Whosoever shall Detain, Transport, and Relinquish Alive one Green-eyed Dragon girl, shall he Merit two-score Gold Croxains.
—Proclamation,
Lord Squamish of Regalch
Someone grabbed the back of Kaeldra’s tunic and hauled her to her feet. But her legs felt as if they were made of wood. When the hands let go, her legs tottered and collapsed; she sprawled facedown on the deck.
“Get up, you, or I’ll throw you overboard!”
Kaeldra saw the boot coming. She rolled away from it and, blinking against the light, struggled to her feet. Pain tingled in her toes and legs as the feeling flowed back.
“Stowing away, were you?” A stocky man with a full red beard gave her a shove. She stumbled and grabbed for a railing at the side of the ship. “No one stows on my ship. Now, git!”
The man pushed her along the railing toward a narrow plank, which slanted down to the wharf. Seamen tramped back and forth across it, lugging cargo into the ship. By now the pain in Kaeldra’s legs had nearly subsided. When there was a gap between the sailors, she stepped up onto the plank—and then remembered.
The draclings. They were still in their casks.
“Please, milord—” she began, but a scream cut her off. Something swooped past Kaeldra and circled the ship, screeching.
The kestrel. A seaman aimed a crossbow, and before Kaeldra could call out, the bolt was arcing up through the sky. Bird and bolt converged slowly, like dancers in the harvest circle, then met at last with a muted thunk. There was an explosion of feathers; a small, dark object plummeted into the sea.
Kaeldra dodged the man and fled to the far side of the ship. There, in the water, floated the kestrel. It lay on its back, wings askew, the bolt protruding from its breast. Kaeldra stared down at it, unbelieving, her hands gripping the wooden railing. Then someone jerked her away, and the red-bearded man was squinting at her. “Haven’t I seen you before?” he asked. He called over his shoulder, “Hey, Firth! Isn’t this—”
A skinny, gap-toothed sailor sprinted toward them. Suddenly he stopped, moved his hand in the sign-against-evil, and backed away. “Captain,” he whispered, “that there’s the girl we seen in Squamish’s hall. The dragon girl.”
The captain whistled. “Squamish would part with a handful of gold for her, I’ll wager.”
“Heard you not? ’E offers two-score croxains for her. ’E’s got a troop o’ men waitin’ for her to come out o’ the labyrinth, on the bluff just north o’ here.”
“And more scouring the countryside, just in case. On the other hand—” The captain eyed Kaeldra speculatively.
“Which ’and is that, Captain?”
“I’ll tell you, Firth. I hear King Urk’s got men looking for a green-eyed lass like this one. A dragon-sayer, I hear. Now how many green-eyed lassies could there be?” The captain did not wait for an answer. “I’d wager my ballast those wenches are one and the same. I’d wager my keel that Urk’ll pay a good bit more for her than Squamish will. What with the nasty business on Rog, this wench could be worth her weight in croxains.”
King Urk! Kaeldra shuddered. Tales of King Urk’s cruelty were fed to Elythian babies along with their mothers’ milk.
But Firth was shaking his head. “You ask me, she’d be worth her weight in trouble. We’d have to take her all the way to Kragrom. And the monsters—where are they? I hear tell them dragon-sayers can call ’em.”
“Don’t be such a squeak mouse. We’ll chain her below.”
The captain yanked Kaeldra toward a hatch hole in the deck. She gave him a swift kick in the shin with her booted foot and tried to break away, but the captain only laughed. “That trick may work on that fat quack Hokarth,” he said, “but it won’t work on me.”
He half carried, half dragged her down a ladder into the dark, chilly hold, then dropped her onto a pile of sodden rope. “This should hold you,” he said, clamping a manacle around her bare ankle. He slid a padlock through the hasp, snapped the lock shut and disappeared up the ladder.
Kaeldra tugged at the heavy iron chain that fastened the manacle to the mast. It held fast.
She was a prisoner.
The hold reeked of fish and brine and sour brew, but a draft of fresh air stirred her hair. Kaeldra looked up. Light trickled in through a square porthole above her head.
It was too small for her to fit through, even if she were not chained. But perhaps the draclings—
Where were the draclings? Kaeldra sought them with her thoughts. To her relief, she felt them nearby, somewhere in the hold. Thank the heavens their lids had held. 〈Stay,〉 she warned. 〈Stay where you are.〉
If only she had gone home when she’d had the chance. She was of no use to the draclings now that she was a prisoner and the kestrel . . . Kaeldra slumped down into the welter of rope, an aching in her chest.
Warily, she eyed the seamen who came and went through the hatch, bringing down casks and crates, baskets and bales. In the shadowed gloom of the hold, they looked like specters from the place-after-life of which Ryfenn often spoke, toting their burdens of sin. They regarded her with mild curiosity; Kaeldra guessed they had not been told who she was. Once, Firth approached timorously, as though she could breathe fire. He flung down a water jug and a pail containing a hunk of bread, then fled up the ladder.
Kaeldra gnawed at the stone-hard bread. A chill seeped up from the damp ropes and soaked through her clothes. She longed for the blanket Yanil had given her. Her one remaining boot chafed her heel and calf; perhaps it had shrunk. She pulled it off. The ship swayed in the swelling of the sea, and Kaeldra felt the first qualms of sickness.
