“Unless you can fly,” said Hugh, and tossed a length of cable overboard. The chamberlain attached it to the packs and, giving it a tug, indicated they were ready. Hugh hauled them up on deck. Handing one to Bane, he told the boy to follow him and, hopping from plank to plank, made his way aft. Opening a hatch, he climbed down a sturdy wooden ladder, Bane gleefully coming after. They entered in a narrow corridor that ran beneath the upper deck, connecting the steerage way with the passengers’ quarters, the storage compartments, and the pilot’s quarters, located in the afterdeck. The corridor was dark after the brightness of the day outside, and both man and boy stopped to let their eyes adjust.
Hugh felt a small hand fasten onto his.
“I can’t believe I’m really going to get to fly in one of these! You know, Sir Hugh,” Bane added with a wistful cheerfulness, “once I’ve flown in a dragonship, I will have done everything in life I ever wanted to do. I really think I could die quite contentedly after this.”
A constricting pain in Hugh’s chest nearly suffocated him. He couldn’t breathe, for long moments he couldn’t see, and it wasn’t the darkness of the ship’s interior that was blinding him. It was fear, he told himself. Fear that the child had found out. Shaking his head to rid his eyes of the shadow that had fallen over them, he turned to look hard at the boy.
But Bane was gazing up at him with innocent affection, not cunning guile. Hugh jerked his hand roughly out of the child’s grasp.
“That cabin’s where you and Alfred’ll sleep,” he said. “Stow the packs there.” A thud and a muffled groan sounded from above them. “Alfred? Get down here and take care of His Highness. I’ve got work to do ”
“Yes, sir,” came the quavering return, and Alfred slid—literally—down the ladder, landing on the deck in a heap.
Turning on his heel, Hugh stalked off toward the steerage way, shoving past Alfred without saying a word.
“Merciful Sartan,” said the chamberlain, backing up to avoid being run down. He stared after Hugh, then turned to Bane. “Did you say or do anything to upset him, Your Highness?”
“Why, no, Alfred,” the boy said. Reaching out, he took hold of the chamberlain’s hand. “Where did you put those berries?”
“Can I come in?”
“No. Stay in the hatchway,” Hugh ordered.
Bane peeked inside the steerage way and his eyes widened in astonishment. Then he giggled. “It looks like you’re stuck in a big spider’s web! What are all those ropes hooked to? And why are you wearing that contraption?” The contraption Hugh was strapping on himself resembled a leather breastplate, except that it had numerous cables attached to it. Extending in various directions, the cables ran upward into a complicated system of pulleys fixed to the ceiling.
“I’ve never in my life seen so much wood!” Alfred’s voice floated into the steerage way. “Not even in the royal palace. The wood alone must make this ship worth its weight in barls. Your Highness, please keep back. Don’t touch those cables!”
“Can’t I go over and look out the windows? Please, Alfred? I won’t get in the way.”
“No, Your Highness,” Hugh said. “If one of these cables wrapped around your neck, it would snap it in a second.”
“You can see well enough from where we’re standing. Quite well enough,” said Alfred, looking slightly green around the mouth. The ground was far below them. All that could be seen were the tops of trees and the side of a coralite cliff.
Harness firmly fastened in place, Hugh settled down on a high-backed wooden chair that stood on one leg in the center of the steerage way. The chair swiveled to the left and the right, allowing the pilot easy maneuvering. Sticking up out of the floor in front of him was a tall metal lever.
“Why do you have to wear that thing?” Bane asked, staring at the harness.
“It keeps the cables in easy reach, prevents them from getting tangled, lets me know which cable goes where.” Hugh nudged the lever with his foot. A series of startling bangs resounded through the ship. The cables whirled through the pulleys and snapped taut. Hugh pulled on several of the cables attached to his chest. There came various creaking and rumbling sounds, a sharp jerk, and they could feel the ship lift slightly beneath their feet.
“The wings are unfolding,” said Hugh. “The magic is activating.” A crystal globe sextant, located directly above the pilot’s head, began to gleam with a soft blue light. Symbols appeared within it. Hugh pulled harder on the cables, and suddenly the treetops and the cliff side began to drop out of sight. The ship was rising.
Alfred gasped. Losing his balance, he staggered backward, clinging to the bulwarks for support. Bane, jumping up and down, clapped his hands. Suddenly the cliff and the trees vanished, and the vast expanse of clear blue sky stretched endlessly before them.
“Oh, Sir Hugh, may I go to the upper deck? I want to see where we’re going.”
“Absolutely not, Your High—” began Alfred.
“Sure,” interrupted Hugh. “Take the ladder we used coming down. Keep hold of the rails and you won’t get blown off.”
Bane scampered away and in another moment they could hear his boots clomp overhead.
“Blown off!” gasped Alfred. “It’s not safe!”
“It’s safe. The elven wizards put a magical canopy around it. He couldn’t even jump off. As long as the wings are extended and the magic’s working, he’ll be all right.” Hugh flicked Alfred an amused glance. “But you might want to go up and keep an eye on him, all the same.”
“Yes, sir,” said the chamberlain, swallowing. “I ... I’ll do just that.” But he didn’t move. Clinging with deathlike grip to the bulwarks, his rigid face white as the clouds sailing past them, Alfred stared fixedly out at the blue sky.
“Alfred?” said Hugh, tugging on one of the cables. The ship dipped to the left, and a glimpse of treetop sprang suddenly and dizzingly into view.
“I’m going. Right now, sir. I’m going,” said the chamberlain, not moving a muscle.
Up on the deck, Bane leaned over the rail, entranced by the sight. He could see Pitrin’s Exile sliding away behind him. Below him and before him were blue sky and white clouds; above him sparkled the firmament. The dragon wings extended on either side, their leathery skin barely rippling with the motion of the ship’s passage. The center wing stood up straight behind him, swaying slightly back and forth.
Holding the feather in his hands, the boy brushed it idly back and forth across his chin. “The ship is controlled by the harness. Magic keeps it afloat. The wings are like bat’s wings. The crystal on the ceiling tells you where you are.” Standing on tiptoe, he stared down below him, wondering if he could see the Maelstrom from this high up. “It’s easy, really,” he remarked, twiddling the feather.
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.