“You’re a good man, Livion,” Tuse says. “I like serving under you. But what you’re doing here, it’ll destroy you. The rot’s already setting in.”
Livion keeps all expression from his face. He wants to admit he’s only saying what he imagines Solet would say, but that would prove Tuse’s point. Instead he says, “Are you with us? Or him?”
Tuse slumps into his rowers’ deck posture. “My chances are better with you. But here’s my price: We give him the captain’s chance. We let the sea decide.”
“And confirm this was a mutiny,” Livion says, “not a legal action.”
“Only if he gets back,” Tuse says, “and that’s the chance we take. We’ll say he was lost overboard saving Beale. A hero’s end. Who’s to complain that it was improper? And our hands are clean.” He can see this appeals to Livion.
Livion says, “What about your rowers? Can we count on them?”
“I think so,” Tuse says. “They’ll need the money soon. The guild is finished. Soon the only rowers will be prisoners. They’re half as effective as brothers, but half the cost. And you can whip them.”
“Will they keep quiet?” Livion says.
“And risk the gibbet?” Tuse says. “Sure. But the poth won’t.”
On the rowers’ deck the poth wishes she had another bottle of wine and a sharper saw. She’s treated those who needed her help the most, and now she can consider those she thought would live regardless. She starts with a brother slumped over his oar.
Sleep is usually the best medicine. Nonetheless, Everlyn clears her throat. He doesn’t stir. Everlyn pats his shoulder. He topples slightly. She puts two fingers on his neck. It’s warm and wet and without a pulse. She raises his head. His eyes are wide and red; his lips and nostrils covered with sizzling foam the color of fire powder. Everlyn lowers his head then lowers herself to the edge of his bench.
When she looks up, Tuse is standing over her. “Livion’s waiting to see you.”
“I know,” she says. She stands up, her chin thrust at his chest. He slides aside to let her get to the ladder. “No,” she says, and heads forward again. “Let him wait. These men shouldn’t have to any longer.”
As she passes him, Tuse looks at the slumped-over rower. “This one all right?”
“He got the job done,” she says. So did I.
7
* * *
Livion orders Jeryon brought up and the dragon cut loose. They’ve rendered all they can, stuffing the captain’s cabin with bones, bolts of skin, and sheets of wing membrane. The dragon’s head has been carefully packed to ensure the phlogiston doesn’t escape, and so that it could later be made into a trophy. Crates stacked on deck are moved to the hold as soon as Jeryon emerges. Some people prize dragon meat as an aphrodisiac, but little could be taken that wasn’t ruined by the water, a dozen astounded sharks, the sandals of the renderers, and that bit which is being cooked over a brazier by the foredeck.
“Tastes like chicken,” Beale says.
“Fire chicken,” Topp says.
The rest of the carcass sinks quickly. The sharks follow it, and by the time Jeryon is marched the length of the ship past piles of stray flesh to the stern deck, the sea is empty but for the dinghy, now tied to the starboard rail.
Jeryon surveys the Comber and his crew without comment. He sees the poth in the rowers’ deck, hurrying aft. He says nothing to her either.
The mates stand together by the unmanned steering oar. The poth climbs up behind Jeryon and his escort.
“Have you come to your senses?” Jeryon asks.
Livion says, “We’ve decided to give you the captain’s chance.”
Jeryon tsks. “We’ve, Captain? There is no we in captain. Only I.”
The poth says, “What’s the captain’s chance?”
“A practice old as pirates,” Jeryon says without turning around. “The judgment of cowards.”
Livion says, “You will be set adrift without food or water, sail or oar, and the waves will decide your fate.”
The poth says, “That’s monstrous.”
“That’s prerogative,” Livion says.
“He could have me executed,” Jeryon says, “but he’s too weak.” He looks at Solet. “Pliable.”
“And you’re too rigid,” Livion says. “Four hours. That’s how long it took to render the dragon. The rowers needed the rest, too. Four hours. And a fortune. That’s what you traded for this.”
The poth pushes past the escort to stand between the mates and their captain. “And what have you traded?” She looks at them in turn. “Four hours. How many more got sick in Hanosh? How many more are dead? A body must seem awfully light when it’s weighed against a full purse.”
“I wanted to explain things earlier,” Livion says. “This isn’t your business.”
She shoots a look at Tuse. “It became mine when I signed on, but not for this. I won’t be a party to it. I’ve got enough blood on my hands.”
“Then you can take the same chance we’re giving him,” Livion says.