“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.
25
Hugh crashed to the deck, dragging the cables attached to the harness ON his body with him. The ship listed sharply, slamming Bane backward into the bulkhead. The bowl of food fell from the child’s hand with a clatter. From the cabin below, there was a resounding crash, followed by a pained and panicked yell.
Staggering to his feet, clinging to the ship’s side, the prince looked around dazedly. The deck slanted at a precarious angle. Hugh lay on his back, entangled in the cables. Bane glanced hastily outside, saw the nose of the dragon pointing straight down, and realized what had happened. Hugh’s fall had pulled the wings in, the magic was not working, and now they were plunging out of control through the sky, plummeting down toward the Maelstrom. It had not occurred to Bane that this would happen. Nor had it, apparently, occurred to his father. That was not surprising. A human mysteriarch of the Seventh House, living in realms far above the strife and turmoil of the rest of the world, could have no knowledge of things mechanical. Sinistrad had probably never even seen an elven dragonship. And, after all, Hugh had assured the boy the ship could fly itself.
Bane scrambled among the tangle of cables. Reaching Hugh’s body, he pulled and tugged with all his might at the ropes. But he couldn’t move them. The wings would not budge.
“Alfred!” the prince yelled. “Alfred, come quickly!” There was another crash and a scuffling below; then Alfred’s face—deathly white—poked up through the hatch.
“Sir Hugh! What’s happening! We’re falling—” His gaze rested on the man’s body. “Blessed Sartan!” With a swiftness and ease unusual in such a clumsy, ungainly body, Alfred dashed in through the hatch, made his way over the coils of rope, and knelt beside Hugh.
“Oh, never mind him! He’s dead!” cried the prince. Grabbing hold of Alfred’s coat, he jerked him around to face the front of the ship. “Look! You’ve got to stop us! Take the harness off him and fly this thing!”
“Your Majesty!” Alfred was livid. “I can’t fly a ship! It takes skill, years of practice!” The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, he’s dead?” Bane glared at him defiantly, but his gaze dropped before Alfred’s. The chamberlain was no longer the buffoon; his eyes were suddenly strangely compelling and intense, and the boy found their penetrating stare highly uncomfortable.
“He got what he deserved,” Bane said sullenly. “He was an assassin, hired by King Stephen to kill me. I’ve killed him first, that’s all.”
“You?” Alfred’s gaze went to the feather. “Or your father?” Bane looked confused. His lips opened, then clamped shut. His hand clenched around the amulet as if to hide it, and he began to stammer.
“No need to lie,” Alfred said, sighing. “I’ve known for a long time. Longer than your father and mother, or should I say your adopted father and mother, although adoption implies a choice, and they never had one. What kind of poison did you give him, Bane?”
“Him? Why are you worried about him? Are you just going to let us crash?” the prince screeched shrilly.
“He’s the only one who can save us! What did you use on him?” Alfred demanded, reaching out his hand to grasp hold of the boy and shake the information out of him if need be.
The prince darted backward, slipping and sliding across the slanting deck until he was brought to a halt by the bulkhead. Turning, he stared through the window. The prince let out a whoop.
“The elven ships! We’re heading straight for them! We don’t need that filthy murderer. The elves will save us!”
“No! Wait! Bane! It was the berries, wasn’t it?”
The boy dashed out of the steerage way. Behind him, Bane heard Alfred shouting that elves were dangerous, but he paid no attention.