Trip saw now why his captors hadn’t expected much from Jaentarth. Even to a kender it was slightly disappointing. It would have to do, however. He doubted it would he any easier to escape from Berann.
Ducking around the benches, he made his way to Lord Kell’s cabin. A quick search turned up his confiscated items, including his lucky treasure finder and his daggers. Trip smiled and hung the thong attached to the shiny, pointed rock around his neck. He hadn’t remembered to wear the treasure finder since stowing away on Kingfisher, but a bit of good luck now couldn’t hurt.
He tucked the pearl-handled daggers’ sheaths into the top of his hoots and then packed away the rest of his small treasures. His hazel eyes strayed covetously toward the coral lance hanging over Benthor Kell’s bunk, but he decided there was no way to take it with him at the moment. Rummaging around further, it didn’t take him long to turn up the black diamond artifact.
Remembering that he had already once failed his promise to keep the ancient key safe, he removed it from the hidden compartment in Kell’s sea chest and tucked the golden trinket even more deeply into his vest pocket.
Now to find his friends.
Going on deck to slip overboard seemed out of the question. Fortunately, Lord Kell’s cabin had a good-sized porthole on the starboard wall. Unfortunately, the small window looked directly toward the ship’s landward side-where the crew was swimming.
Trip guessed that Lady Kell’s room would have a similar porthole in the ship’s opposite hull. Moving quietly, the kender crept from Lord Kell’s cabin and put his small ear to Misa Kell’s door. No voices came from within.
As he opened the door, though, a quiet gasp came from inside. Trip froze. When no further cry went up, he decided to dare a peek.
Peering into the darkened cabin, he saw Misa Kell lying on a simple palette near the stem. She was alone. Sweat dripped from her brow, and-despite the freshness of the dressing on her wound-the room smelled of blood and old bandages.
Trip crinkled his nose and crept silently across the floorboards. Misa Kell groaned and her gray eyes flicked open. Trip froze again; he couldn’t tell whether she was actually seeing him, or whether she was lost in some fever dream.
She reached weakly toward the kender; Trip backed across the room toward the curtained porthole.
“The light,” she murmured. “I want to see… the light… before I die. Please.”
Trip nodded and smiled. “I’ll be happy to,” he said. “I was going to leave that way anyway. I hope you don’t mind.”
Misa’s eyes fluttered shut and she groaned again.
Trip pulled back the curtain and hoisted himself up to the lip of the portal. He checked outside to make sure there were no swimmers below. There weren’t. Before scrambling through, he turned to Misa and said, “Goodbye. I hope you feel better.”
Lady Kell didn’t reply, and Trip couldn’t be sure if she even heard him. With one final wriggle, he slipped through the port hole and dived into die water below.
Coming up for air, he checked the galley’s deck, to make sure no one had seen him. The lookout was gazing past him, out to sea; the bulk of the ship hid the kender from the man’s view.
Cautiously, Trip swam around to the bow. He knew that there might not be anyone watching that direction-while the helmsman would surely be stationed near the stem.
He paddled cautiously toward the ram, then noticed that some of the crewmen were clinging there, taking a break from their swim. Trip pressed himself against the hull and thought hard.
The kender knew he couldn’t hold his breath long enough to swim all the way to shore. He also knew that he’d probably be spotted as soon as he surfaced. However, he had few other options. He checked the pockets of his lizard-skin vest and pulled out the last bit of magical seaweed. He stuck it in his cheek and chewed vigorously.
Nothing happened.
Either the magic had worn out or there wasn’t enough left to make the spell work. Either way, it was no use to Trip, so he spat it out Drat! He’d have to do this the hard way.
Taking a deep breath, he dived under the keel of the ship and headed for shore. He watched Kell’s warriors swimming in the clear surf above him. They would certainly see him if they glanced down, but Trip hoped they wouldn’t do that. He also hoped that anyone on deck looking might mistake him for part of the crowd in the water. He prayed that his leg wound wouldn’t open up again and attract sharks.
He swam as fast and as far as he could, holding his breath until spots danced before his eyes. Then, with a final surge, he broke the surface about fifty yards from the boat A quick breath and he went back down again, swimming for all he was worth.
The spots came more quickly this time, and he barely made it back to the surface. He sputtered and coughed as he stuck his head out of the gentle waves. For a few long moments, he gasped for breath. As he did, he heard a cry of alarm from the trireme. They’d spotted him.
He dived back under again. When he resurfaced, the shouting grew louder. Something splashed in the water nearby, and Trip realized they were shooting at him. He ducked back below the waves just as a brass-tipped arrow sailed over his head.
Again to the surface-nearly out of arrowshot this time. Trip’s lungs burned, and his head felt dizzy and full of cotton. An arrow splashed into the water beside him, barely missing his shoulder. He swam on the surface for a while, trying to clear his skull. Another arrow whizzed past. Gazing ahead, he saw Jaentarth’s rocky shores-still much too far away.
Once more under the waves. Good thing he was the best swimmer in a family of champion swimmers, if he did say so himself. He saw the rugged shoreline rising up under him now. The clear water made it easy to pick out the jagged rocks and coral lining the bottom.
On the surface again, breathing more easily now, well beyond the range of the ship’s bowman. Before him, though, another problem. The trireme had alerted the landing party. He saw Lord Kell, Karista, the healer, and a number of brass-armored guards standing on the hillside. They were pointing his way and shouting.
The shore was close now. With every surge, the breakers carried him forward. “Don’t get smashed on the rocks,” Trip told himself.
The waves pushed him toward the boulders. Trip twisted his body to avoid being crushed and grabbed with his fingers. He caught a nook on one of the crags and held on. In the lull before the next wave, he scrambled up out of the surf.
He lay on the rocks for a moment, panting, every part of his body burning with exertion. Blood pounded in his ears, mixing with the crashing of the waves. Then, another noise rose above the sounds of blood and water-yelling.
Raising his tawny head, Trip saw the landing party coming for him. Every muscle aching, he thrust himself off the boulder and down the rocky beach. The beach’s stones bruised his feet through his soft-bottomed boots. He ignored the pain and kept running. Good thing he was a champion runner too, from a family as good as running as it was at swimming.
The shoreline stretched before him, a hundred yards of rocks and coral. Beyond them, the surf again, and a sheer cliff face a hundred feet high. Trip liked to climb, but rock climbing wasn’t his specialty; no, he was a swimmer and a runner and, if it came to climbing, he was far more at home in a ship’s rigging.
“If I try to climb the cliffs, they’ll shoot me like a duck in a barrel,” he thought.
The sea caves in the cliff face presented a better option. He was willing to bet that he might be able to lose his pursuers there. And what other choice did he have?