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KENNIT’S WOMEN

S HE W HO R EMEMBERS and Maulkin did not argue.

Shreever almost wished they would. That would have meant that at least one of them had reached a decision.

Instead, they discussed endlessly what had happened, what might happen and what it might mean.

In the tides since Maulkin’s tangle had refused to kill the other ship, the serpents had trailed after Bolt and waited to see what would happen next.

Bolt herself had barely spoken to them, despite the nagging queries of She Who Remembers.

The silver creature seemed caught in some dilemma of her own.

Chafing under the indecisiveness, Shreever’s temper frayed like an outgrown skin.

With every changing tide, she felt a sense of loss.

Time flowed, leaving the serpents behind.

She was losing strength and body weight.

Worse, she could not keep her thoughts straight.

‘I am dwindling,’ she said to Sessurea as she swayed with the sea.

They were anchored beside one another for the night.

There was a nasty bit of current here; it stirred the silt constantly, making the water murky.

‘Tide after tide, we follow this ship. To what end? Maulkin and She Who Remembers swim always in her shadow, and speak only to one another. The toxins they waste on the ship’s hull taste strange, and bring us no prey.

Repeatedly, they say we must be patient.

I have patience, but what I have lost is endurance.

By the time a decision is reached, I will be too weak to travel with the tangle. What does Maulkin wait for?’

Sessurea was silent for a time. When the blue serpent finally spoke, there was more wonder than rebuke in his tone. ‘I never thought to hear you criticize Maulkin.’

‘We have followed him long, and I have never questioned his wisdom,’ she replied.

She lidded her eyes briefly against the wash of silt.

‘I wish he would lead us again. Him I would follow until my flesh could no longer hold my bones together. Now, however, he defers, both to She Who Remembers, and to the silver ship. I accept the wisdom of She Who Remembers. But who is the silver creature that we should tarry to do her bidding while our cocooning season escapes us?’

‘Not who is the silver creature. What?’ Maulkin materialized suddenly alongside them.

His false-eyes gleamed faintly in the murky water.

He anchored himself, then wrapped a lap of coil around them both.

Gratefully, Shreever eased her grip on the rock.

With Maulkin holding her, she would rest more fully.

‘I am tired,’ she apologized. ‘I do not doubt you, Maulkin.’

Their leader spoke gently to her. ‘You have not doubted me, even when I have vacillated. You have paid a price for that loyalty, I know. I fear that the price we all pay for my indecision is too high. She Who Remembers has already pointed this out to me. Our tangle is mostly male. It will do little good for us to cocoon and hatch if we have delayed so long that no queens rise.’

‘Delayed?’ Shreever asked quietly.

‘That is what we debate. Every tide of lingering weakens us. Yet, without a guide, there is no sense in forging on, for this world does not match our memories. Not even She Who Remembers is sure of the way. We need Bolt’s guidance, so we must wait for her.

As weak as we have become, we will need her protection as well. ’

‘Why does she make us wait?’ Sessurea, blunt as always, bit to the spine of it.

Maulkin made a disgusted sound, and a waft of toxin drifted from his mane.

‘To that, she has given us a score of answers, and none. She Who Remembers thinks the silver ship is more dependent on the fickle aid of humans than she will admit. As I told you, it comes down to what she is. She insists she is a dragon. We know she is not.’

‘She is not?’ Sessurea thundered in dismay. ‘What is she, then?’

‘Why does that matter?’ Shreever moaned. ‘Why cannot she simply help us, as she said she would?’

Maulkin spoke soothingly, but his words were alarming.

‘To help us, she will have to beg help of the humans. While she insists she is all dragon, I do not think she can humble herself to do that.’ He spoke slowly.

‘Before she can help us, she must accept what she is. She Who Remembers has been urging her to do that. She Who Remembers knows much of one two-legs aboard the ship. The wintrow aided her to escape the Others. In touching him, she knew him. He was full of knowledge of a ship, thoughts that She Who Remembers did not grasp fully at the time. Now she begins to piece it all together. We seek to awaken the other portion of the ship, to give her strength to emerge again. It is a slow process, stinging such a creature awake. She has been both weak and reluctant. But of late, she has begun to stir. We may yet prevail.’

