The Mad Ship

‘Really?’ He fished for another compliment.

‘You are fully as marvellous as the dragons I saw.’

She had expected the comparison to please him. He sensed that, but instead it made him uneasy. Was she fishing for secrets? She’d get none from him.

She seemed unaware of his displeasure as she mused, ‘I think there is in the heart of a man a place made for wonder. It sleeps inside, awaiting fulfilment. All one’s life, one gathers treasures to fill it. Sometimes they are tiny glistening jewels: a flower blooming in the shelter of a fallen tree, the arch of a small child’s brow combined with the curve of her cheek. Sometimes, however, a trove falls into your hands all at once, as if some greedy pirate’s chest spilled before an unsuspecting beholder. Such were the dragons on the wing. They were every gem colour I know, and every possible shape one could imagine. Some were dragons such as I knew from childhood tales, but others had shapes whimsical and still others were terrifying in their strangeness. There were proper dragons, some with long serpentine tails, some four-legged, some two, red and green and gold and sable. Flying amongst them were winged stags, a formidable boar who swept his tusks from side to side as he flew, and one like a great winged serpent and even a great striped cat, with striped wings…’ Her voice died away, subsiding in awe.

‘They weren’t real dragons, then,’ Paragon observed snidely.

‘I tell you, I saw them,’ she insisted.

‘You saw something. Or some things, some of which had stolen the shapes of dragons. Nevertheless, they were not real dragons. As well to say that you saw green, blue, and purple horses, some of which had six legs and some shaped like cats. Such things would not be horses at all. Whatever it was you saw, they were not dragons.’

‘Well…but…’

It pleased him to hear her flounder for words. She who was usually so glib. He didn’t help her.

‘Some were dragons,’ she finally defended herself. ‘Some were shaped and coloured just as the dragons I have seen in ancient scrolls and tapestries.’

‘Some of your flying things were shaped like dragons and some like cats. As well to say that flying cats are real, and sometimes they are shaped like dragons.’

She was silent for a long time. When she spoke, he knew she had been thinking and that her chain of thought had dragged her back to his personal history. ‘Why,’ she asked in a deceptively courteous tone, ‘is it so essential to your happiness that there be no such thing as dragons? Why are you so intent on crushing the wonder I felt at the sight of those creatures winging?’

‘It isn’t. I don’t. I simply believe that one should say what one means. I don’t care that you wondered at them. I just don’t think you should call such things dragons.’

‘Why? If there are no such things as dragons, what does it matter what I call the creatures I saw? Why should not I name them dragons if that name pleases me?’

‘Because,’ he declared, suddenly nettled beyond all reason. ‘Because if there were any such thing as dragons still, it would demean them to be grouped with such grotesques.’

Suddenly she sat up straight. He felt her shift away from him. He could almost feel her prying stare trying to pierce the darkness and see what little the hatchet had left of his face. ‘You know something,’ she accused him. ‘You know something about dragons, and you know something about my dream and what it means. Don’t you?’

‘I don’t even know what you dreamed,’ he stated. He tried to make his voice reasonable, but it climbed up the scale and cracked. It always chose the worst times to do that. ‘And I’ve never seen any dragons.’

‘Not even in your dreams?’ Her soft question was as insidious as drifting fog.

‘Don’t touch me,’ he warned her suddenly.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ she said, but he did not believe her. If she touched him, skin to wood, and reached hard enough, she would know if he were lying. That was not fair. He couldn’t do that to her.

‘Do you ever dream of dragons?’ she asked him. It was a direct question, asked in a casual voice. He did not fall for it.

‘No,’ he replied succinctly.

‘Are you sure? I thought you had spoken to me about such dreams, once…’

He shrugged, an elaborate charade. ‘Well, perhaps I did. I don’t recall. Maybe I did dream such a dream, but it wasn’t important to me. Not all dreams are important, you know. In fact, I wonder if any dreams are important or significant.’

‘Mine are,’ said Amber defeatedly. ‘I know they are. That is why it is so distressing when I cannot grasp what they mean. Oh, Paragon, I fear I’ve made an error. I pray it is not a grievous one.’

He smiled in the darkness. ‘Well, how grievous an error can a bead-maker commit? I am sure you are troubling yourself over nothing. Dragons and sea serpents indeed. What do such fantastic creatures have to do with you and me?’

‘Sea serpents!’ Amber suddenly exclaimed. ‘Ah!’ For a long time, she was silent. Then he almost felt the warmth of her smile wash against him. ‘Sea serpents,’ she affirmed to herself softly. ‘Thank you, Paragon. Thank you for that much.’

