13

Hal, hardly a seaman, didn't know if the weather was supposed to get worse the farther he drew away from the Roche shore, but it did.

He'd been on ferries, and on dragon transports, but seldom this close to the heaving ocean.

He didn't understand it, didn't like it.

With full dark, the world closed in about his tiny boat. The night was as black as any he'd experienced. But maybe that was just as well, he thought. He didn't have to see the waves that rushed on him.

They lifted and dropped his boat, and the wind screeched like a fishwife. His mast was bending, creaking, and he thought he'd better take in some of his blanket/sail. With the sail down, the boat pitched worse than it ever had.

He remembered one of Gart's stories, about having been caught away from her coaster in a small boat when a storm hit, and she set something called a sea anchor.

Hal grudgingly tied the other set of blankets into a bundle, and lashed rope around them. He'd freeze, but he'd rather be cold than drown.

He couldn't remember whether the sea anchor was supposed to be tied to the stern or the bow, decided the stern had to be more logical.

That seemed to help a little, holding the little boat's prow into the oncoming waves.

There wasn't anything he could do, and so he secured the oars, and crept up into the bow, trying to cram as much of his body into the tiny cuddy.

It started raining, but it took a while for him to notice it, since there seemed to be as much spray as air for him to breathe.

He felt miserable, but not that miserable.

Then he remembered the sandwiches, and dug one out, keeping it under his coat.

The meat was unfamiliar, but that didn't bother him. He inhaled the sandwich and half of one flask of beer.

The beer also tasted strange, and he wondered if it was some kind of bark beer that he'd heard peasants made.

He hadn't had alcohol in some time, not being much at stomaching the home brew the prisoners made, and found himself a little tipsy, and singing.

Maybe it was as much being free and feeling defiant as the brew.

At least he wasn't getting sick from the boat's motion, and as soon as that thought had come, he regretted it, swallowing mightily.

But the meal stayed down.

Hal was afraid to go to sleep, but his body would have none of that, and his eyelids sank, opened, sank, and then it was gray twilight out, and he discovered he'd been right not to want to see the storm around him.

Everything was gray, except the white froth atop the monstrous waves that the wind took and whipped along the water's surface.

But at least it wasn't raining anymore.

And he thought the wind was dying.

No doubt it was his damnable optimism.

But, some time later, he realized the wind was lowering, and the storm was passing.

He chanced putting the sail up, and caught enough of the sun glow through the clouds to get a rough idea of which way he should be sailing, again, into the choppy seas.

The wind held strong, but the waves died, and he was cutting through a gray, calm sea.

He remembered the sea anchor, and brought in the sodden blankets, spreading them across the thwarts to dry out a bit. But they were wool, and still would hold warmth, even wet.

He treated himself to half a sandwich and the rest of the first flask of beer.

Finally, Hal Kailas had a chance to take stock.

He wondered how many days' sail it would take to reach Deraine, hadn't a clue. He knew small boats didn't sail as fast as big ones, but didn't know much more.

He also realized he itched.

Kailas felt a deal less sympathy for one of the men he'd murdered, whose coat he'd taken. The bastard had fleas.

Oh well.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd had armor-clad dandruff in this war.

Three days later, Hal had long finished the soggily stale sandwiches.

He'd been able to nurse the beer along, since it rained daily, for which he tried to feel grateful.

It had cleared on one day enough for him to improvise a sun compass, and get an accurate reading for north.

To his considerable relief, his instinct had been true, and he had been sailing in the direction he wanted, not, as he'd feared, either in circles or back toward Roche.

Deraine was out there.

Somewhere.

* * *

Hal was awakened from his drowse by a mournful honk that brought him fully alert.

The honk could have come only from a dragon.

He sat up, and saw, about twenty yards distant, a dragon, dark and light red, bobbing in the mild seas like a cork, its wings folded.

It had been tamed—its breastplate was drilled for a saddle, and the remnants of harness dangled down across its side. Reins had also been torn away, maybe by the dragon itself?

Itself?

Herself, Hal realized.

The dragon saw Hal was alive, honked again.

Hal saw the monster had scars along one side, and the rear of one wing had been torn.

A dragon flier's mount.

The flier must have been killed, and the dragon fled the battleground.

Hal made a tentative noise, comforting.

The dragon replied equally tentatively.

Its huge tail lashed back and forth on the water's surface.

