“Not a bargain I’d trust,” Rogger said.
“But we have little choice,” Tylar said. “And in some small way, perhaps it’s a debt we owe to Eylan.”
No one argued against that.
Rogger finally spoke. “I forgot one last item that stands between us and success.” He raised his hand and now held up three fingers. “Before any of this can begin, we have to get our arses out of here.”
After several matters had been settled further, Tylar stepped into the back room. They could wait no longer.
“It is time,” he told the healers.
Healer Fennis and his wife bustled on either side of the bed, shoving last bits of balms and wraps into an overstuffed pack. “Are you sure that’s everything?” Fennis asked.
His wife gave him a look that seemed equal parts exasperation and certainty.
Fennis held up a hand, acquiescing. Wise man.
Lorr crossed and picked up the pack.
“There’s extra wrappings,” Fennis said, fingering at the dressings on the man’s arm. “If you’ll need them.”
Lorr batted him away. “Don’t mind me. Get the boy ready.”
Tylar studied the wyld tracker. He had agreed to let Lorr join their search. His hunting and tracking skills could prove useful out in the hinterlands. It would be foolish to refuse such experienced service. The man hauled the laden bag with ease, little fazed by his burns.
Brant, though, looked little better, burnt as well, but on the inside, where it was harder for balms to reach. His bronze skin had yellowed and stretched thin across his bones. And though his breathing was stronger, when he tried to lift himself up on an elbow, he failed.
Tylar caught the healer’s eye.
“He’s been well-draughted,” the man assured him. “Addles a bit. By midday on the morrow, he’ll feel half his oats again.”
He nodded. Morning was not far off, but it seemed like a fanciful dream, a hope that one did not really expect to attain.
Kathryn hurried inside, slightly breathless. “I heard word. Argent has gotten wise to what we’re planning.”
Tylar clenched a fist.
“I’ll get Master Brant,” the giant said.
The loam-giant rose from a crouch on the far side of the bed and plucked away the bedsheet. He gently collected Brant out of his nest of pillows with a regretful expression.
Brant startled, clutching at the man’s neck.
“Just Mal, Master Brant.”
The boy’s eyes focused and searched the room. “We’re heading out?” he asked through thin lips.
“We must,” Tylar said and led them back to the main room. The others were already waiting.
“I’m coming with you,” Mal said.
Tylar thought to argue, but the giant’s brother had died to gain them this vantage. Plus the man was plainly strong and could prove his value. An objection arose, though, from another corner.
“No,” Brant mumbled. “The whelpings?”
“I locked ’em up in your rooms,” the giant said. He pulled a key from a pocket as proof.
“Who’s going to-?” Brant coughed away the last of his words, but the worry shone in his wan face.
Mal’s brow furrowed into deep-plowed tracks, caught between two duties.
He was saved by a hand plucking the key from his fingertips. Lorr tossed the key over to the young tracker beside the bullhound. “Kytt and Barrin will look after them.”
The young tracker bumbled the iron key, and it fell with a clatter.
Laurelle retrieved it as it bounced to her toes. “I’ll help, too.”
Mal sighed with relief. “They’ll take good care of the mites.”
Brant still wore a troubled expression, but he did not object.
With such matters settled, they set out. Dart gave her friend Laurelle a final teary-eyed hug. Then the group was on its way at a quick pace, herded close, led by Kathryn.
Halfway down the hall, a long-limbed man in blue livery, spotless and unwrinkled, blocked the way. “The warden sent word that no one is to leave this floor!” he scolded.
“Out of our way, Lowl,” Kathryn said, stiff-arming him aside. Luckily all of Argent’s forces were occupied down below, leaving only this manservant to attend his orders here. “I’ll take it up with the warden when I get back.”
Chased by the man’s objections, they hurried to the stairs and fled up toward the top of the tower. A cool wind wafted down to them. Tylar heard the pound of hammer on wood. That could not be good. With Argent below and the storm without, they had no time for delays.
Tylar found Captain Horas just inside the door that led out to the flippercraft dock atop Stormwatch. He had a stick of coal in one hand and had been calculating on the wall. Numbers and symbols lined from floor to eye. Some crossed out, others circled.
The man wore the yellow-and-white uniform of his station, but it was stained and smudged. From the smell, not all of it was coal.
“Won’t work…” the captain muttered, scratching his head with his sliver of coal.
Tylar joined him and waved the others out on the dock.
Captain Horas had to squeeze against the wall to allow Malthumalbaen to pass. His eyes tracked the giant, then back to Tylar. “He’s not going, is he?”
Tylar nodded.
“Sweet aether…” The captain scratched a line of calculations. “A dozen, that’s the most we’ll be able to ferry through the storm. If we can ferry through the storm.” He laughed, but it held no mirth. “And I need three men to crew…and that giant…that’s two men right there.”
Tylar took the charcoal from his fingers and turned the man toward the open door. “We’ll have to manage.” He gave him a push out into the freezing bite of the storm’s heart.
Outside, the others gaped at the state of the flippercraft. The woodwrights had proven their mastery. The stoved ship seemed to be patched well. Details were fairly smeared away.
Lorr held a hand over his nose. Tylar did not blame him. The reek was overpowering even in the open.
“Black bile,” Krevan said with a shake of his head.
One of the dockworkers, masked against the stench, swabbed a sodden mop over the outer planking of the ship’s bow, smearing more black bile over a thin patch. Shouts echoed. Ladders were being hauled aside.
Tylar hurried to the others.
Rogger stood with his fists on his hips. “A ship of shite…now that’s a boat fit for a regent.”
Gerrod crossed toward the group, expressionless behind his bronze armor. He was followed by a welcome figure. Delia was bundled in a heavy coat, also splattered with bile.
“You had enough humour?” Tylar asked the armored master.
“Barely. We’ve emptied all of Tashijan’s storehouses.”
“And a few privies, I’d imagine,” Rogger said.
Gerrod ignored him. “Mistress Delia has proven to be an able alchemist. She had some suggestions for heightening the Grace with tears. It will not last long, but hopefully long enough to get through the storm.”
Delia stood to the side with her arms crossed. Her eyes flitted to Kathryn and back to him, her face unreadable, smudged with bile.
Gerrod continued, “Her suggestion allowed us to thin the coating across the flippercraft, while still hopefully blocking the storm’s ability to draw Grace out of the ship’s mekanicals as you pass through it. But even bile has its limits. You will have to gain as much wind as you can before attempting to spear through the storm’s ring.”
“We’ll make it,” Tylar said. They had no other choice.
A shout by the stairway door reminded them that Argent was on his way.
“Everybody aboard,” Kathryn said.
Tylar waved them toward the open hatch. Captain Horas and two of his men had already boarded, all wearing expressions of doom. Tylar watched the others climb inside. They looked no more confident, except Rogger, who was whistling.
The last to leave, Tylar turned to Kathryn and Delia. Gerrod had already clanked off to oversee something near the stern tie-down.
The two women seemed to suddenly become aware they were alone together. Kathryn broke the spell first. “I should get below. Argent will need much calming. And we have our towers to ready.”