‘It’s not your watch.’ Ophelia spoke the words quietly.

‘I know that as well as you do. I couldn’t sleep,’ Althea replied. She looked out past the figurehead. The waves were gentle swells. The soft spring wind pushed her light cloak against her body.

‘I know that as well as you do,’ Ophelia countered. ‘You’ve been tossing in your bunk for two hours now. Why? Are you excited about docking in Bingtown tomorrow?’

‘Yes. But not in a glad way. I fear all I must face tomorrow. My sister, my mother. Kyle, perhaps, if Vivacia is there. Oh, Ophelia, I even dread facing my ship when the time comes. How can I look at her and explain how and why I let her go?’

‘You know you will not have to. Just put your hand to her planking and she will feel it all, as surely as I do.’

Althea slid her hands lovingly along the polished railing. ‘It is such a wonder to me, the understanding that has developed between us. It is another reason I dread docking in Bingtown tomorrow. I have felt so safe aboard you. I hate to leave you.’

A light footfall on the deck behind her turned her head. It was Grag. He moved across the moonlit deck, his bare feet falling softly. He wore only his trousers. His hair was tousled and boyish. Obviously, he had recently awakened, yet there was still a tigerish grace to his gait as he crossed the deck. A slow smile crept across Althea’s face. Very softly, Ophelia answered her thought. ‘Men have no concept of their own beauty.’

Grag grinned as he approached. ‘I tapped at your door. When I didn’t find you there, I knew right away where to look.’

‘Oh?’ Ophelia broke in archly. ‘Are you in the habit of tapping at Althea’s door at this hour? With no shirt on?’

‘Only when my father wakes me up and asks me to,’ Grag replied easily. ‘He said he wanted to have a quiet talk with both of us.’

‘I was not to be included in this “quiet talk”?’ Ophelia demanded, already offended.

‘I assume you were, since he asked me to wake Althea and bid her to come here. I thought you might even have suggested it.’

‘No. It’s my idea.’ Captain Tenira stepped quietly into their circle. A coal glowed in the bowl of his short stemmed pipe and fragrant smoke drifted with him. ‘Call me a fearful old man if you will, but there are some precautions I’d like to take before we dock in Bingtown. And they involve Althea.’ His serious tone quenched their banter.

‘What did you have in mind?’ Althea asked.

‘I’ve been thinking about our encounter with that Chalcedean galley. They were flying the Satrap’s banner. Things have been changing in Bingtown for the last few years. I don’t know how much favour and influence that captain may have there, or whether he would send a complaint there about our response.’ Captain Tenira gave a disgusted snort. ‘When he finally got under way again, he may even have fled there. So. Depending on how much influence he has there…and on how badly the Satrap currently grovels to Chalced…we may have an unpleasant welcome awaiting us.’

A little silence fell over the group. It was obvious to Althea that Grag had given this no more thought than she had. It was not that she had dismissed the incident as trivial: never that! Ophelia’s beautiful, slender-fingered hands were scorched. No matter how many times the figurehead assured her that she did not feel pain, at least, not as humans did, Althea still winced at every glimpse of her blackened hands. Althea had looked forward to reaching Bingtown, and expected that the other Old Traders would share her deep anger and affront at the attack. Never had she paused to think that others there might think the Chalcedean galley and her crew had been wronged.

Captain Tenira gave them time to mull this before he spoke again. ‘As I said, I might simply be a fearful old man. What, I asked myself, is the worst they can do to me? Well, I answered, they could seize my ship when I tied up at the tax dock. Why, they might even take custody of my first mate and me. Then who would go to my family, to tell what had befallen us? Who would witness to the Bingtown Trader Council and demand their aid? I have many good hands good sailors one and all – but,’ he shook his head, ‘good speakers they are not, nor are they Bingtown Traders.’

Althea grasped it instantly. ‘You want me to go?’

‘If you would.’

‘Of course. Without hesitation. I wonder that you think you need to ask this.’

‘Of that, I had no doubt. But there is more, I’m afraid,’ Captain Tenira said quietly. ‘The more I dwell on what may have changed in Bingtown, the less confidence I have of our welcome. To be safe, to be sure, I think it would be best if you resumed your boy’s guise. That way, you could more easily slip away from the ship. If you had to.’

‘Do you really believe it is likely to come to that?’ Grag asked incredulously.

Captain Tenira sighed. ‘Son, we carry a spare mast belowdecks. Why? Not because we are likely to need it but because some day we may. That is how I prefer to think of this as well.’