Hal reached slowly for an oar, and began to canoe-paddle toward the beast.

Froth appeared at the dragon's chest, hindquarters, as its talons back-paddled away from this unknown man.

Hal tried more soothing noises.

The dragon waited.

Hal paddled closer, and again the dragon swam away from him.

Hal cursed.

He paddled closer, very slowly.

The dragon bellowed, and its wings unfurled.

"No, dammit," Hal said. "Don't…"

But the dragon's wings were flailing at the air, and its talons digging into the water. It skated away from him, bounced off a wave crest, crashed through the crest of another, and was in the air, climbing toward the clouds.

Hal slumped back.

The dragon circled him once, curiously, then set a course.

Hal didn't need the compass he didn't have to tell its course.

North. Due north.

Toward Black Island and the far northern tundra.

Hal dangled one of the lines over the side, wishing he'd saved something for bait.

But it didn't seem necessary.

A fish, a large fish, Hal didn't know what sort, but it looked edible; he took the hook as if it was the only edible thing in this ocean.

Hal grinned, started hauling in, hand over hand.

Then a bigger fish, almost as big as the boat, came from nowhere, and took fish, hook and line away with it.

"Son of a bitch," Hal said sincerely, and found another line.

Another fish took the hook, and Hal jerked the fish out of the water into the boat, just as that monster predator came back for seconds.

Hal sneered at the beast, then regretted it, as the huge fish, with far more teeth than any creature not a demon had a right to have, kept circling him, eyeing him as he cut the fish open, gutted it and then devoured the rest.

It appeared as if this great fish thought Hal now qualified, having kept the fish, for the monster's dinner.

Hal thought of potting it with one of his crossbows. He found it mildly funny that he knew exactly where to hit a man or dragon for a killing shot, but no idea whatsoever for a damned fish.

It was a day and a half before it gave up, having chased all other fishes away.

* * *

There was nothing Hal could do but keep on his course, and try to keep his mind busy.

He started thinking about Khiri, and his base intentions, but that didn't go very far, considering his rather malnourished condition.

Meals were better dreams, and, even though he'd never been much of an epicure, he planned enormous menus that he and Khiri would inhale, and then he would work his wiles on her, given more energy.

Then an idea came, pushing food and sex out of his mind.

He became very busy making a plan, and deciding how he would broach it to the king, and perhaps Sir Bab Cantabri might be willing to involve himself.

Hal was so busy plotting it took him almost an hour to recognize the thin dark line on the horizon as land.

He closed with the land, dropped his sail a half a mile from shore, when he realized what he was looking at was great cliffs, with never an inlet to be seen.

Hal guessed that he was somewhere on the southeastern coast of Deraine.

Or, rather, he hoped, since that was the only part of Deraine that had steep cliffs.

That he knew about, anyway.

Otherwise, he might have been cast far into the seas, and might be about to wreck on some unknown land.

Hal guessed what he should do was bear south or north, looking for some sort of port, or, even better, encountering a friendly ship.

Then he saw a bobbing dot, about a mile away.

Very awkwardly, he managed to steer the boat in its direction.

It was another boat, smaller than his, with two men in it.

Fishermen in oilskins, working what looked like crab pots, very close to the surf line.

They saw him, waited.

Hal didn't really know what he should say.

"Ahoy," was what he settled for.

"Eee-yup," was the response.

"I need help," Hal said.

"Looks like," the other fisherman said. "You one of them Roche spies?"

"No," Hal said. "I'm an escaped prisoner."

"Eee-yup," came back. "Who's the boat belong to?"

"Nobody," Hal said. "I mean, nobody now."

The two fishermen looked at each other.

"What sort of rewards they give for prisoners?" the first asked.

"Damned if I know," the other one said.

"Bet they're not as good as for spies," the first said.

"Look," Hal tried. "Help me ashore, and I'll give you this boat. Free. And gold, when I'm able."

Both fishermen looked interested.

"Don't know about gold," the first said. "Everybody's always been promising me some of that, and nobody ever came through."

"You think we could use something like that boat?" the other asked.

"Dunno," the first said. "But spies don't give things away. They need all kinds of things for their deep, dark doings."

"Guess he might be telling the truth, then."

"Maybe so. Welcome to Deraine, mister. We'll take a claim on the boat before we take you ashore. People forget, sometimes."