CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gone Astray

Thymara blinked her eyes, then squeezed them shut. Vertigo spun her. She had been sitting on Tarman’s bow, dangling her legs over the side and considering how big the world had become. The dense cloud and steady rains of the last few days had finally ceased; overhead was an endless canopy of stars that stretched from horizon to horizon. She’d stared up at them too long and had suddenly felt as if she were falling off the deck of the boat and up into the sky. She opened her eyes again and stared out at the water.

The forest was gone. It had retreated, day by day, until now it was no more than a smudge on the horizon. The ship was lost in a flat slough of reeds and rushes. Short trees and bushes with stilt-roots stuck up in isolated groves. They had learned these indicated not only the shallowest water, but also areas where gallators enjoyed sunning themselves. The dragons did not fear the gallators; they regarded them as a larger meat source. But the larger gallators felt the same way about the keepers and their small boats. The keepers had learned to hang back and let the dragons feed off the gallators before coming close to the stilt-bushes. The dragons liked to overnight near the groves. All of them were tired of standing in water, but at least it was shallower by the groves. Captain Leftrin accommodated them, but she knew that he feared grounding Tarman in water so shallow that not even he could scuttle out of the mud.

The retreating forests had taken all her familiar food sources with them. Now the keepers set nets for fish at night, and pulled up reeds and rushes for their thick, starchy roots. A few days ago, they had been lucky when a flock of waterfowl had got entangled in Carson’s fish nets. They’d had fresh meat, but paid for it in long hours of attempting to mend the tattered nets. She didn’t like the monotony of the food now, and disliked even more her feeling of being useless. With her hunting gear lost in the wave, all she could do was gather. And the only things to gather were the starchy roots or the seedheads from the tall grasses.

At least Sintara had become more attentive to her, if not any kinder. The dragon demanded nightly grooming now. The water made it difficult, and she had had to submit to Thymara climbing on her back and neck in order to reach the parts of her that needed cleaning. Bundled handfuls of reeds and grasses made coarse brushes for dislodging insects and polishing the dragon’s scales, but they were harsh to human hands. Thymara felt sorry for those whose hands were less scaly than her own.

Despite the difficulty of grooming her, Sintara insisted that Thymara be thorough. Thymara had spent most of her evening on the dragon’s wings. Despite her differences with the creature, she had enjoyed it. When Sintara opened her wings now, the delicate traceries of the bone and cartilage and the panels and patterns of her colouring meant that it was like cleaning stained glass. The scales with their serrated edges reminded her of translucent feathers. As large as the dragon’s wings had become, the skin of them remained thin and fine. The overlapping scales could scarcely be separated. Her wings folded so compactly that it seemed almost impossible that so large a spread of wing could fit so smoothly against the dragon’s back. Insects were an irritant when they crept into the folds, and the constant moisture of the river invited wet sores. There was no question that her wings needed daily attention of a kind the dragon could not easily give them. Even so, it seemed to Thymara that Sintara made her spend a ridiculous amount of time on them. Over and over, Sintara demanded that she praise the colour and patterns that were developing, that she note the delicate strength of the structure and the fine barbed claws at the tips of each wing-rib.

As a result, despite the fact that she’d travelled aboard the barge today rather than paddling one of the boats, she was tired. Tired to the bones, and they ached, too. Her hands hurt and her back ached around her never-healed injury. That was a pain she was growing accustomed to; she seldom thought about it until a chance touch woke a stab of agony. Furtively she glanced around, and when she was sure no one was looking at her, she slid her hand up under her shirt and cautiously touched the area between her shoulder blades. Hot. Swollen. And a nasty scabby valley down the middle that made her feel queasy. It was almost a relief that Tats wasn’t currently speaking to her, let alone trying to kiss her or touch her. Keeping his wandering hands away from her back had been a challenge, and a behaviour that completely confused him. She should have let him touch her there; that would have put a quick end to his heat.

She sighed. Rapskal came to her mind. Not for the first time, she missed him intensely. If he were alive, he’d be sitting here beside her tonight, nattering on about something inane, cheery and optimistic. He had been her friend without any obligations or expectations. She hadn’t worked for him to like her, and he’d always just assumed that she liked him. He’d made friendship so simple. She missed that. Tonight, she longed for it.

She turned and looked back amidships. All of the keepers were on board tonight. Some of them were sitting on the roof of the deckhouse. They’d been playing dice until it got too dark to see the gaming pieces. Now Boxter was tormenting everyone by talking about the spice rolls his mother used to make. Sylve and Kase and Alum were huddled around a pile of rush roots, peeling the tough outer skin off the thick tubers and then passing them to Bellin who was chopping them into chunks for tomorrow’s breakfast. Thymara knew she should go and help them.

‘Greft. Can we have a word with you?’

She turned at the sound of Tats’ voice. He and Harrikin were standing behind Greft. She hadn’t noticed him leaning against the railing not far from her. Lately he’d been quiet, withdrawn and hostile towards the other keepers and it had seemed best to avoid him. Trust Tats to think it would be best to prod him out.

‘You’ve already had several. Why stop now?’ Greft replied sarcastically. His words were badly formed. She wondered if his lips were stiffening. She’d heard of that happening to heavily-scaled people. It had been days since Leftrin had hit him. His mouth should have healed by now.

‘We noticed you didn’t take the boat out today’

‘Didn’t feel well.’

‘Well, yes, that what I thought. So Harrikin and I, we’re going to take it out tomorrow and see if we can’t get some fish or some of those water-gophers that we saw a few days ago. Or even one of those gallators. The dragons seem to think they’re tasty. Any kind fresh meat for the keepers and crew would be welcome.’

She noticed he wasn’t asking Greft if he could take it. He was telling him that they were going to do it. Harrikin wasn’t speaking but he stood ready to back Tats up. Greft looked from one to the other. His voice was low and serious as he said, ‘Don’t like loaning my gear. No.’

‘It’s keeper gear.’ Tats said.

‘And a keeper boat,’ Harrikin added.

Greft looked from one to the other. ‘Gear was issued to me. I took care of it, stowed it right. That’s why I’ve still got it.’ She marked how he said only the words he needed, and suspected that speaking was painful, or an effort.

‘Luck,’ Tats insisted. ‘Just luck, Greft. You weren’t the only keeper who stored his gear tight. You were just lucky enough that your boat washed up where it was found. That’s all. It’s not fair for you to hold it back from everyone.’

‘It’s mine.’

Tats lowered his voice slightly. ‘I seem to remember standing near an elk that Thymara had killed, and hearing you sing a different tune about how things should be shared out.’

Tarman was not a large vessel. Silence rippled out from Tats’ words. The conversation on the roof of the deckhouse stilled. Heads turned.