The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(18)

“What about needles in haystacks?”

“Pirates?”

“Now pirates are more likely. Then we’d have the pleasure of being violated before we died.”

“We?” she says.

“The Ynessi don’t discriminate. Any Aydeni ships out here that you know of?”

“That’s just propaganda,” she says. “Fear-mongering. Ayden has no navy, unless you count trade wagons. And if we did, we still wouldn’t attack Hanosh. Where’s the profit, as you say?”

“We?” he says. “You can take the woman out of Ayden . . .”

“I’m not ashamed of being Aydeni,” Everlyn says. “I’m ashamed of Ayden, at least when it comes to the golden shield.”

“The luxury of principles is fading as quickly as that of good boat building,” he says. “That’s why I’m here.”

As the sun falls toward the west and the small moon, Med, appears in the east, Jeryon pulls free the last piece of gunwale from the starboard transom. He surveys Everlyn’s neatly tied coils of painter strands. “Where did you learn that hitch?”

“We have knots on land too, you know.”

He shrugs and saws the gunwale pieces in half. Once this is done he flips them over, takes off a sandal and uses it to bang out a nail. A muffled clang follows each blow.

“How can you hammer with leather?” she says.

“It’s leather on the outside,” he says. “There’s a thick steel plate in each heel. They give me a heavy tread on deck. Sailors don’t like a sneaky captain. They like to know where he is, and he likes them to know where he is.”

“And that’s not sneaky?” she says.

“That’s command,” he says. “Collect the nails as I bang them out. We’ll need them.”

The big moon, Ah, is up when he arranges the forward pieces of gunwale into a rough rectangle, the aft pieces into a smaller, neater one, and lays across each two pieces of transom gunwale. Then he nails them together.

“There. Paddles,” he says. “Or something approaching paddles. And to make sure we don’t lose them . . .” He enlarges two nail holes in the end of each with a hair pin and threads a strand of painter through them. He ties the forward assemblage to his right wrist, motions for her to hold up her left wrist and ties the other to it. She doesn’t know the knot, and he makes it too quickly for her to follow.

He kneels amidships, she kneels beside him, and facing the horizon they paddle in easy tandem for the League. The spare nails jingle pleasantly in her pocket.

After a few dozen strokes he waits until the poth’s not looking and changes his grip to match hers. It’s more comfortable and efficient.

3



* * *



Jeryon jerks awake: Where’s his paddle? His right arm dangles over the starboard gunwale. His fist is full of water. He digs into the sea with both hands until he remembers the strand of painter. He clasps his wrist and draws the paddle to him from where it had been drifting astern. He sits on his heels, catching his breath.

The poth is slumped over her gunwale. Her arm and paddle aren’t in the boat either. Just looking for them makes him feel so dizzy he has to lean a hand on the bottom. He rolls his head slowly to match the spinning inside. He lays the back of his forefinger on her neck. It’s very dry. He fishes around beneath her hand, finds the strand from her wrist, and pulls her oar in. He leans it against the gunwale. This dislodges her and she stirs enough to slap some hair off her face. Her cheek would normally look gray in the moonlight. It’s grayer than it should be.

It’s not long after midnight, and the small moon, Med, has a five-length lead on Ah. Their position is the first thing Jeryon’s father checked when they went to their boat a few hours before dawn. He had a theory about them. If Med beat Ah across the sky, the nets would be full that day. If Ah beat Med, they’d be empty. If they rose and set together, anything could happen. Jeryon used to check the theory. The nets were mostly empty wherever the moons happened to be, but telling his father this made no difference. He couldn’t be convinced.

Jeryon was convinced, though, that steady work for a shipowner was more secure than rolling the dice with your own boat’s net.

He paddles, however ineffectually, too tired to sleep. They couldn’t have made more than seven or eight miles, although the poth was steady and strong. Maybe she’s not as much of a landlubber as he thought.

When Everlyn awakes it’s nearly dawn. Her paddle lies in the boat. He must have put it there. He’s slumped over the gunwale, his paddle still gripped in his hand. How long had he kept rowing before passing out? Jeryon’s flushed. She touches his neck. His pulse remains steady, and they’re both sweating. The cool night might have bought them a few more hours.

A silver flicker kicks at the water. She thinks a wave reflected off the boat, then sees another one and another, like the stars swimming up to greet them. She pushes Jeryon’s shoulder and, as he rouses, points over the side. She tries to say, “Look,” but the word skids to a halt on her dry tongue.

He says, “Some dragon meat must have caught on the hull.”

The pearly-silver fish spill across the surface as they take a chance at the meat. Neither fish nor castaways can believe their good luck.

Jeryon slams his paddle at a fish. He succeeds only in scattering the school. The fish come back, and he tries again. Same result.