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.”