7

Embar Dea reached the upper Ghenret sluice just in time. She knew by the turbulent water ahead that they were opening the gate; it was much larger than she remembered, presumably they had extended it. She could sense something big up in front, perhaps the hull of a ship coming through. Her skin felt icy cold, even above the rolls of fat that protected her from the arctic waters, and she recognised this as fear. There was a sour taste in her mouth. She tried not to think about the propellers under the hydro’s hull, beating the water, tearing into her. Don’t be a fool, she sang to herself, you who danced with ships as a young thing, who led them on and siren called them into silence. Tenebrae. The sluice was fully open. Her tail beat the water and turning she shot through, grazing her side against the wall of the sluice to miss the ships’ hull with inches to spare. Why was something so big coming through the gate?—and then she understood that it was the safest mooring against what was to come. Someone knew, at least.

She was now out into the main harbour and the soupy filth of Ghenret. She angled her way beneath the creaking boats and with some difficulty managed to locate the run-off that cut through into the delta. It was a round hole, twenty feet or so beneath the harbour’s lowest level. Embar Dea remembered when water gushed to and fro, bubbling out into river and harbour, depending on the tide, the freshness of the sweet grassy water of the delta and sharp saline exchanged, back and forth, every day. Now, the run-off was silted up, thick with mud and weed. She pushed frantically at the half concealed entrance, hoping she would not have to travel round by the harbour mouth. Gradually, a column of mud spat out into the harbour. Embar Dea could no longer see; she belled out, listening for the diminished echoes that returned and then she went head first into the run-off.

It took her a long time to force through and Embar Dea fought terror all the way. When she had been slim and young, she had bounced through the run-off like a pea down a pipe. But she had put on weight over the last thirty years, and was heavy bodied, barrel chested and with slimness remaining only at her tapering tail. She was afraid of getting stuck in the run-off, unable to back up or go forward, and she would never reach Tenebrae but remain here, held fast and choking in this underwater graveyard. Determined, she forced herself on, and at last, gasping with relief, a slide of greasy mud carried her all the way down the last gentle slope of the run-off and out into the relatively fragrant waters of the delta.

Her last glimpse of Ghenret had been a pink light, the colour of water and blood, filtering down from the evening sky. Out in the silent waters of the delta, it was dark. She propelled up to the surface and broke out into the warm night air. Above her, swum the stars, which to the short-sighted dragon appeared only as a smudge of light across the greater dark. The water tasted of grass and mud, the sweetness of fresh water at low tide with only a breath of the faint chemical taint of the harbour. Embar Dea, happy to be free from the foul run-off, swam downstream and then rolled and heaved in the swift current. The stars bounced above her and at last she tired of her exercise and, travelling fast, headed for the delta mouth and the open sea.