The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(3)

“It might not see us,” Livion says.

“It won’t have to. The stench of the shield will lead it right to us.” Solet curses. “Why couldn’t Comber be a trireme? We’d have marines. More weapons. Better defenses. The same speed.”

“At ten times the expense,” Livion says. “I’ll wake the captain.”

Jeryon rubs his face awake. The mates weary him, and he needs a shave too. As a man’s chin goes, so goes the man, and his will be impeccable. He puts a small towel and clay pot of soap on a shelf beneath a porthole and takes his razor, a circular copper blade, from its ivory case. It would be a ridiculous indulgence if not so useful.

Maybe Livion is worth saving, he thinks, if he could shave away the bad influences. It would also be indulgent, but he should give his mate that chance. Why should someone suffer for another man’s wrongs?

Jeryon hears Solet say, “Oh.” Through the porthole, he sees it: a tiny shadow creeping on the verge of dawn. He holds his hand at arm’s length. The shadow’s a quarter-thumb wide, no bigger than a fire ant. His stomach churns. The math is easy. If the shadow reaches the Comber, it’ll cover the entire ship.

As Livion runs overhead to the stern deck ladder, Jeryon fits the razor into its case and pockets it.

2



* * *



Everlyn dodges Livion as he slides down the ladder from the stern deck and bangs on the captain’s door. He sticks his head in briefly, then walks past her onto the causeway over the rowers’ deck. He says to Tuse below, “Silent drumming, double-time.”

Tuse glances up. “Aye.”

“And shutter the ports,” Livion says.

Tuse nods to the drummer stationed by the mast, who plays a little roll to signal the change, then taps his heavy sticks to keep the beat.

The relative silence is astounding. Everlyn is almost dizzied by the absence of pounding, as if someone had pulled her feet out from under her. She grabs Livion’s arm and says, “What is it?”

Before he can answer her, Jeryon emerges from his cabin. His black jacket emphasizes his bony frame, his red three-quarter pants reveal it, and his yellow cotton blouse, regardless of the rank its color designates, does nothing good for his pallor. His clothes have been fiercely brushed and pressed, though. His only informality is a pair of old sandals cut square in the back, Hanoshi-style. Boots are encouraged for officers on Hanoshi ships, but in his mind only Aydeni wear boots.

Jeryon tells Livion, “Break out the crossbows. Eight men to fire, two to load, and I want all sixteen loaded to start. And get the harpooners on their guns.”

Livion says, “We’re not going to run?”

“We’re running already,” Jeryon says. “It won’t make any difference if we’re seen.”

Livion knows better than to say they can’t possibly win. Jeryon admires his restraint. “I have a plan,” he says. “I hope we don’t have to use it.”

Everlyn says, “Will you tell me—”

“You’ll be told what you need to be told, when you need to be told,” Jeryon says.

She screws up her mouth and nods. He sounds like one of the Hanoshi ladies on the Crest, with their “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me” and “I know what medicine’s best.”

“Livion, task two sailors with bringing an extra sailcloth to the poth’s cabin and a few casks of water. Now,” he turns to the poth, “cover the barrels and crates with the sailcloth and keep it drenched. If the Comber’s just a smoking hull when it reaches port, our cargo will still survive.”

“Might not be fire,” Livion says.

“Always prepare for the worst,” Jeryon says. “Makes all other outcomes seem less terrible.”

Jeryon climbs the stern deck ladder. When Everlyn turns to Livion, he’s already beyond the mast. Every word he says springs a sailor into action like a ball scattering skittles.

Everlyn scans the horizon. No privateers. Sailors pass her with the sailcloth. As they go into her cabin, she bends over the larboard rail to look past her cabin to stern. Except for a single far-off gull haunting their wake, they’re all alone.

On the stern deck Jeryon asks Solet, “Gliding or flapping?”

“Gliding. It dove a few times, then floated up again.”

“Good,” Jeryon says. “Flapping means it’s interested.”

He rubs his chin and considers the sail, a triangle the same yellow as his blouse, and the three banners dangling from the yard of the galley’s fore-and-aft rig: company, city, captain. Jeryon’s, striped blue and white, is the smallest. It’s also set at the bottom, the most easily replaced.

Jeryon says, “Steady as she goes.” He slides down the stern ladder and orders the sail and banners brought down, as he would before a storm. They’ll slow, but their profile will be smaller. Better to lose an hour from their schedule than to be seen and lose their schedule entirely.

Livion stands on the foredeck between the galley’s two harpoon cannons, bulbous iron vases mounted on steel tripods bolted to the deck. A dozen single-flue irons are stacked beside each, and a metal barrel with powder sits on the main deck, given some cover by the foredeck. Trust ships can whale if it won’t affect their schedules, which means Jeryon rarely allows it. But on this trip the cannons are meant only for defense.