Solet has a clear shot. Topp says, “What are you waiting for?” The dragon’s head comes down. Solet fires.
The harpoon narrowly clears Beale’s head and sinks deep into the dragon’s neck. Its head snaps aside. Its neck thrashes in agony, blood spewing from its mouth. The dragon makes one last heave, glides forward, and covers Beale with its wing, trapping him under water.
Livion pipes. The oars drag the Comber to a stop. The harpoon line is pulled in and Jeryon is lifted onto the foredeck. He spits water and rolls onto his shoulder to consider the dragon. “Dead?” Jeryon says.
Solet says, “I think so.”
“Beale?”
“I don’t know.”
The dragon’s head rolls on its side, its eye open to the sun. Waves fan over the wings. A hand shoots through one of the rents in the membrane made by a bolt. Topp yells, “Beale!” The hand slips under the waves. Topp yells again, “Beale!” Now fingers appear on either side of the rent. They push it apart.
Solet says, “I cannot be seeing this.”
Beale’s head crowns then pops through. He turns and says to Topp, “What?”
Jeryon stands by the mast, sandals on again, and confers with Tuse on the rowers’ deck. The oarmaster is bruised and burned, and he’s lost a large clump of dirty, matted hair.
“All but one of our larboard rowers are dead or too injured to row,” Tuse says. “And if it weren’t for the poth—” he flicks his eyes forward to where she’s treating someone and he lowers his voice, “we’d be much worse off. Once the rigging and casualties are removed half the benches should be usable, which matches the number of oars we have left. I’ll put twelve on a side and we can get underway.”
Jeryon notices Tuse’s expression and asks, “Anything else?”
Tuse glances forward again. “More powder won’t get another stroke out of these men,” he says. “We might manage regular time, nothing more.”
Jeryon says, “We’ll spell them with sailors.”
“The guild would object,” Tuse says, “and the brothers.”
“Then they can keep their seats,” Jeryon says. “And if they can’t pull, I’ll object to the guild. But we’ll be underway in half an hour.”
“Half an hour!” Tuse says.
“We have a schedule,” Jeryon says.
Solet, who is overseeing the removal of the yard, overhears. As do several sailors watching the school of hammerheads return to attack the dragon. Its hide is tough, and they haven’t been able to do much damage, but each bite feels like a full purse gone and they still hope Jeryon will let them take it. That its wings have kept it afloat and the waves have kept it near the galley encourages them.
Jeryon considers addressing the crew on the matter and decides against it. Instead he bets himself that Solet will run to Livion as soon as the yard clears the deck. He’ll give Solet this: the second mate knows how to complain up the chain of command. And he’s smart enough not to harpoon someone in front of the crew. Fortunately, Livion is weak, but not feebleminded. He thinks like Jeryon. Livion will push Solet off, maybe relieve him. A good test of his quality.
Jeryon doesn’t know which galls him more: that he’s lost four hours from his schedule or that he needs Solet so he doesn’t lose any more.
Then again, maybe he doesn’t need Solet that much. He can’t get the image of the harpoon pointed at his head out of his mind. A different employment for Solet occurs to him.
Solet feels Jeryon’s eyes on him. He knows, he thinks. He has to know what Livion and I have been talking about. But he can’t do anything until we get to port.
On the stern deck he tells Livion, “He’s not going to render the dragon.” From up here he can see just how many sharks are roiling the water and banging against the hull. “That’d pay for all this damage ten times over. A hundred times.”
“We have to get back to Hanosh,” Livion says. “Shall I relieve you of your post? Your insolence—”
“My insolence?” Solet says. “You’re the one who left the captain to die.”
Livion struggles to keep his jaw from dropping. “You said—”
“Here’s how it will sound to the Trust at the inquiry. First, you took the ship into danger against orders, then you saw a way to confirm your new command. Who else would get the Comber but the man who brought her valuable cargo in after the ship was damaged and the captain died?”
“I’ll tell you what will go in my report,” Livion says. “How you tried to undermine the captain—”
“The captain who disobeyed the Trust’s clear rules?” Solet says. “Who attacked the dragon, who left his post to save a couple of sailors, and who risked its cargo? That’s the definition of unfit.”