Dragon Wing

43

Lieutenant Bothar-in, now captain Bothar’el[19], sailed the dragonship safely through the Maelstrom. Keeping clear of encounters with other elven ships, he steered for the Aristagonian port town of Suthnas—a safe haven recommended by Hugh the Hand. Here he planned to stop briefly to take on food and water and to rid his ship of the geir, the former captain’s body, and the geir’s little box.

Hugh knew Suthnas well; he had put up there when his ship needed the magic strengthened or repairs. He gave the elf captain the name because he, the Hand, intended to leave the ship himself.

The assassin had made up his mind. He cursed the day he met that “king’s messenger.” He cursed the day he had saddled himself with this contract. Nothing had gone right; now he had lost his own dragonship, almost his life, and damn near his self-respect. His plan to capture the elven ship had worked, but like everything else he touched these days, not the way it was supposed to. He was to have been the captain, not this elf. Why had he let himself get caught up in that damn duel? Why hadn’t he just killed them both?

Hugh was shrewd enough to know that if he had fought, he and all the others would probably be dead right now. But he ignored the logic. He refused to admit that he had done what he had done in order to save lives, to protect Alfred, Limbeck . . . the prince.

No! I did it for myself. Not for anyone else. No one else matters and I’ll prove it. I’ll leave them, disembark at Suthnas, let these fools go on to the High Realm and take their chances with a mysteriarch. Forget it. I’ll write off my losses, toss in my cards, get up and leave the table. The port of Suthnas was run by elves whose purses meant more to them than politics, and it had become a haven for water smugglers, rebels, deserters, and a few renegade humans. The prisoners had a good view of the town from the porthole and most, after seeing it, decided they were better off where they were.

The town was nothing more than a squalid assemblage of inns and taverns built near the harbor; the homes of the town’s inhabitants bunched like a flock of sheep on the side of a coralite cliff. The buildings were shabby and run-down; a smell of cooked cabbage—an elven favorite—hung in the air, undoubtedly because mounds of it were rotting in the garbage-infested alleyways. But, because it stood in the sun, with blue sky above it, Suthnas was a beautiful and awe-inspiring sight to the Geg.

Limbeck had never seen streets drenched in sunlight, the firmament glittering like a million jewels in the sky above. He had never seen people strolling about aimlessly, not scurrying hither and yon on some business of the Kicksey-Winsey. He had never felt a gentle breeze upon his cheek or smelled the smells of living, growing things, or even things that were rotting and dying. The houses that Hugh told him were hovels seemed to the Geg to be palaces. Limbeck looked on all this splendor, and it came to him that what he saw had been bought and paid for by the sweat and blood of his people. The Geg’s face saddened, he became silent and withdrawn, and Haplo watched with a smile.

Hugh paced about the hold, staring out the portholes, fidgeting and inwardly fuming. Captain Bothar’el had given the assassin permission to leave if he wanted.

“You should all go,” the captain said. “Leave now, while you have the chance.”

“But we’re going to the High Realm! You promised!” Bane cried. “You promised,” he repeated, gazing up at the elf with pleading eyes.

“Yes,” said the elf, staring at the child. Shaking his head, as if to break a hold, he turned to Alfred. “And you?”

“I stay with my prince, of course.”

The elf turned to Limbeck, who, not understanding, looked at Haplo.

“I’m going to see the world, the whole world,” said the Geg firmly when he heard the translation. “After all, it exists because of my people.”

“I’m with him,” said the Patryn, smiling and jerking a bandage-wrapped thumb in the direction of the Geg.

“So,” said Bothar’el, turning to Hugh, “only you are leaving?”

“It looks that way.”

Hugh didn’t leave, however.

While they were docked, one of the midshipmen looked into the brig. “Are you still aboard, human? The captain is returning. You should go now, quickly.” Hugh didn’t move.

“I wish you would come with us, Sir Hugh,” said Bane, “My father would like very much to meet you and... thank you.”

That cinched it. The kid wanted him. He’d leave right now. Right . . . now.

“Well, human?” demanded the midshipman. “Are you coming?” Hugh fished around in a pocket, dragged out his last coin—payment for assassinating a child. Grunting, he tossed it at the elf. “I’ve decided to stay and find my fortune. Go buy me some tobacco.”

The elves did not linger long in Suthnas. Once the geir reached civilized lands, he would report the mutiny and the Carfa’shon would be sought by all the ships of the line. Once in deepsky, Captain Bothar’el worked the human slaves, the crew, and himself to the point of exhaustion until the ship was, he believed, safely beyond possible pursuit.

Hours later, when the Lords of Night had cast their cloak over the sun, the captain found time to speak to his “guests.”

“So, you heard the news,” were the captain’s first words, addressed to Hugh.

“I want you to know that I could have made a nice profit off the lot of you, but I have a debt to repay to you. I consider at least part of it canceled.”

“Where’s my tobacco?” Hugh demanded.

“What news?” asked Alfred.

The captain raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know? I assumed that was the reason you didn’t leave the ship.” He tossed a pouch in the assassin’s direction. Hugh caught it handily, opened it, and sniffed. Removing his pipe, he began filling it.

“There’s a reward out for your head, Hugh the Hand.” Hugh grunted. “Nothing new.”

“A total of two hundred thousand barls.”

The Hand looked up and whistled. “Now, that’s a fine price. This has to do with the kid?” His glance shifted to Bane. The child had begged pen and paper from the elves and had done nothing but draw ever since he came on board. No one interfered with his latest amusement. It was safer than letting him pick berries.

