On the stern deck Jeryon asks Solet, “Gliding or flapping?”
“Gliding. It dove a few times, then floated up again.”
“Good,” Jeryon says. “Flapping means it’s interested.”
He rubs his chin and considers the sail, a triangle the same yellow as his blouse, and the three banners dangling from the yard of the galley’s fore-and-aft rig: company, city, captain. Jeryon’s, striped blue and white, is the smallest. It’s also set at the bottom, the most easily replaced.
Jeryon says, “Steady as she goes.” He slides down the stern ladder and orders the sail and banners brought down, as he would before a storm. They’ll slow, but their profile will be smaller. Better to lose an hour from their schedule than to be seen and lose their schedule entirely.
Livion stands on the foredeck between the galley’s two harpoon cannons, bulbous iron vases mounted on steel tripods bolted to the deck. A dozen single-flue irons are stacked beside each, and a metal barrel with powder sits on the main deck, given some cover by the foredeck. Trust ships can whale if it won’t affect their schedules, which means Jeryon rarely allows it. But on this trip the cannons are meant only for defense.
When they’d set out, Livion told the crew that the Trust believed Aydeni privateers would attack them. The sailors had thought that far-fetched, regardless of the rumors spreading through the Harbor. None had imagined this alternative.
Beale, a harpooner with arms as thick as his weapon, says, “Will we fight?”
“If we do, we’ll be ready,” Livion says. “I’ll take the larboard cannon.” Beale nods.
Topp, a crossbow loader, says, “It would make a rich prize.”
“For one ship in a hundred,” Livion says. “And the one in a hundred men on it who survives. You know what happens to the other ninety-nine. Let’s not push our luck.” He heads for the stern deck.
Beale says, “I can’t think of a ship that’s done it.”
“So someone’s due, right?” Topp says. “One good shot, and you could get promoted to mate.”
“And I’d make you a harpooner so you can see how hard it is,” Beale says. “It would be an interesting shot though.” He swivels the starboard cannon, aiming over the horizon. “A whale’s a cow compared to that.” When Topp doesn’t respond, he realizes the captain is coming toward them. Topp is already pulling crossbows from compartments under the foredeck. Beale loads the cannon, but the captain takes no notice of either of them.
Solet and Livion watch Jeryon pace fore and aft to the beat of the oars. It’s maddening, his precision, but it’s better than watching the shadow slowly approach.
Solet says, “You’ve been through this before, haven’t you?”
“Yes, but not with one so big,” Livion says. “We still lost the ship.” He glances back. “Twenty-five minutes. Could be twenty.”
“If we could beat it, though,” Solet says, “would we render it? No one’s getting a share this trip. Only the captain gets a bonus. But we’d all get a taste of the render.”
“We can’t beat that,” Livion says.
“What if we did beat it?”
“We couldn’t render it,” Livion says. “Not with our schedule.”
“What’s a few extra hours?”
“The flox kills quickly. Maybe ten people the first hour, twenty the second, and so on.”
“Maybe so,” Solet says. “Maybe not. What’s a few people you’ve never met against a fortune you’ll never see again?” he says.
“I’d be happy just to keep my life,” Livion says. “Again.”
“And what’s your life now against what it could be?” He looks at Livion. “Stop thinking like him,” Solet says. “Think like the owners. The Trust would also get a share of the render. An immense share. The dragon’s share. Your woman’s father wouldn’t just bring you into the family business then. He’d give you a piece of it.”
“The only way to get it, though,” Livion says, “would be to betray the captain. And mutiny never pays out in the end.”
“Not mutiny,” Solet says. “Opportunity.”
Livion steps away. He should have Solet broken down to sailor. He would if what he said didn’t ring true. His monthly would never satisfy Trist, and to her father anyone below captain is a ship’s boy. And would the flox spread so quickly? People had been staying indoors. The city guard had been keeping the streets clear. Victims had been isolated. And all the tales he’s heard about the plague’s virulence, they could be just that, tales. Tristaban, though, she’s real.
Did he just see a flap? A grue clutches his spine.
While pacing, Jeryon keeps his head down and his eyes up so he can read Solet’s big mouth and expressive lips. He’ll deal with the second mate in a moment.