

Rage surged through Hugh, but not as swiftly or strongly as the poison. Sagging backward, his vision darkening, Hugh saw the feather and heard the boy’s awed voice coming from a great distance.

“It worked, father! He’s dying!”

Hugh reached out to catch hold and choke the breath out of his murderer, but his arm was too heavy to lift; it hung limp and lifeless at his side. And then the boy was no longer standing over him, but a black monk, with hand outstretched.

“And now, who is master?” asked the monk.