'What is that?' Amber demanded in horror.
'I guess we'll soon find out,' Brashen replied.
Behind them came Saylah, pushing a barrow of potatoes and turnips. A few trussed roosters squawked loudly atop the vegetables. Amber instantly grasped what that was about. She jumped to her feet. 'I'll see what we can spare in the way of trade goods. Are we generous or sparing?'
Brashen shrugged his shoulders. 'Use your judgment. I doubt we have much, but anything they can't make for themselves will probably please them.'
In the end, the entire exchange went easily. Kennit's mother was brought aboard and immediately went to the foredeck. With her, she carried a canvas packet. It was more difficult to get the chained man aboard. He could not manage to climb the ladder; in the end, he had to be hoisted aboard like cargo. Once on deck, he huddled in a heap, moaning softly. His scarred forearms sheltered his head as if he expected a blow at any moment. Brashen guessed it had taken all his strength to get that far. Amber was generous to a fault in her trading, giving them needles and such tools and fasteners as she decided she could spare from the ship's tool chest, as well as clothing and fabric from the seachests of their dead crewmen. Brashen tried not to think about buying food for the living with the possessions of the dead, but the crew did not seem troubled by it, and Saylah was delighted. Amber's generosity went far to disarm her hostility and suspicion.
'You'll take good care of Mother?' she asked as they were taking leave.
'Excellent care,' Brashen promised sincerely.
Saylah and Dedge watched from the shore as they departed. Brashen stood on the foredeck by Kennit's mother as the anchor was lifted. He wondered to himself how Kennit would treat those on the island when he discovered how easily they had surrendered his mother. Then he glanced at the old woman. She seemed calm and clear of conscience. Perhaps he could be, as well. He turned to Amber. 'Shift Althea's things from the first mate's cabin into my stateroom. We'll put Mother there. And cut the chains off that poor devil and feed him. Sa only knows why she dragged him along, but I'm sure she had a reason.'
'I'm sure she did,' Amber replied in such a strange tone that Brashen was glad when she hurried off to her tasks.
As the anchor was taken up and Brashen called his commands, Kennit's mother kept her place on the foredeck. The turning of her head, and her nods of approval as the crew moved to their tasks showed her familiarity with the ways of a ship. As Paragon began to move, she lifted her head and her veined hands ran along his forerail in the little pats of a proud mother on her son's shoulders.
As the wind took Paragon, and he began to slice the waves on his way out of the cove, the old woman unwrapped her package. Brashen rejoined her on the foredeck. Three fat worn books emerged from the yellowed canvas. Brashen knit his brow. 'Ship's logs,' he exclaimed. ' The Logs of the Paragon, a Liveship Trader Vessel of Bingtown on the Cursed Shores.' Paragon, they're your logs!'
'I know,' the ship replied gravely. 'I know.'
A hoarse voice creaked from behind him. 'Trell. Brashen Trell.'
Brashen turned in consternation. Amber supported the skeletal prisoner from Key Island. 'He insisted he had to speak to you,' the carpenter began in a low voice.
The prisoner spoke over her words. His blue eyes watered as he fixed Brashen with a doleful stare. His head nodded restlessly in an aimless circle. His hands palsied as well. 'I'm Kyle Haven,' he rasped. 'And I want to go home. I just want to go home.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT – Dragon Dreams
TINTAGLIA'S WINGS BEAT FRANTICALLY. REYN CLENCHED HIS EYES AS THE BEACH rushed up toward him. The wind was gusting horribly; this was going to be bad. As her clawed hind feet came down on the beach in a scrabbling run, her body pitched forward. She kept hold of him this time, her clenching claws deepening the permanent bruises that rounded his chest. He managed to land on his feet as she released him, and staggered clear as she caught her weight on her front legs. He lurched a few steps further and then sank onto the damp sand, pathetically relieved to be on the ground again.
'Dragons were never meant to land like that,' Tintaglia complained.
'Humans were never meant to be dropped that way,' Reyn responded wearily. Even breathing hurt.
'As I tried to tell you before we began this foolishness.'
'Go hunt,' Reyn responded. There was no hope in conversing with her when she was hungry. No matter what they discussed, it was always his fault.
'I'm not likely to find anything in this light,' she snorted. But as she gathered herself to take flight again, she added, 'I'll try to bring you some fresh meat.'
She always said that. Sometimes she actually remembered to do it.
He didn't try to stand up until he had felt the wind of her wings pass over him. Then he forced himself to his feet and staggered up the beach to the edge of a wood. He followed what had become a weary ritual for him. Wood. Fire. Fresh water if any was to hand, water from his skins if there was not. A sparing meal from his supplies, now woefully low. Then he bundled himself up near the fire and took whatever sleep he could get. Tintaglia was right about her hunting. The short winter day had passed swiftly, and the stars were already starting to show in the sky. It was going to be clear and cold. At least he would not be rained on tonight. Only frozen.
He wondered idly how his people were getting on with the work Tintaglia had outlined for them. Dredging the Rain Wild River was hazardous, not just for the unpredictable winter flow of the waters, but for the acidity of it. Those Tattooed who bought their Rain Wild Trader status with labor would have paid fairly for it.
He wondered if Bingtown had managed to remain united, and if the Chalcedeans had made any other attacks since he had left. Tintaglia had been ruthless in her destruction of their vessels. Perhaps just the threat of a dragon might keep them at bay. In their flight over the Inland Passage, they had seen many Chalcedean vessels, both oared and sailing ships. The number of them convinced him that their plans included something more significant than overwhelming Bingtown. The ships were all moving south. They traveled as Chalcedean war clans did, with one great sailing ship for supplies and several galleys for raiding and fighting. Once, they had flown over a smoking village, possibly a pirate settlement, raided by Chalcedeans on their way south.
Tintaglia often menaced the ships and galleys they passed, taking obvious joy in the panic she created. The steady beat of oars faltered and failed as her shadow passed over their decks. Men on the decks cowered while those in the rigging fled their lofty perches. Once Reyn saw a man plummet from a mast to disappear into the sea.
Every vessel they overflew left him in an agony of doubt. Was Malta held prisoner on board that ship? Tintaglia had loftily assured him that if she had come that close to where Malta was held, she would have sensed her.
'It is a sense you do not possess, and hence I cannot explain it to you,' she added condescendingly. 'Imagine trying to explain a sense of smell to someone who had none. What sounds like an arbitrary, almost mystic ability is no different from smelling apple blossoms in the dark.'
Hope filled Reyn's heart to breaking, and anxiety clawed him daily. Each day that passed was another day of separation from her, but worse, it was another day of Malta in Chalcedean captivity. He cursed his imagination for how it tormented him with images of her in coarse hands. As he bedded down near the fire, he hoped he would not dream tonight. Too often, his dreams of Malta turned to nightmares. Yet trying not to think of her as he was dozing off was like trying not to breathe. He recalled the last time he had beheld her. Heedless of all propriety, they had been alone together, and he had held her in his arms. She had asked to see his face, but he had refused her that. 'You can see me when you say you'll marry me,' he had told her. Sometimes, in his dreams, when he finally held her safe in his arms, he foolishly allowed her to lift his veil. Always, she recoiled in horror and struggled from his embrace.
This would not do. He would never fall asleep with such thoughts.
He recalled instead Malta at a window, looking out over Trehaug while he drew a brush through her thick, black hair. It was like heavy silk in his gloved fingers, and the fragrance of it rose to his nostrils. They had been together, and she had been safe. He slipped one of her honey drops into his mouth and smiled at the