After a time, the loading sounds stopped. The hold was packed with cargo, except for narrow pathways that wound between the stacks of crates and casks, and the small open area near the mast where Kaeldra sat. Someone bolted the hatch. Kaeldra heard a rattle, felt a thud, and surmised that the anchor had been weighed. Before long, the floor began to pitch and tilt. The cargo strained against the lines that secured it; one cask escaped and rumbled back and forth across the forward hold. A rat skittered out from behind a bale of wool. A spider shivered across her hand.
Kaeldra clutched at the rope on which she sat. The movement of the ship made her dizzy. Her breath tasted sour; her stomach heaved. She crawled to the bucket and was sick. Then she dragged herself back to the rope pile and collapsed in a miserable heap.
There was a tingling in her mind. Kaeldra looked up. She thought she saw a narrow head poke up from a cask. There, was that another? Yes, three of them, three slender shadows stepping lightly through the hold. The draclings sidled up to her, thrumming.
〈I told you to stay. Stay! What if someone comes?〉 They flicked their tongues at her, then curled up beside her on the rope.
Kaeldra sighed. 〈I should know better by now.〉
* * *
Kaeldra was roused from a fitful slumber by voices. The draclings! They must not be seen! She jumped to her feet and instantly regretted it. Her head felt as if something had broken loose and was rolling around inside. Her stomach churned. The ship heaved suddenly, pitching her to the floor.
“You can’t do this!” someone was shouting. “I’m from the Sentinels at Rog!”
Kaeldra’s heart lurched. She knew that voice. She raised her head in time to see the draclings slip through the dark hold and disappear behind a heap of crates.
“I don’t give bilge water for your Sentinels.” The captain’s voice. “A thief is a thief. You’re lucky I’m a gentle-hearted soul or I’d string you up.”
“Wait till my master hears about this! He has friends at Urk’s court. You’ll be sorry!”
Kaeldra strained to see if it truly was the one she thought. She recognized the captain, who was climbing down the ladder, shoving another before him. She recognized Firth, who scrambled after. But she could not see the third person’s face; could not tell for certain who it was.
“Hah! He’s no good to you now.” The captain again. “He was caught conspiring against the king. Urk’s men stormed the Rogish fortress, and—”
It was he. The dragonslayer. How came he here? She could see him now in the light that poured in through the hatch. He was coming toward her, but something was different. Something was wrong. He was staggering, and the captain and Firth held his arms.
“You may be a traitor, too, for all I know,” the captain said. “What were you doing with those keys?”
Jeorg said nothing.
“Answer me, boy!” the captain bellowed.
Jeorg glared at him, defiant.
The captain planted a foot in Jeorg’s back and shoved. Jeorg sprawled out on the floor beside Kaeldra; she scooted away.
“You’ll tell me,” the captain said, manacling Jeorg’s foot to a second chain, “or you’ll stay here till you rot. And I wouldn’t try anything with the girl if I were you. I won’t stop you, but she’s got friends who’d make burning at the stake look pleasant.” With a hearty laugh, the captain climbed up the ladder behind Firth.
Jeorg struggled to his hands and knees. “Kaeldra—” He did not seem surprised to see her. In the thin light that trickled through the porthole, Kaeldra could see that his face had been hurt. One eye was red and swollen; a nasty gash marked his cheek. She swallowed, strangely held by his gaze; she could neither speak nor look away.
The floor plunged. They both tumbled across the deck, chains ringing. Kaeldra crawled back to the rope pile and tried to sit up, but a sudden sharp roll of the ship knocked her onto her back. The hull pitched and swayed. An unlit lantern swung wildly overhead. Kaeldra closed her eyes and heard the rumble and crash of loose cargo, felt a freezing lash of spray as the world fell away beneath her and the sickness sloshed inside her belly. She hunched herself into a ball, beyond caring about Jeorg or the draclings, beyond caring whether she lived or died.
Sometime later she thought she heard her name. She had no idea how long she had lain there, but the floor was rocking in a regular rhythm, not pitching anymore.
“Kaeldra?”
There, again. She opened her eyes and drew in a sharp breath. Jeorg’s face was inches from her own. He seemed tense, fearful.
“Look,” he whispered.
Deep within the hold, peering around a stack of baled wool, were three pairs of slotted green eyes. Kaeldra sat up. The draclings moved toward her, sidling between bales and casks, now shadowed, now gleaming in the light from a porthole. Jeorg rose to a defensive crouch.
“It’s all right,” Kaeldra said.
The draclings rubbed against her, thrumming. Embyr glared at Jeorg. 〈Bad man.〉
Kaeldra glanced sideways at Jeorg, though she knew he could not have heard. 〈He can’t hurt you now,〉 she said.
Embyr hunkered down beside her. Kaeldra scratched her eye ridges; the dracling kept one eye warily open and moved her head for Kaeldra to rub her cheeks, her throat, between her eyes. Pyro sprawled on his back, whistling softly.
Synge edged toward Jeorg, sniffed at him. His hands clenched, but he did not back away. The little dracling flicked her tongue then curled up beside him, thrumming.
Something moved in Jeorg’s throat. Tentatively, he unclenched his hands. He moved one finger down Synge’s back.
Kaeldra felt the strength seeping out of her. She snuggled into the rope pile and slept.