The serpents had ceased their attack on the Jamaillian ships and swarmed in the open sea. Some were near motionless, heads raised high, great eyes spinning as they stared aloft. Others frolicked and cavorted as if their antics could attract the dragon's attention. The Jamaillian fleet had seized this opportunity. From certain death, they grasped at survival. One smaller vessel was sinking, her decks awash. Her crew was abandoning her for another ship. On other decks, men sought to make order out of chaos and disaster. They cut fallen rigging free and threw canvas overboard. Yet even there, despite all they had endured, men shouted and pointed at the dragon as their ships retreated.
In the boat that Sorcor had dispatched, Etta crouched low. Her gaze darted from the cavorting serpents to the circling dragon. Her face was pale, her eyes fixed on Kennit. The men in the boat with her pulled savagely at the oars, their heads hunched down between their shoulders.
On every circling pass, the dragon swooped lower. Unmistakably, Vivacia was at the center of its gyre. It clasped something in its front legs, Kennit saw. Prey, perhaps, but he could not make out what it was. Was it sizing up the ship before an attack? Would it land on the water like a gull? It swept past yet again, so close that the gust of its wings buffeted the ship's sails and set her to rocking. The sea serpents set up an ungodly ululation that rose in volume and pitch as the dragon descended. Then, as it passed right over Etta's rowboat, the dragon let its burden drop. Whatever it was narrowly missed hitting the boat; it landed beside it in a gout of water. With a ponderous flapping of wings, the creature rose laboriously. It roared and the serpents clamored an answer. Then it flew away, much more slowly than it had come.
The serpents followed it. Like autumn leaves caught in a gust of wind, they trailed after the dragon. The swift led the way, while others hummocked painfully through the water in the foaming wake, but all were leaving. The dragon gave a final, drawn-out cry as it flew away, taking Kennit's triumph with it.
IT WAS A MAN, AND HE WAS ALIVE. ETTA HAD A SINGLE, ASTONISHING GLIMPSE of him as he plummeted into the water. His legs kicked wildly as he fell, then the splash of his impact swallowed him. The dragon had dropped him so near the boat that he had nearly swamped it. Etta would have sworn it was deliberate. The boat rocked wildly in the surge of his dive. Despite that, she seized the edge of the boat and leaned over the side, looking after him. Would he drown? Would he come up at all? 'Where is he?' she shouted. 'Watch for him to come up!'
But the men in the boat paid no attention to her. The serpents were flowing away with the retreating dragon. They seized the opportunity to make all speed for the Vivacia. On the main deck, amidst pointing and babbling crewmen, both Kennit and Wintrow stared after the dragon.
Only the figurehead shared Etta's concern. Vivacia gave one last, anguished look after the dragon. Then her eyes, too, scanned the waters around the small boat. Etta was still the first to see a pale movement under the waves and she pointed, crying, 'There, there he is!'
But the creature that shot gasping to the surface of the water was not a man. He had the shape of a man, but his staring eyes gleamed copper. His dark wet curls, streaming water, reminded her of tangled kelp. He saw the boat, and strained toward it with a reaching hand, but Etta saw that his hand shone with more than wet. He was scaled. With a bubbling cry, he sank again. The rowers who had seen him roared with dismay and leaned into their task. Etta was left transfixed, staring at the place where he went down.
'Take him up! Please!' a girl's voice shrieked. Etta lifted her eyes to an elegantly garbed girl on the deck. Why, the Satrap's Companion looked no older than Wintrow!
Then Vivacia pointed a large and commanding finger at the water. 'There! There, you fools, he comes up again! Quickly, quickly, take him up!'
Panicked as they were, the rowers had ignored Etta's plea, but the figurehead's command was another matter. White-faced, they slacked their oars. Then, as the man bobbed up again, they dug their oars in to spin the boat toward him. He saw them and reached desperately. He tried to claw his way toward them, but went under.
