“I’m Ynessi,” he says, climbing over the rail. “We’re like tadpoles. Born in the water.” He spots the bucket and says, “That won’t work. Not for this fire.”
She reconsiders the flames and says, “I know what we can use.”
The Comber has no whale line on this voyage, so Jeryon takes up a coil of sail line and a block meant for the emergency rig. He ties the block onto the line like a fishing float then attaches the line to the harpoon through a hole near its head. He ties the other end of the line to the harpoon’s tripod.
He aims the cannon at the dragon and considers what a prize it would make. There are enough men aboard who have rendered whales that they could dummy their way through a dragon. All that bone, teeth, and claw which can be flaked into peerless blades. All that skin, so tough it can be used for armor, but light enough to wear every day. And the phlogiston, the oil secreted from glands behind its jaw that fuels its fire. With Hanosh edging toward war with Ayden it would make a devastating weapon—or it could be sold for a fortune as lamp oil. The dragon rears its head and bares its neck. Then Beale manages to cry out. Jeryon changes his mind, swivels the cannon, and fires the harpoon and its line toward the men.
The iron splashes into a wave beyond them. The block and line are just buoyant enough to keep the latter afloat despite the harpoon sinking. But the men don’t move toward it. They might not even see it. Their arms are out. They stare empty eyed at the sun, heads back, mouths open. Only Beale moves, treading water incidentally while trying to climb out of the sea. Jeryon, whose fisherman father taught him to swim before he could tie a bowline, kicks off his sandals, dives off the prow, and swims down the line.
The dragon’s wings are spread across the water, keeping it afloat, but they won’t hold it up for long. It thrashes and finds that it can drag itself toward the ship. A meal’s a meal, especially a last one. Jeryon, seeing this, swims faster.
In the poth’s cabin, she and Solet wrestle the drenched sailcloth off the tumbled crates and barrels. It’s no easy thing to drag it forward, and two firemen help. They unfold it so two can take the starboard walk and two can take the middle. When the shadow of the sailcloth passes over the rowers, they snap their heads up, worried.
The heat is tremendous, and the stench of burning oil grates at the corners of their eyes. They flap the cloth atop the flames, driving out more smoke. The sailcloth sizzles. Two more firemen bring water casks. Solet tells them to pour it over the cloth, not the flames; it’ll be easier to smother them. The flames on the walk are soon out. They hang the cloth over the gunwales, and the waves catch the end and help beat out the flames. Solet listens to the ship. He feels it through his feet. The hull still seems sound.
The poth says, “Where’s the captain?” One of the sailors points out toward the harpoon line, then to the dragon.
Solet says, “Has he forgotten his precious book?”
The poth says, “You have to help him. You can swim.”
“I lied,” Solet says. “Can’t swim a stroke. I worked my way along the side to the ladder.”
The poth looks at him in disbelief.
“What can I say?” he says. “I wanted to impress you.”
She should push him overboard, but that would only compound their problems. She grew up on a lake. She can swim well. But she knows she can’t go in after the captain. If she were lost in the water, too many aboard would die without her healing.
“He’s going to tie them to the line,” the poth says. “We’ll haul them in.”
Solet follows her and the firemen to the foredeck. The dragon won’t last much longer, he thinks. Nor will the captain. He needs to keep the former from sinking.
Jeryon considers which sailor to save first. The waves decide for him. They drift Beale and Topp farther away while pushing together the other two. As their hands touch, instead of holding on to each other, each tries to get onto the other’s shoulders. One goes under, then the next. Their backs and flailing arms appear. It’s unclear whose is whose. They disappear again. A moment later Jeryon swims through the spot. He ducks his face into the water. He only sees the murk and matter of the sea. He swims on.
Jeryon reaches Topp first. He tries to talk to him, but waves flood his mouth. Topp doesn’t respond anyway. Warily, Jeryon swims behind the sailor, a fist at the ready, then he grabs Topp around his chest. He puts up no resistance, and with a few scissor kicks Jeryon drags him to the line. He slips it under Topp’s arm. This Topp understands, and he comes to, as if from sleep.
“Go,” Jeryon says. “Climb to safety.”
“No. Beale. I have to save him.”
“Then haul us in,” Jeryon says.
Topp says “Aye,” and he pulls for the ship. A cheer goes up on board.