“Yes. You and this man”—the elf gestured at Alfred—“are reported to have kidnapped the prince of Volkaran. There is a price of one hundred thousand barls on your head,” he said to the horrified chamberlain, “two hundred thousand for Hugh the Hand, and the reward is good only if one or both are brought in alive.”

“What about me?” Bane raised his head. “Isn’t there any reward for me?”

“Stephen doesn’t want you back,” Hugh growled.

The prince appeared to consider this, then giggled. “Yes, I guess you’re right,” he said, and returned to his work.

“But this is impossible!” cried Alfred. “I ... I am His Highness’s servant! I came with him to protect him—”

“Exactly,” said Hugh. “That’s just what Stephen didn’t want.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” said Captain Bothar’el. “I hope, for your sakes, you are being honest about the High Realm. I need money to run this ship and pay my crew and I’ve just passed up a lot.”

“Of course it’s true!” cried Bane, lower lip thrust forward in a charming pout. “I am the son of Sinistrad, Mysteriarch of the Seventh House. My father will reward you well!”

“He had better!” said the captain.

The elf glanced around sternly at his prisoners, then stalked out of the hold. Bane, looking after him, laughed and returned to his scribbling.

“I can never go back to Volkaran!” murmured Alfred. “I’m an exile.”

“You’re dead unless we can figure some way out of this,” said Hugh, lighting his pipe with a coal from the small magepot they used to heat their food and to keep themselves warm at night.

“But Stephen wants us alive.”

“Only so that he can have the pleasure of killing us himself.” Bane, looking up at him, smiled slyly. “So if you had gone out there, someone would have recognized you and turned you in. You stayed because of me, didn’t you? I saved your life.”

Hugh made no comment, preferring to pretend that he hadn’t heard. He relapsed into a brooding, thoughtful silence. When his pipe went out, he didn’t notice. Coming back to himself sometime later, he noted that everyone—except Alfred—had fallen asleep. The chamberlain was standing beside the porthole, gazing out into night’s gray gloom. The Hand, rising to stretch his stiff legs, wandered over.

“What do you make of this fellow Haplo?” Hugh asked.

“Why?” Alfred jumped, stared at the assassin fearfully. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Calm down. I just wanted to know what you made of him, that’s all.”

“Nothing! I make nothing of him at all! If you will excuse me, sir,” Alfred interrupted when Hugh would have spoken, “I’m very tired. I must get some sleep.”

Now what was that all about? The chamberlain returned to his blanket. He lay down, but Hugh, watching him, saw that Alfred was far from sleep. He lay stiff and rigid, rubbing his hands, tracing unseen lines upon the skin. His face could have been a mask in a play called Terror and Misery.

Hugh could almost pity him.

Almost, but not quite. No, the walls Hugh’d built around himself were still standing, still strong and unbroken. There had been a tiny crack, letting in a ray of light—harsh and painful to eyes accustomed to darkness. But he’d blocked it up, covered it over. Whatever hold the child had on him was magic—something beyond the assassin’s control, at least until they came to the High Realm. Retreating to a corner of his cell, Hugh relaxed and went to sleep.

The flight to the High Realm took the elven dragonship almost two weeks, far longer than it should have, according to Captain Bothar’el’s calculations. What he hadn’t calculated on was that his crew and slaves all tired far too quickly. Magical spells cast by the ship’s wizard enabled them to withstand the reduced air pressure, but he could do nothing to relieve the thinness of the air that left them always feeling as if they were short of breath. The elven crew grew nervous, sullen, and uneasy. It was eerie, flying through the vast and empty sky. Above them, the firmament glittered and sparkled brightly by day, glistened with a pale sheen at night. Even the most gullible person aboard could see that the mysterious firmament was not made of jewels floating in the heavens.

“Chunks of ice,” announced Captain Bothar’el, studying it through the spyglass.

“Ice?” The second in command appeared almost relieved. “That’s stopped us, then, hasn’t it, captain, sir? We can’t fly through ice. We might as well turn back.”

“No.” Bothar’el snapped his spyglass shut. It seemed he was answering himself, replying to some inner argument rather than to the words of his mate. “We’ve come this far. The High Realm is up here somewhere. We’re going to find it.”

“Or die trying,” said the second in command, but he said it to himself. On they sailed, higher and higher, drawing nearer the firmament that hung spanning the sky like a monstrous radiant necklace. They saw no sign of life of any type, let alone a land where dwelt the most highly skilled of human magi.

The air grew colder. They were forced to wear every article of clothing they possessed, and even then it was difficult to keep warm. The crew began to mutter among themselves that this was mad folly, they would all perish up here, either of the cold or stranded in deepsky, lacking the strength to fly back.

After days passed with no sign of life, supplies running short and the cold growing almost unbearable, Captain Bothar’el went below to tell the “guests” he had changed his mind, they were returning to the Mid Realm. He found the prisoners wrapped in every blanket they could get their hands on, huddled over the magepot. The Geg was deathly ill—either from the cold or the change in air pressure. The captain didn’t know what kept him alive. (Alfred did, but took care no one should ask him.)

Bothar’el was just about to make his announcement when a shout hailed him.

“What is it?” The captain ran back to the bridge. “Have we found it?”

“I’d say, sir,” said a stammering midshipman, staring with wide eyes out the porthole, “that it’s found us!”