“TARMAN!” She shouted in a shuddering voice. “Captain Leftrin! Tarman, help me!”
She reached for the railing of the liveship and tried to drag herself aboard. But the ship was riding high on the water. Clinging to his railing with one bloodied hand, she fought to find the strength to pull herself and her child to safety. “Help me!” she cried out again, her voice weakening. “Please. Tarman, help me, help my baby!”
A voice queried another inside the ship’s cabin. Had they heard her? No door opened, no voice answered her.
“Please, help me,” she begged hopelessly. Then a surge of awareness from the vessel washed warmly through her. Daughter of a Trader family and familiar with the way of liveships, she knew what it was. And knew also that it was a touch that was usually reserved for kin. It was welcome and carried strength with it.
I will help you. He is a child of my family. Give the baby to me.
The thought pulsed through her, as clear as if the words had been spoken aloud. “Please,” she said. “Take him.” Her bundled child became an offering of trust and kinship as she slid him over the railing and lowered him gently onto Tarman’s deck. Her baby was out of her sight now, and out of her reach, and yet for the first time since she had birthed him, she felt he was also out of danger. The ship’s strength flowed through her. She drew a deeper breath.
“Help me! Please, help me!”
The ship’s awareness seemed to echo her cry, a demand that the crew must obey. And from the deck, from a baby she could not see, a sudden angry crying rose, far stronger than any she had yet heard from him.
“It’s a baby!” a woman’s voice suddenly cried out. “A baby, a newborn, on Tarman’s deck!”
“Help me!” Malta cried again, and suddenly a very large man leaped down from the deck to land on the dock beside her.
“I got you,” he said, his voice deep and his words simple. “Don’t you be afraid, lady. Big Eider’s got you now.”
Thymara ran through the darkening streets of the city. Rapskal had left her, with a cry of “Heeby’s here! I’ll get her to help us.” He had run off into the darkness while she had set off on a different course through the city, following not a memory of how they had come but the pull of her heart.
Anger fueled her. She was furious with the dragon for putting herself in danger. The anger was much easier to feel than her underlying fear. It was not just her terror that Sintara was drowning but her general fear of the city and its ghostly denizens. Some of the streets she ran through were dark and deserted. But then she would turn a corner and suddenly be confronted with torchlight and merrymakers, a city in the midst of some sort of holiday. She had shrieked the first time, and then she recognized them for what they were. Ghosts and phantoms, Elderling memories stored in the stone of the buildings she passed. Despite her knowledge she ran jaggedly through them, dodging vendors’ carts and amorous couples and small boys selling skewers of smoked and spicy meats. Their huckstering cries filled her ears, and the smells taunted her with memories of the delicious tidbits they offered. Hunger assailed her and, as the running dried her mouth, thirst as well.
Her experience with the memory stone had opened her to these ghosts. She no longer needed to touch anything to stir them to wakefulness. All she had to do was pass one of the black stone walls, and the memories of the city flooded out and engulfed her. She entered a plaza dominated by a recently erected wooden dais. There were musicians up there, playing horns of shining silver and striking immense drums and cymbals. She put her hands over her ears but could not block the ghost music. She crossed the plaza at a run, giving a small shriek as she inadvertently dashed right through a young man bearing a platter full of foaming mugs over his head.
“Sintara!” she shouted as she reached the edge of the plaza. She halted, looking wildly about her. There, she saw a dark and empty street fronted by silent buildings. One street away, a pale-faced street performer dressed in white and silver was juggling objects the size of apples that sparkled like jewels. She tossed one high and it burst in a sudden shower of sparks and scintillant dust, and the crowd oohed and shrieked. Thymara was breathing hard and realized her legs were shaking. She pulled her cloak tighter over her wings. She had lost her bearings and had no idea where she was in the city. Worse, her awareness of the dragon had faded. Was she drowning? Dead?
Here. Come here.
Thymara did not hesitate. Down the darkened street she went, picking her way over uneven cobbles and fallen masonry. Then, after one more turn, she suddenly smelled and saw the river, gleaming silver under the moonlight. And there, on the broken pavement at the very brink of the river, sprawled her beloved dragon. As she ran toward her, she suddenly shared how cold and weary Sintara was. And also how . . . proud? The dragon was pleased with herself?
