The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(47)

A terrible thought strikes him: What if the Trust doesn’t exist anymore? Where would that leave him? Who else could he trust? Blue Island, the Trust’s main rival? Hanosh Consolidated, the city’s most powerful company? The former licks the latter’s boots, and the latter would kick him to the curb to confiscate Gray and the island while the other companies fought to wrench them away. Jeryon bends over the saddle. His throat wants to retch, but his stomach feels empty.

Jeryon is directly astern now, and the galley hasn’t made any motion that would indicate he’s been spotted. They’re probably looking at the whales, wondering if they could take a few without falling behind schedule. Jeryon realizes he has to give up his own schedule. He had planned to be over land by star-rise, to hide overnight in the coastal hills north of Yness, and to be in Hanosh a day or two later. He has to be opportunistic, though. What would Solet say? He has to grasp?

How fortunate he is to have found someone he wants to reach out and take hold of. After all, Tuse was the final vote. Tuse put the poth in the boat. She wouldn’t care for what he wishes he could do, so he’ll just question him. What he’ll do with him afterward will depend on his answers.

Jeryon has Gray glide in a slow circle to keep them in place while he surveys the ship. How can he get the yolk without breaking the egg? The stink of sulfur wafts over him downwind from the ship. And it’s a rotten egg at that, Jeryon thinks. He laughs. He knows what Tuse would do if a dragon attacked. He doesn’t have the imagination to do anything except what he saw Jeryon do. His old oarmaster is in for a few surprises.





PART TWO



* * *



   The Mates





CHAPTER SIX


The Oarmaster


1



* * *



Tuse puts his massive foot on the foredeck of the penteconter Hopper and flicks some grime off his dragonskin boots. The stitching’s worn, the heel should be replaced, and the piping at the tip is coming loose, but the red-tinged black skin looks as fresh and tough as it did the day it was flensed beside the Comber. Officers and sailors of Hanoshi companies must all wear sandals of Hanoshi make, but Tuse received these boots from the Shield and the City Council approved their use, which is tantamount to law. They remind his crew of what he had to do to get this ship, which is one reason he doesn’t like to wear them.

That they remind him too is the other.

He also doesn’t like the blue embroidered pants recently foisted on officers. They pull. They’re hot. The cloth won’t last. They’re only meant to make him look fancier than the Blue Island captains. At least his blouse is light and loose, if more gold than a captain’s used to be. He won’t wear the blue felt hat, however. Let them dock his monthly. They’re already taking out the rent for his uniform. Nothing with a feather will go on his head.

Standing watch between the harpoon cannons, the ship’s boy, Rowan, says in a hush, “Whales. Off the starboard bow.”

The kid’s as hard and skinny as an iron, and as sharp too, the son of a sergeant, but this is only his third voyage and he’s still soft with awe for the sea. Tuse envies him that.

“Do you think you’ll scare them?” Tuse says. “Tell the ship, son.”

“Whales!” Rowan hollers. “Off the starboard bow!”

Tuse flinches. The boy smiles. Tuse says, “Actually, maybe you will scare them.”

Tuse considers the patch of rough water and, beyond it, another. Two pods are coming together. “Tell Press to pipe me some cannons, then bring us close for a calf or two.”

“You’ll take a cannon?”

“Aye. I’ll tell Edral.”

Rowan smiles and runs ahead of him to the first mate at the oar. The cannon, Tuse knows, is something Rowan envies him.

He should have the boy trained on it. He’s been giving him a taste of every job, something he never got coming through the rowers’ deck. If the crew thinks he’s playing favorites, let them wonder instead why they aren’t his favorite. Besides, the boy’s done the job of the two most galleys carry. He wouldn’t have thought it of a soldier’s son.

The only thing Rowan doesn’t like is powdering the rowers. Too many are former soldiers who fell on hard times, then fell into the wrong sort of business. That’s a softness Tuse will have to wean him of. He should train the boy with the whip too.

Amidships Tuse flops a hatch and looks down at Edral, his blinking second mate and oarmaster. Around him the rowers are chained to their benches, straining so hard their neck muscles threaten to snap. Sweat courses through their scars and shines on their tattoos. They breathe like a great bellows, mouths wide to mitigate the stench of rotten eggs lingering from their previous cargo. Every trip to Chorem and back is a race against their last. That’s why he gets to keep his ship.

“What about our schedule?” Edral says.

“We’ll take them in passing,” Tuse says. “Besides, the boy could always fix a double ration to make up any time lost.”

“Aye, aye!” a rower says. Tuse doesn’t have to look to know whom. Bearclaw’s trunk is broader than it was on the Comber from the years of rowing, but his face is pocked and wasted, and his teeth are gone. The changes in his face are the result of too much powder, the changes in his teeth, too much mouth. “Your boy’s good with the spoon,” he says, “but I preferred that lady. She had a heavier hand.”