decided to try it, then I won't stand in your way. You seem a good lad. I know Cinnaminson has grown weary of life on the Skatelow. She wants more for herself, a different way of life. She's entitled. Do you think you can take care of her as well as I have?»
Pen nodded. «I will do my best. I think we will take care of each other.»
Hatch grunted. «Easier said than done, lad. If you fail her, I'll come looking for you. You know that, don't you?»
«I won't fail her.»
«I don't care who your family is or what sort of magic they can call on to use against poor men like myself,' he continued, ignoring Pen. «I'll come looking for you, and you can be sure I will find you.»
Pen didn't care for the threat, but he supposed it was the Rover Captain's way of venting his disappointment at what was happening. Besides, he didn't think there would ever be cause for the big man to act on it.
«I understand,' he replied.
«Best that you do. I won't say I'm the least bit happy about this. I'm not. I won't say I think it will work out for you. I don't. But I will give you your chance with her, Penderrin, and hold you to your word. I just hope I won't ever have cause to regret doing so.»
«You wont.»
«Go on, then.» The big man gestured toward Ahren and Khyber, who stood talking at the port railing. «Go back to your friends. We have a full day of sailing tomorrow, and you want to be rested for it.»
Pen left the pilot box in a state of some confusion. He had not expected Gar Hatch to be so accommodating, and it bothered him. He hadn't lodged more than a mild protest, hadn't tried to talk Pen out of it, hadn't even gone to Ahren Elessedil to voice his disapproval. Perhaps Cinnaminson had persuaded him not to do any of those things, but that didn't seem likely to Pen. Maybe, he thought suddenly, Hatch was waiting for the Druid to put an end to their plans. Maybe he knew how unreceptive Pen's companions would be and was waiting for them to put a stop to things.
But that didn't feel right, either. Gar Hatch wasn't the sort to count on someone else to solve his problems. That kind of behavior wasn't a part of the Rover ethic, and certainly not in keeping with the big man's personality.
Pen looked around for Cinnaminson, but didn't see her. She would be up on deck later, perhaps, but since they were not flying that night, she might be asleep. Pen glanced at Ahren and Khyber. He should tell the Druid now what was happening, give him some time to think about it before he responded. But just as he started over, Tagwen appeared from belowdecks to join them, grumbling about sleeping in tight, airless spaces that rocked and swayed. The boy took a moment longer to consider what he should do and decided to wait. First thing in the morning, he would speak with Ahren Elessedil. That would be soon enough. He would be persuasive, he told himself. The Druid would agree.
Feeling a little tired and oddly out of sorts, he took Gar Hatch's advice and went down to his cabin to sleep.
* * *
He awoke to shouting, to what was obviously an alarm. Bounding up instantly, still half–asleep, he tried to orient himself. Across the way, Tagwen was looking similarly disoriented, staring blankly into space from his hammock, eyes bleary and unfocused. The shouting died into harsh whispers that were audible nevertheless, even from belowdecks. Boots thudded across the planking from one railing to the other, then stopped. Silence descended, deep and unexpected. Pen could not decide what was happening and worried that by the time he did, it would be too late to matter. With a hushed plea to Tagwen to follow as quickly as he could, he pulled on his boots and went out the cabin door.
The corridor was empty as he hurried down its short length to the ladder leading up and climbed swiftly toward the light, straining to hear something more. When he pushed open the hatch, he found the dawn had arrived with a deep, heavy fog that crawled through the trees and over the decks of the Skatelow. At first he didn't see anyone, then found Gar Hatch, the two Rover crewmen, Ahren Elessedil and Khyber standing at the bow, peering everywhere at once, and he hurried over to join them.
«One of the crewmen caught a glimpse of the Galaphile just moments ago, right overhead, flying north,' the Druid whispered. «He called out a warning, which might have given us away. We're waiting to see if she comes back around.»
They stood in a knot, scanning the misty gray, watching for movement. Long minutes passed, and nothing appeared.
«There's a channel just ahead that tunnels through these trees,' Gar Hatch said quietly. «It goes on for several miles through heavy foliage. Once we get in there, we can't be seen from the sky. It's our best chance to lose them.»
They pulled up the fore and aft anchors and set out. Breakfast was forgotten. All that mattered was getting the ship under cover. Everyone but Cinnaminson was on deck now. Pen thought to go look for her, but decided it would be wrong to leave in the midst of the crisis. He might be needed; Hatch might require help piloting the craft. He stayed close, watching as the Rover Captain took the Skatelow through a series of connecting lakes spiked with grasses and studded with dead tree trunks, easing her carefully along, all the while with one eye on the brume– thickened sky. The Rover crewmen moved forward, taking readings with weighted lines, hand–signaling warnings when shallows or submerged logs appeared in front of them. No one said a word.
The channel appeared without warning, a black hole through an interwoven network of limbs and gnarled trunks. It had the look of a giant's hungry maw as they sailed into it, and the temperature dropped immediately once they were inside. Pen shivered.
Overhead, he caught small glimpses of sky, but mostly the dark canopy of limbs was all that was visible. The channel was wide enough to allow passage, though the Skatelow wouldn't have been able to get through if her mast had been up. As it was, the Rover crewmen had to use poles to push her away from the tangle of tree roots that grew on either side and keep her centered in the deeper water. It was too dark for Pen to see exactly what they were doing, but he was certain they could not have done it without Hatch. He seemed to know what was needed at every turn, and kept them moving ahead smoothly.
Still Cinnaminson didn't appear. Pen glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, but there was no sign of her. He began to worry anew.
Ahead, the tunnel opened back into the light.
Gar Hatch called him into the pilot box. «Take the helm, young Penderrin. I need to be at the bow for this.»
Pen did as he was told. Hatch went forward to stand with his men, the three of them using poles to ease the Skatelow along the channel, pointing her toward the opening. Now and again, he would signal the boy to swing the rudder to starboard or port.
They were almost through when there was a scraping sound and a violent lurch. Pen was thrown backwards into the railing, and for an instant he thought that whatever had happened, he had done something wrong. But as he stood up and hurried forward, he realized he hadn't done anything he hadn't been told to do.
Gar Hatch was peering over the side of the airship into the murky waters, shaking his head. «That one's new,' he muttered to no one in particular, then pointed out the massive log that the airship had run up on. He glanced up at the canopy of trees. «Too tight a fit to try to fly her. We'll have to float her off and pull her through by hand.»
Hatch went back up into the pilot box, advising Pen that he would take the controls. There was no admonition in his voice, so Pen didn't argue. Together with Tagwen, Ahren Elessedil, and the two crewmen, Pen climbed down onto the tangled knot of tree roots and moved forward of the airship's bow. Using ropes lashed about iron cleats, they began to pull the Skatelow ahead, easing her over the fallen trunk. Eventually the airship gained just enough lift from Gar Hatch's skilled handling to break free of the log and begin crawling along the swamp's green surface once more.
It was backbreaking work. Bugs of all sorts swarmed about their faces, clouding their vision, and the root tangle on which they were forced to stand was slick with moss and damp with mist and offered uncertain footing. All of them went down at one point or another, skidding and sliding into the swamp water, fighting to keep from going under. But, slowly, they maneuvered the Skatelow down the last few yards of the channel, easing her