'That's it for him,' one of the rowers predicted, but an instant later grasping hands broke the surface of the water. His drowning white face appeared and Etta heard him gasp for breath. A rower thrust an oar within his reach. He seized it so strongly he nearly tore it from the man's grip. They pulled him closer to the boat. In another moment, he had managed to seize the side. He could do no more than cling there. It took two men to haul him on board. When they had him in, he lay in the bottom, water streaming from his garments. He gagged. When he snorted his nose clear of sea water, blood followed it. He blinked his inhuman eyes up at Etta. At first, he did not appear to see her. Then he mouthed silent words. 'Thank you.' His head fell to one side and his eyes closed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – Ship of Destiny
THE CREWMEN PARTED TO MAKE WAY FOR KENNIT. HE STEPPED PAST THEM AND peered down at the figure sprawled facedown on his deck. Water ran from his clothes. Dripping hair masked his features. 'Interesting bit of flotsam, Etta,' he observed sourly. Whoever he was, or, Kennit privately amended as he studied his hands, whatever he was, he represented an unwelcome complication to a situation that was already too confusing. He had no time for this.
'You fished him out. You may keep him,' Kennit announced, then staggered as the Satrap's advisor pushed past him. Kennit glared at her, but she did not notice. He started to speak, then his words died. What was that thing on her head? Althea crowded behind her, managing to brush past him while ignoring him completely. Jek stayed at the edge of the crowd with the pouting Satrap.
'Is he breathing? Is Reyn alive?' Malta demanded breathlessly. She hovered over the man but did not touch him.
Althea knelt beside her. Gingerly, she set her ringers to the side of the man's throat. Her face was still for an instant, and then she smiled up at her niece. 'Reyn is alive, Malta.' Wintrow had joined them. At Althea's words, he started, then gave his sister an incredulous smile.
As Wintrow smiled at his sister, something almost like jealousy flitted across Etta's face. In an instant, it was gone. She transferred her gaze to Kennit. Her voice was almost sulky as she said, 'You sent for me?'
'I did.' He became aware that the gathered crew closely followed this conversation. He softened his voice. 'And you came. As you always have.' He smiled at her. There. She and the crew could make whatever they wanted out of that. He gestured at the man at his feet. 'What is this?'
'The dragon dropped him,' Etta explained.
'So, of course, you picked him up,' Kennit observed wryly.
'Vivacia said we should,' one of the men from Sorcor's boat explained nervously. Was King Kennit displeased with him?
'He's Reyn Khuprus, a Rain Wilder. My sister is betrothed to him.' Wintrow uttered these amazing words quite calmly. 'Sa alone knows how he managed to find her here, but he did. Help me turn him over,' he added. He seized the man by one shoulder. As he tugged, Reyn groaned. His hands scrabbled weakly against the deck.
Althea crouched beside Wintrow. 'Wait. Give him time to clear his lungs,' she suggested as he began to cough. Reyn wheezed, lifted his head slightly from the deck, and then let it sag back. 'Malta?' he asked in a thick voice.
She gasped and sprang back from him. She threw her hands up before her face. 'No!' she cried out, then wheeled and jostled her way through the crowd. Etta stared after her in consternation.
'What was that about?' she asked of anyone.
Before anyone could answer, a lookout shouted, 'Sir! The Jamaillian ships are coming back!'
It was Kennit's turn to whirl and hasten away. He should not have let anything distract him from his enemy, no matter how damaged and scattered they had appeared. He gained the foredeck as swiftly as he could and stared in amazement at the oncoming ships. They were attempting to close around his three ships. Were they insane? Some were obviously limping, but two in good condition had come to the fore, leading the others. On their decks, he saw the telltale scrabble of men readying war machines. He appraised them thoughtfully. He had the Marietta and the Motley to back him, both with seasoned crews. The Jamaillian men would, at the least, be wearied, and they had probably spent a good amount of their shot. Technically, the Jamaillian fleet still
