Tarothin looked as close as a wizard ever could to being humble, even awed. But then he had healed a creature of the race that was closer to the gods than any other created beings.
It began to seem to Haimya that frivolity and pleasure had lost any place in this quest.
* * * * *
Six days later, land was far behind Golden Cup. The captain had laid their course straight north out of the Gulf of Karthay, then north. They were staying well clear of North Cape, to avoid any ships of Synsaga’s that might be disposed to board first and negotiate afterward.
There was also the matter of the dragon. The fewer eyes outside Golden Cup that saw Hipparan, the better.
Pirvan was turning to descend the ladder from the forecastle when the dragon broke out of a low-lying cloud-bank far off toward the sunset. The ship was rolling gently eastward under easy sail with a steady breeze from almost dead astern.
Hipparan spread his wings and glided in for a landing before Pirvan was halfway down the ladder. As he reached the deck, the dragon folded his wings and landed on his hind legs, slipping in between the shrouds as if he’d been practicing for years.
From ports and hatches bearded faces thrust themselves forward. The sailors were now only wary of Hipparan, not frightened. He had done no harm, some of them appreciated his grace and splendor, and all appreciated a fine haul of fish to which he had guided them two days ago.
They still preferred to leave dealing with the dragon to their officers, among whom Pirvan and Haimya now ranked. As Grimsoar One-Eye put it, “The feeling is, the dragon’s done no harm so far. But why risk being too close when he changes his mind?”
This, Tarothin said, denied the basic concepts of good and evil. Grimsoar replied that the wizard might know a great deal about good and evil, even if he was neutral himself, but how much did he know about dragons? Or sailors, for that matter?
Tarothin departed in something of a temper, after this setdown at the hands of someone he had to force himself to respect. When matters seemed well with Haimya, Pirvan had tried to change the wizard’s mind, but lately he had no time to spare for this.
Haimya had returned to her old distance. Pirvan did not unreasonably regret the lost laying on of hands, and indeed was not sure who had won the bet. Nor did the warrior-maid return to the chilly manner that had made it hard for them to work together.
But their friendship seemed part of a distant past, like the elves’ Kinslayer Wars, a thing of legend. This worried Eskaia, and Pirvan had no idea how much Haimya had told her mistress and how much the young lady had guessed. Not much and quite a lot were Pirvan’s own guesses.
Unfortunately, he and Eskaia could not safely put their heads together and combine their knowledge in the hope of finding a solution. He had no such rights over Haimya, and neither did Eskaia, even if she might think otherwise. Such a well-meant conspiracy would most likely end with Haimya sundered from her mistress and disposed to geld Pirvan with a dull blade.
“Hoha, Pirvan Thief,” Hipparan said. “I have sighted a storm to the northwest. Its course seems toward this ship.”
That brought one of the faces, the mate of the deck, out in plain sight. “Can you tell us more?”
Hipparan described a storm fierce enough to make everyone within hearing look dubiously at one another, then up at the rigging. Golden Cup’s hull and belowdecks were sound enough to weather anything short of the end of the world, but its deck gear and rigging still had scars and weaknesses from the first blow. They would not have to worry much about shoals and reefs this far north, but Pirvan had heard that the storms blew longer and harder.
“Any magic in it?” Haimya asked. Pirvan saw eyes and mouths open, wanted to snap at her for her indiscretion, then realized that such discretion would require Hipparan’s cooperation. Haimya could whisper her question in the dark of the nightwatch, and still have it shouted from the masthead the next day if Hipparan was in the mood.
Besides, Pirvan wanted the question answered himself.
“How should I know?” Hipparan said. He sounded testy. “I flew along the storm front close enough to see clearly. At that distance, I sensed no spells. But if I had flown close enough to sense them, they might have caught me. Then where would we all be?”
Hipparan’s strength had improved. His manners had not. But everyone seemed to know the answer to his final question, and none seemed to like it.
Hipparan left his audience standing, and scrambled down into the hold. A party of sailors began dragging the hatch cover back into place.
“I hope our scaly friend doesn’t mind being a little stuffy when the gale hits,” the mate of the deck said. “I won’t have leaking hatches for all the dragons on Krynn.”
Pirvan wondered how many they might be now. He also wondered where Jemar was. Even Jemar’s own ship might make a difference to the quest; his whole squadron would almost ensure its success. Synsaga could not afford to lose the men and ships that a fight with Jemar would eat.
Haimya merely stared through him. The thief wandered to the railing and looked to the north. Faint and far off, riding high above the crimson sunset glow, he could see the wispy clouds that were so often the vanguard of a storm.
Chapter 13
Jemar the fair kept bis broad-brimmed hat on his head with one hand, but nothing could keep the breeze from making its feathers dance madly. A whitecap broke against Windsword’s side, and spray doused his face. He blinked his eyes clear and again counted the ships in the bay.
“I see only four ships.”
The first mate shrugged. “I won’t try to guess, until I see who’s missing. At least nobody seems to be burdened with a prize.”
“Some don’t call that a burden,” Jemar said. “No prizes at all can unsettle men faster than leaving ones they’ve taken.”
The mate shrugged again. Nearing thirty, he still had a boy’s love for the romance of seafaring and not much respect for anyone who merely wanted to make a living on the great waters. He was worth his rations and shares many times over for the inspiration he gave the new recruits, but he needed to be brought down from the clouds every so often.
“Ahoy, the deck!” came the hail from the foretop. “I make out Youris, Geyon, Shilriya, and Zyrub.”
“Good watch,” Jemar shouted. “Double wine for you tonight.”
He turned to the mate. “Much as I expected. Nersha was complaining about that crack in the keel all last summer. I suspect she found she couldn’t really face the open sea in Blaze.”
“She could always have sailed and moved to another prize. A ship wouldn’t have to be much to be more seaworthy than Blaze. Or has she gone on piling up cabin furniture the way she used to? Perhaps she couldn’t find a ship large enough to carry-”
Jemar cleared his throat. “For all we know, that furniture is as precious to her as that set of jeweled earrings is to you.” The mate had the grace to flush slightly. Jemar grinned.
“It hardly matters, anyway. Five ships can give Synsaga enough of a fight to make him prefer talking, unless he’s lost his wits or found an entire dragonarmy.”
“Who knows what’s behind the rumors?” the mate said. “Besides, will all five ships be united?”
Jemar opened his mouth to rip the mate open like a reef tearing at a fishing boat for withholding information. Then he realized that the mate was merely looking on the dark side. He usually did when it came to the intrigues and schemes of a council of captains, which he hated with a holy passion.
“You don’t earn a mate’s rations and shares as a prophet of doom,” Jemar said shortly. “Right now, you earn them by having the longboat swung out and the decks manned for signaling and hospitality.”