The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(21)

“Magic?” she says.

“Yolite.”

They paddle. The air leans on their shoulders until a following wind erupts from the night’s breeze. It’s cool and encouraging. They paddle faster, although each stroke is like pushing through an angry mob.

At some point, the water changes color. “River,” Jeryon says.

The sky darkens behind them. Night is still a long way ahead. “Storm,” she says. “Water.”

“Too much.” He motions for her wrist. He cuts the cord with a jittery slash. He cuts his own strand in a way that nearly costs him his thumb. Then he tries to pull the crosspieces off her paddle. He can’t get the blade under them. His fingers refuse to obey. He hacks the wood uselessly. She reaches for the paddle. He pushes her away and tears at the crosspieces with his fingers. She reaches for the paddle again. He jabs at her with the knife. She returns his glare. His features slacken, and he pushes the paddle and knife at her. He hangs his head.

It takes her awhile, but the poth finds the same rhythm she did with the painter and the paddle comes undone. His spirit returns. He nails two pieces of her paddle along either side of the top of his, his sandal hammer broad enough to accommodate his fluctuating aim. He wedges another piece between them to lengthen the extension, nails it in place securely, and ties it to his wrist.

“Rudder,” he says.

He puts the paddle portion behind the transom and slots the tiller in the sculling notch. It doesn’t fit.

He shakes his head, unties the rudder, and drags the serrated edge of the knife across the transom’s gunwale to enlarge the notch. He barely scratches the wood at first. The sky grows darker. The sea grumbles. The blade catches. In a few minutes or hours he’s cut halfway through. He falls aside and the poth takes a turn.

She squeezes the jury-rigged knife handle so hard her hands regain enough feeling to ache. The metal chips away the wood. She counts the flakes to keep her focused. The horizon collapses toward them. She cuts horizontally from the bottom of the notch, yanking the blade. The gunwale grips, the handle gives, and the blade flips free across the boat.

Jeryon crawls on top of it then roots for it beneath his chest. He looks at her as if he really might eat her if he had the strength. She looks sadly at the well-worn handle. It wasn’t her fault. He puts the knife together again, considers the notch, and hands it to her. This cheers her.

In a moment she pries free the bit of gunwale. Now the tiller fits and turns. He nails a former paddle crosspiece over it loosely as a guide.

He sits against the transom and pulls the tiller across his chest. He puts his arms over it, spreads his knees, and points between them. Reluctantly, she sits. He spins his finger. She pivots until he can pull her back against his chest, anchoring the rudder in place. He flops his arms over her. She can remember the last time she let a man lie on top of her, but not the last time one put his arms around her. So be it. She pulls her smock down then holds his wrists with the opposite hands. They knot together and let the river take them.

Jeryon whispers, “Swallowed my button” and passes out.

Everlyn realizes she has the knife now. She strokes the veins in his wrists with her thumbnails.

5



* * *



The Hanoshi harbor has two notable features. The most useful is its long, broad piers. At Yness, Jolef, and Meres, galleys beach themselves, making these cities no more than up-jumped versions of coastal towns. At Hanosh, the galleys tie up, shipowners come aboard on Tower-blue gangplanks, and cranes handle cargo day and night.

Its more arresting feature is the line of gibbets, also painted blue, a hundred yards beyond the docks. Four consist of tall posts with single beams pointing at inbound ships as a warning. The Great Gibbet in the center, reserved for the most celebrated or vicious criminals, looks like a cross-staff. From its two transoms four prisoners can either swing in iron cages or, if banded, hang by chains directly.

Jeryon stands at the end of Hanosh’s main pier with the leaders of the Trust arrayed behind him. They are silent. The wind picks up. Tuse sways in his cage, pleading for Jeryon to understand. He sticks one bare foot through the bars. It dangles well above the tide. In time flesh will drip beneath it to be eaten by crabs. Livion and Solet snap and sway in their bands like broken pendulums. They can’t speak with the bits in their mouths, but they can moan. Their spit has dried up. Thirst scrapes in their throats like mice in a wall.

The wind gusts harder. A gale is moving in, strange for this season. The Great Gibbet twists, while the tide bursts over the pier. Its spray wails with the prisoners’ despair. Jeryon bathes in it, and he feels beautiful.

He turns to ask the Trust where the poth is, and he finds himself staring at the gibbet again with the Trust behind him. He turns the other way. The world turns with him. He can’t face the Trust. He can’t see their faces. He can hear them laughing.

Then he’s in the dinghy, filthy and contorted, clutching the tiller against a heaving sea. He closes his eyes again.

Something smacks his face. His eyes grind open. The poth holds a heavy bulb of smock above his lips. A wave makes her fall, and the bulb dives into his mouth. He sucks. Rainwater flows into the cracks in his tongue. It’s warm and sweet, and he’s drowning in it. He spits out the cloth and water. She sops more water from the bottom of the boat with her hem, braces herself, and wrings the water into his mouth. His head droops over the transom so the rain can fall down his throat while she sops up a third drink.