The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(51)

Jeryon takes another long pull, closes the skin, and replaces it on the saddle.

Tuse compresses his lips. He’s been arrested. He’s had this conversation before.

Jeryon checks the dragon’s injuries. The gashes on its tail and shoulder have partially healed already. Jeryon fetches a crude clay pot from a saddlebag, then he spears a couple crabs who have an interest in Tuse. He whistles twice. The dragon, staring at the crabs, sits up. He drops one and whistles three times. The dragon snaps up the crab, and Jeryon quickly smears something from the pot on its shoulder wound. The dragon says, “Eeee!” and looks at him severely. He gives it another crab and tends to its tail, which the dragon lashes angrily. Jeryon points at Tuse. The dragon shifts its gaze.

Tuse won’t meet it. “You said you wanted to talk,” Tuse says. “Say something.”

Jeryon pulls a shega from a saddlebag, sits, and leans against Gray’s haunch. He cuts out a seed and sucks it with relish. The dark juice bubbles on his lips.

“Fine,” Tuse says. “I can wait.” The Hopper, if it survived, would have followed him.

Jeryon spits the seed, crosses his legs, and leans back. He closes his eyes. The dragon doesn’t. It licks some crab off its lips.

Tuse estimates how far he flew and how long it would take the Hopper, damaged with many rowers dead or too injured to work, to reach the island. Midnight, he thinks. His crew should see the island in the moonlight. They might not see the rocks surrounding it. He feels an unusual pang: Has he simply postponed the boy’s doom?

Tuse works the cord. One hand free is all he needs. The effort is waking up his arms. He’ll stab Jeryon with his own knife or spear then he’ll take the dragon to warn off the galley. He twists and stretches the cord to no effect. Tuse can’t wait to see the look on the shipowners’ faces when they see what he brings them. He rolls and yanks. He thinks his right is about to be freed, then his left. He yanks and growls and finally blurts, “What do you want me to say?”

Jeryon opens his eyes. He carves out another jewel.

Tuse grinds his forehead into the scrub. “You were right. It’s the poth’s face I see. In shadows. In strangers. In glass. I saw it in a roll once.” He looks at Jeryon. “Is she all right? Tell me she’s all right.”

Jeryon sucks.

“I couldn’t stop them. I wouldn’t have let her get in the boat. I need to see her. To explain.”

Jeryon spits the seed.

Tuse ducks his head. “That wasn’t the plan. It was only supposed to be you. And me, if I didn’t go along. I had to go along.”

Jeryon nods to the dragon and flicks some pulp at Tuse. The dragon snaps it out of the air a handsbreadth away from the oarmaster’s nose. It swallows, bares its teeth, and slowly withdraws its head.

“I didn’t want to,” Tuse says. “I was like their hostage. I argued against the whole thing. But they wanted the dragon. It was Solet’s plan, and Livion made me go along with it. I didn’t do anything. Was I supposed to die too? I couldn’t get you out of the boat. Why should I have gone in? They put a knife to my throat.”

Jeryon carves another chunk of shega. The dragon rears its head.

“And we had to get the medicine home. Could they have driven the rowers the way I did? We made up nearly an hour! How many people didn’t die because I didn’t get in the dinghy? I have to have some water. My mouth is so dry.”

Jeryon gets up, pulls a skin and a second fruit from his saddle, and sits again. Tuse looks expectantly, but Jeryon returns to slicing his first shega. The dragon sniffs at it. Jeryon waves it off.

“Sure, some people died in Hanosh. A fair amount of the medicine the poth made was destroyed; the pots had cracked. Some of the shield was ruined too. But that’s not my fault. It’s yours. You should have run. You were supposed to run. We could have gotten away. We had guild rowers back then. And with the powder? We could have made it. But you fought. You endangered the ship. They were right.”

Jeryon notices a bit of pulp in his lap and flips it at Tuse. Again the dragon snaps it out of the air. Spittle flecks Tuse’s face. Its breath smells like scalded fish oil. Jeryon takes a drink of water. Tuse concentrates on the skin to avoid looking at the dragon.

“You know I’m right,” he says. “And what do you have to complain about? You landed here, right? This is where you’ve been living. It’s like a paradise, this island: food, fresh water, no responsibilities, no shipowners breathing down your neck. You had a woman. She was no—”

Jeryon raises an eyebrow.

Tuse takes a different tack. ”And you got a dragon. No one has that. You’ve lucked out. If you’d gone back to Hanosh without the render we took, you’d have been fired. You wouldn’t have been able to find a job piloting a skiff. We did you a favor, really, giving you a chance. Don’t you know that?”

Jeryon lowers his eyebrow.

“I didn’t think their story would hold water, of course. You were a hero. You saved the ship. You saved those men in the water. You saved the city. You killed the dragon. I told everyone how you did that. I wouldn’t say you drowned. They did. I wanted you to be remembered well. I thought the Shield should name a galley after you. They didn’t care, though. All they did was rename themselves—the Golden Shield Trust—to claim the glory you should have had. They were as wrong as Solet. No justice at all.”