Blood of Dragons

‘Where are they taking us?’ Hest demanded of everyone and no one.

‘Upriver,’ someone responded. ‘Feel how she fights the current.’

‘Why? What do they want from us?’

His question was drowned in the outcry the others raised as they realized they were being carried away from any hope of outside aid.

The swearing and the shouting went on for a long time, to be replaced gradually by angry discussion and then muttering and the sound of someone weeping harshly. Hest felt dazed by his situation. He crouched in his spot in the darkness, smelling sweat and piss. As time trudged by and moving water whispered past the sides of the vessel, he wondered what had become of his organized and genteel life. None of this seemed possible, let alone real. How furious his mother would be when she heard of this outrage to her son!

If she ever heard of it. And in that moment, Hest suddenly realized how completely he had been severed from his old life. His name, his family’s money, his roguish reputation, his mother’s love for him meant nothing here. All shields, all protections, had fallen away. In a caught breath, he could become a body, his face slashed beyond recognition, food for ants or fish. He gasped, his chest hurting. He subsided onto the deck and sat in the darkness, his face resting on his knees. The thunder of his heart filled his ears. Time passed, or perhaps it did not. He could not tell.

When the hatch was finally slid open, it admitted a yellow slice of lantern light. Night reigned. A voice Hest recognized warned them, ‘Stand back! If any man starts up the ladder, he’ll fall back with a knife in his heart. Hest Finbok! Come to where I can see you. Yes. There you are. You. Come up. Now.’

Back in the corner of the hold, someone bellowed, ‘Hest Finbok? Is that Hest Finbok? He is here? He’s the traitor that lured me here with a note left on my doorstep, even signed his own name to it! Finbok, you deserve to die! You’re a traitor to Bingtown and the Rain Wilds!’

By the time Hest reached the top of the short ladder, he was fleeing the ugliness below as much as reaching toward space and air. As he scrambled out onto the deck on all fours, curses and threats followed him. Two sailors slid the hatch shut, cutting off the cries of those trapped below. He found himself at the feet of the Chalcedean. The assassin was holding a lantern and looked very weary. ‘Follow me,’ he barked and did not wait to see if Hest obeyed. He trailed behind him to the door of his erstwhile stateroom.

The scattered contents of Hest’s plundered wardrobe littered the floor of his erstwhile stateroom, his garments mingled carelessly with Redding’s. The chest of wine, cheese, sausages and delicacies that Redding had so carefully packed stood open, and the sticky table attested to the enjoyment of its contents. Obviously the Chalcedean had settled in and availed himself of all the room’s comforts. The bedding on Hest’s bunk was rumpled, half dragged to the floor. Redding’s was undisturbed. The shock and loss of his friend’s death swept through him again and he drew a breath, but before he could speak, the Chalcedean spun to confront him. The look on his face drove the breath from Hest’s lungs and he stumbled back a step. ‘Clean it up!’ he barked, and then flung himself, boots and all, onto Redding’s bed and reclined there, eyes half-lidded, face lined with weariness. When Hest just stood, staring at him, he spoke quietly. His scarred lips bulged and stretched with the words. ‘I don’t really have a need for you any more. If you are useful, I may keep you alive. If not …’ His hand lifted and one of his little knives had appeared. He waggled it at Hest and smiled.

Ever since that moment, Hest had lived as the Chalcedean’s slave. He served, not only the assassin, but any Chalcedean who barked an order at him. He was given the lowliest and most disgusting tasks: from emptying chamber-pots overboard to clearing the galley table and washing the dishes. As Hest had scrubbed the blood of slain crewmen off the deck, he had decided he would offer no resistance. He lived hour to hour. Of his fellow prisoners he saw no sign, and heard only their angry shouts and pleas that weakened daily. He ate the leavings from his masters’ meals, and slept below decks in a locker full of spare line and shackles. He was glad not to be lodged with the other prisoners, for he knew that they blamed him for their predicament and would tear him to pieces if they could. His was a solitary existence, despised by the Chalcedeans and reviled by the Traders.