“That’s command,” he says. “Collect the nails as I bang them out. We’ll need them.”
The big moon, Ah, is up when he arranges the forward pieces of gunwale into a rough rectangle, the aft pieces into a smaller, neater one, and lays across each two pieces of transom gunwale. Then he nails them together.
“There. Paddles,” he says. “Or something approaching paddles. And to make sure we don’t lose them . . .” He enlarges two nail holes in the end of each with a hair pin and threads a strand of painter through them. He ties the forward assemblage to his right wrist, motions for her to hold up her left wrist and ties the other to it. She doesn’t know the knot, and he makes it too quickly for her to follow.
He kneels amidships, she kneels beside him, and facing the horizon they paddle in easy tandem for the League. The spare nails jingle pleasantly in her pocket.
After a few dozen strokes he waits until the poth’s not looking and changes his grip to match hers. It’s more comfortable and efficient.
3
* * *
Jeryon jerks awake: Where’s his paddle? His right arm dangles over the starboard gunwale. His fist is full of water. He digs into the sea with both hands until he remembers the strand of painter. He clasps his wrist and draws the paddle to him from where it had been drifting astern. He sits on his heels, catching his breath.
The poth is slumped over her gunwale. Her arm and paddle aren’t in the boat either. Just looking for them makes him feel so dizzy he has to lean a hand on the bottom. He rolls his head slowly to match the spinning inside. He lays the back of his forefinger on her neck. It’s very dry. He fishes around beneath her hand, finds the strand from her wrist, and pulls her oar in. He leans it against the gunwale. This dislodges her and she stirs enough to slap some hair off her face. Her cheek would normally look gray in the moonlight. It’s grayer than it should be.
It’s not long after midnight, and the small moon, Med, has a five-length lead on Ah. Their position is the first thing Jeryon’s father checked when they went to their boat a few hours before dawn. He had a theory about them. If Med beat Ah across the sky, the nets would be full that day. If Ah beat Med, they’d be empty. If they rose and set together, anything could happen. Jeryon used to check the theory. The nets were mostly empty wherever the moons happened to be, but telling his father this made no difference. He couldn’t be convinced.
Jeryon was convinced, though, that steady work for a shipowner was more secure than rolling the dice with your own boat’s net.
He paddles, however ineffectually, too tired to sleep. They couldn’t have made more than seven or eight miles, although the poth was steady and strong. Maybe she’s not as much of a landlubber as he thought.
When Everlyn awakes it’s nearly dawn. Her paddle lies in the boat. He must have put it there. He’s slumped over the gunwale, his paddle still gripped in his hand. How long had he kept rowing before passing out? Jeryon’s flushed. She touches his neck. His pulse remains steady, and they’re both sweating. The cool night might have bought them a few more hours.
A silver flicker kicks at the water. She thinks a wave reflected off the boat, then sees another one and another, like the stars swimming up to greet them. She pushes Jeryon’s shoulder and, as he rouses, points over the side. She tries to say, “Look,” but the word skids to a halt on her dry tongue.
He says, “Some dragon meat must have caught on the hull.”
The pearly-silver fish spill across the surface as they take a chance at the meat. Neither fish nor castaways can believe their good luck.
Jeryon slams his paddle at a fish. He succeeds only in scattering the school. The fish come back, and he tries again. Same result.
“Silly way to fish anyway,” he mutters.
On the other side of the boat, the poth tries and clips one. It floats, stunned, a coin waiting to be plucked from the mud. She slams it again for good measure. It turns belly up and its schoolmates consider it for their own breakfast. She grabs its tail, lifts it up, and cries, “Aha!” Jeryon turns just in time to see a longtom as big as her arm jump out of the water and tear her prize from her hand with its needlelike jaws. She tucks her hand against her belly as the fish vanishes, the school evaporating in its wake.
“We could eat the dragon meat,” Jeryon says, “but it’s probably too salty at this point.”
The thought of eating makes her thirstier, which makes her hungrier. She had some rice and fish at midday yesterday, followed by a handful of figs. She doesn’t recall Jeryon eating at all. “Give me your blade,” she says.
“Why?”
She puts out her palm. “We shouldn’t speak too much,” she says. “Need to save our energy.”