Was another, unadmitted but real, goal amusing herself as much as she could, in ways that would not be tolerated at home, for once in her life? One-in a man it would be called an escapade-one journey on her own like a kender’s, to prove that she was an adult? Then back to the duties of a daughter of House Encuintras, much more than a single year wiser and more sure of herself?
“Haimya!” Tarothin sounded ready to throw something at her. “This is the third time I’ve asked. The metal strip, please. Hand it to me, and the gods spare you if you drop it!”
Haimya marched up to the wizard as she would have marched up to her company’s commander when reporting for duty. Her hands were sweat-slick but steady as she handed the metal to Tarothin.
The wizard thrust his staff into his belt to free both hands. Then he climbed awkwardly up onto Hipparan’s back and bound the metal around the wounded wing. It seemed to grow longer as Tarothin worked, until it made a dull gray ring three times around the damaged member.
“Stand well back, please,” Tarothin said. “This is the simplest healing magic I think will have any effect, but Hipparan is a dragon, and I am not a god.”
“We will learn how powerful you are sooner if you refrain from stating the obvious,” Hipparan said. Haimya had learned enough of his nuances of speech by now to detect boredom.
Eskaia, on the other hand, was biting her lip to keep from giggling as she came over to join her maid. Both watched as Tarothin stepped back, then touched the tip of his staff to the metal band and began chanting an incantation.
It was not in a language either woman knew, and for all Haimya could have said it did not even contain words. He might have been reciting the multiplication tables in the tongue of some long-lost clan of elves, for all she knew.
Hipparan was feeling something, however. His eyes were shut, and he was stretching his neck, rather like a cat being rubbed in a particularly congenial spot. His crest quivered faintly, like the same cat’s ears.
This went on for some time without any visible change, and Haimya’s mind began to wander to her wager with Pirvan, which was even more of a mystery than Eskaia’s reasons for this voyage.
She was not afraid that he would behave improperly. A more complete gentleman where a woman was concerned could hardly be imagined, let alone found. One might search the menfolk of a large city before finding another such as Pirvan.
No, it was that she feared she was behaving as someone in her position ought not to. She had grown to wonder if she and Gerik would be as they had been when they met again after he was ransomed. She was more than doubtful that the betrothal would survive any great changes, if they were both free to decide.
But they really were not. The line of Leri Ginfrayson (sometimes called Leri the Good) ought to continue-at least Eskaia would see it that way. There was also the matter of Haimya’s position in House Encuintras if she and Gerik parted. She would forfeit the substantial dowry Eskaia’s father had set aside for his daughter’s maid and confidante, and have small choice but to go again for a sellsword.
It was a profession she had followed with better than average success for six years. There would be neither shame nor mystery in taking the field again. But she had seen a whole other world than one saw from a place in a marching column, half choked by dust and thinking mostly of your saddlesores and the rust spot on your sword. She wanted to stay in the new world, and Gerik Ginfrayson was an honorable means to that end.
Also, he was in many ways a better man than Pirvan. He had served Istar honorably in the fleet, if not much at sea. He was more filled out; his beard might be scant, but his hair was long and fine; and his nose was more in proportion to his face.
Pirvan was all bone and sinew, like an alley cat that has foraged for every meal. His hair was a dubious mouse color and showed signs of departing before long, and his nose would make kissing him a somewhat uncertain manner.
His eyes, though, and the way he moved, and the gentleness of his speech (except when he was angry at things that would infuriate the least worldly cleric) and those hands that had found so much unlawful employment but were so fascinating to watch in movement. Fascinating, too, when the time came for them to touch her-or her them …
“Done!” Tarothin said. He sagged backward, and without the help of his staff and Eskaia, he would have fallen to the deck. Instead he sat down and rummaged in the basket for a few extra crumbs.
Haimya looked at Hipparan. At first she saw no difference. His eyes were still closed, and his crest still quivered faintly. Both wings now stretched out across the straw-covered bottom of the hold, as limp as candy held over a fire and turning soft.
Then she saw that the wound on Hipparan’s tail was gone. She looked for other wounds that she’d seen, and saw none of them. She turned her gaze back to the wings, saw them twitch-then Hipparan opened his eyes and let out his familiar warbling cry.
It seemed different now. The bone was out of the bird’s throat. Instead the call rose like a chorus of the greatest singers of some race known to neither gods nor men. It filled the hold, and Haimya wanted to hold her hands over her ears.
She did not, partly because the others weren’t, and partly because it would have seemed cowardly, even impious.
“Open the hatch,” Hipparan said. He did not raise his voice, nor did it sound as different as his call. But it was clearly a command, from one who thought he had every right to give it.
Haimya was not going to argue. She scrambled up the ladder and pounded on the hatch cover.
“Open!” she shouted. “Open, for the dragon!” That was nearly a scream. She would be hoarse if she had to call again.
Chains clanked, canvas hissed, and the hatch cover slid aside, pulled by a dozen sailors. Haimya wondered how long they had been waiting there, and what they were expecting. She would be happy to tell them, if she knew herself.
Hipparan reared up on his hind legs. His forelegs caught the rim of the hatch, the claws scoring deep furrows in the wood. Splinters pattered down on Eskaia and Tarothin, and one sailor cursed briefly at the damage to the ship.
He fell silent as Hipparan turned his great, dark eyes on the man. Then the dragon warbled again, and the sailors scattered as he half sprang, half climbed out of the hold. Haimya hurled herself up the last few rungs of the ladder, stumbled, and went to her hands and knees.
She was still there when Hipparan took three steps, then flung himself over the side. He dropped from sight for a moment, but then ropes snapped and sails bellied in the blast of wind as he snapped his wings to full extension and rose into view again. Legs and belly were dripping, but he continued to rise.
Then he no longer rose, but soared. The great wings beat strongly, carrying him up to the base of the nearest cloud. He vanished into the cloud, men groaned, then he dived out of it and they groaned louder as he continued his dive straight for the sea.
Groans turned to gasps as he came out of his dive with his claws above the wave tops. Then he flew straight at the ship, wings thundering. A long bowshot from Golden Cup, he climbed again, turned upside down, and flew over the ship with his crest pointed down at the deck and his feet at the clouds.
The Encuintras banner stood out as rigid as a board from the wind of Hipparan’s passage.
The dragon climbed again, and called. It was not his warbling cry again, but something harsher, less musical, almost a roar. It still sounded like something that one god might have used in place of words to speak to another. Haimya expected the whole world to be silent until the sea and the sky swallowed that cry.
It almost was, except for Eskaia’s quiet sobbing. She and Tarothin had reached the deck and stood close together. The lady’s head was not quite on the wizard’s shoulder, but it would certainly be allowed there.