The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(14)

Sleep is usually the best medicine. Nonetheless, Everlyn clears her throat. He doesn’t stir. Everlyn pats his shoulder. He topples slightly. She puts two fingers on his neck. It’s warm and wet and without a pulse. She raises his head. His eyes are wide and red; his lips and nostrils covered with sizzling foam the color of fire powder. Everlyn lowers his head then lowers herself to the edge of his bench.

When she looks up, Tuse is standing over her. “Livion’s waiting to see you.”

“I know,” she says. She stands up, her chin thrust at his chest. He slides aside to let her get to the ladder. “No,” she says, and heads forward again. “Let him wait. These men shouldn’t have to any longer.”

As she passes him, Tuse looks at the slumped-over rower. “This one all right?”

“He got the job done,” she says. So did I.

7



* * *



Livion orders Jeryon brought up and the dragon cut loose. They’ve rendered all they can, stuffing the captain’s cabin with bones, bolts of skin, and sheets of wing membrane. The dragon’s head has been carefully packed to ensure the phlogiston doesn’t escape, and so that it could later be made into a trophy. Crates stacked on deck are moved to the hold as soon as Jeryon emerges. Some people prize dragon meat as an aphrodisiac, but little could be taken that wasn’t ruined by the water, a dozen astounded sharks, the sandals of the renderers, and that bit which is being cooked over a brazier by the foredeck.

“Tastes like chicken,” Beale says.

“Fire chicken,” Topp says.

The rest of the carcass sinks quickly. The sharks follow it, and by the time Jeryon is marched the length of the ship past piles of stray flesh to the stern deck, the sea is empty but for the dinghy, now tied to the starboard rail.

Jeryon surveys the Comber and his crew without comment. He sees the poth in the rowers’ deck, hurrying aft. He says nothing to her either.

The mates stand together by the unmanned steering oar. The poth climbs up behind Jeryon and his escort.

“Have you come to your senses?” Jeryon asks.

Livion says, “We’ve decided to give you the captain’s chance.”

Jeryon tsks. “We’ve, Captain? There is no we in captain. Only I.”

The poth says, “What’s the captain’s chance?”

“A practice old as pirates,” Jeryon says without turning around. “The judgment of cowards.”

Livion says, “You will be set adrift without food or water, sail or oar, and the waves will decide your fate.”

The poth says, “That’s monstrous.”

“That’s prerogative,” Livion says.

“He could have me executed,” Jeryon says, “but he’s too weak.” He looks at Solet. “Pliable.”

“And you’re too rigid,” Livion says. “Four hours. That’s how long it took to render the dragon. The rowers needed the rest, too. Four hours. And a fortune. That’s what you traded for this.”

The poth pushes past the escort to stand between the mates and their captain. “And what have you traded?” She looks at them in turn. “Four hours. How many more got sick in Hanosh? How many more are dead? A body must seem awfully light when it’s weighed against a full purse.”

“I wanted to explain things earlier,” Livion says. “This isn’t your business.”

She shoots a look at Tuse. “It became mine when I signed on, but not for this. I won’t be a party to it. I’ve got enough blood on my hands.”

“Then you can take the same chance we’re giving him,” Livion says.

Jeryon says, “I didn’t want some Aydeni landlubber on this ship. I don’t want one in the dinghy either.”

“Think of her as provisions then,” Solet says. Several sailors, still armed with their gory tools, laugh.

“Stay with us,” Tuse tells the poth. “The men need you. Hanosh needs you. And you’ll get your share. You’ve earned it.”

“I don’t heal for money,” she says. “I won’t kill for it either. I’ll take the chance.”

Jeryon says to Tuse, “You don’t like this, do you?”

“It’s not the choice I would have made,” Tuse said.

“Did make, Tuse,” Jeryon says. “Putting me in a boat is one thing. Putting her in one is another. You didn’t think of that, but you can’t stop, can you?” Jeryon shakes off the escort and stands beside the poth. “She’ll be the one you see at night, not me. As for you two, if anyone cracks, if anyone lets slip what he’s done while he’s drunk in a bar, it’ll be Tuse. Then I won’t need to tell the Trust my side of the story.”

Livion and Solet give Tuse a warning look. He returns it.

The poth says, “I’d like to put on a fresh smock.”

“No,” Solet says. “And let’s check those pockets.”

“I’m going freely,” Everlyn says. “I will not be searched.”

“I could take the whole dress,” Solet says, “and give you to the sea in whatever’s under there.”

She tightens her lips and pulls from the deep hip pockets several bottles of lotion and powders. From those in the folds around her legs emerge bandages, small tools, and, improbably, two limes. From the pockets inside her sleeves come bandage ties, a pot of unguent, and packets of medicinal herbs. She drops it all in a clatter.