Kennit balanced the tray in one hand and turned the key in the lock with the other.

It was not easy, for a fine trembling was ruining his dexterity.

A night and a day had passed since he had last entered this room.

Since then, he had not slept and barely eaten.

He had avoided the foredeck and the figurehead, avoided Etta and Wintrow.

He could not completely recall how he had spent those hours.

For some of them, he had been aloft. Sorcor had recently presented him with a leg-peg that had a groove cut in the bottom of it.

This was the first time he had completely tested it, and he had been delighted.

From the crow’s nest, he could look out over his entire domain.

The serpents frolicked in the crested waves about his ship and the wind sped him on.

With the wind in his face, he had dreamed, savouring repeatedly his time alone with Althea Vestrit.

It had not been discipline and forbearance alone that kept him away from her.

Anticipation was a pleasure in itself. He had waited until his passion was once more at full tide before coming here again.

Now he stood outside her door, shivering with longing.

Would he take her again? He had not yet decided.

If she was wakeful enough to accuse him, he intended to deny everything.

He would be so gracious, so concerned for her fears.

There was such power in controlling another’s reality.

Never before had he realized that. ‘Such a terrible nightmare,’ he whispered in sham sympathy, and felt the creeping grin that threatened to overpower his face.

He straightened his features and tried to calm himself.

Several deep breaths later, he opened the door and stepped into the dimness.

The fading winter afternoon dimly lit the room.

She huddled under the covers on the bunk, deeply asleep.

The acid stink of vomit was thick in the small room.

He leaned on his crutch as he shut the door, wrinkling his nose against the stench.

That would never do; such a smell was very unappealing.

It ruined everything. He would have to give her an extra dose of the poppy and mandrake sedative, and send in the ship’s boy to give the room a good scrubbing while she slept.

Bitterly disappointed, he set the tray down on the table.

Her full weight hit him between the shoulders.

He went down, tray, crutch, food, all falling with him in a clattering mess.

His head struck the table edge as he fell.

Her hands clutched his throat. He twisted around, tucking his chin tight to his chest to keep her from getting a good strangle.

She had a knee in the small of his back, but as he rolled she fell with him.

Her reflexes were slow, dulled by the drugs.

If he had still had two legs, she would not have had a chance against him.

As it was, he managed to grip her wrist for an instant before she jerked away from him.

She scrabbled to her feet, panting and swaying and backed away from him in the small room as he came to his hands and knee.

Her eyes were wide and black. His crutch had fallen out of reach. He edged towards it.

‘You bastard,’ she panted raggedly. ‘You heartless beast!’

He feigned bewilderment. ‘Althea, what has come over you?’

‘You raped me!’ she grated hoarsely. Then, her words rising to a shout, uncaring of who heard, ‘You raped me. You killed my crew and burned my ship. You killed Brashen! You imprisoned Vivacia! It’s all your doing!’

‘You make no sense. My dear, your mind is unsettled. Calm down! You don’t want to shame yourself before the whole crew, do you?’

He saw her glance about for a weapon. He had misjudged how dangerous she was.

Despite the residue of drug that she fought, her muscles knotted convulsively.

He knew the look of murder; he had seen it often enough in his own mirror.

He lunged for his crutch, but in the next instant, she sprang not towards him, but to the door.

She worked the latch clumsily, then jerked the door open, colliding with the jamb as she reeled out.

He saw her strike the opposite wall, catch herself, and then stagger up the companionway.

The figurehead. She was trying to get to the figurehead.

He got his crutch under his arm, caught at the table’s edge and pulled himself to his feet.

She would get a surprise if she got as far as the foredeck.

There would be no Vivacia to beseech for aid.

He was tempted to let her go, but he could not have her ranting and raving to his crew. What if Wintrow or Etta heard her?