“Take him up! Please!” a girl’s voice shrieked. Etta lifted her eyes to an elegantly garbed girl on the deck. Why, the Satrap’s Companion looked no older than Wintrow!

Then Vivacia pointed a large and commanding finger at the water. “There! There, you fools, he comes up again! Quickly, quickly, take him up!”

Panicked as they were, the rowers had ignored Etta’s plea, but the figurehead’s command was another matter. White-faced, they slacked their oars. Then, as the man bobbed up again, they dug their oars in to spin the boat toward him. He saw them and reached desperately. He tried to claw his way toward them, but went under.

“That’s it for him,” one of the rowers predicted, but an instant later grasping hands broke the surface of the water. His drowning white face appeared and Etta heard him gasp for breath. A rower thrust an oar within his reach. He seized it so strongly he nearly tore it from the man’s grip. They pulled him closer to the boat. In another moment, he had managed to seize the side. He could do no more than cling there. It took two men to haul him on board. When they had him in, he lay in the bottom, water streaming from his garments. He gagged. When he snorted his nose clear of sea water, blood followed it. He blinked his inhuman eyes up at Etta. At first, he did not appear to see her. Then he mouthed silent words. “Thank you.” His head fell to one side and his eyes closed.

Liveship Traders 3 - Ship of Destiny

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE - Ship of Destiny

THE CREWMEN PARTED TO MAKE WAY FOR KENNIT. HE STEPPED PAST THEM AND peered down at the figure sprawled facedown on his deck. Water ran from his clothes. Dripping hair masked his features. “Interesting bit of flotsam, Etta,” he observed sourly. Whoever he was, or, Kennit privately amended as he studied his hands, whatever he was, he represented an unwelcome complication to a situation that was already too confusing. He had no time for this.

“You fished him out. You may keep him,” Kennit announced, then staggered as the Satrap’s advisor pushed past him. Kennit glared at her, but she did not notice. He started to speak, then his words died. What was that thing on her head? Althea crowded behind her, managing to brush past him while ignoring him completely. Jek stayed at the edge of the crowd with the pouting Satrap.

“Is he breathing? Is Reyn alive?” Malta demanded breathlessly. She hovered over the man but did not touch him.

Althea knelt beside her. Gingerly, she set her ringers to the side of the man’s throat. Her face was still for an instant, and then she smiled up at her niece. “Reyn is alive, Malta.” Wintrow had joined them. At Althea’s words, he started, then gave his sister an incredulous smile.

As Wintrow smiled at his sister, something almost like jealousy flitted across Etta’s face. In an instant, it was gone. She transferred her gaze to Kennit. Her voice was almost sulky as she said, “You sent for me?”

“I did.” He became aware that the gathered crew closely followed this conversation. He softened his voice. “And you came. As you always have.” He smiled at her. There. She and the crew could make whatever they wanted out of that. He gestured at the man at his feet. “What is this?”

“The dragon dropped him,” Etta explained.

“So, of course, you picked him up,” Kennit observed wryly.

“Vivacia said we should,” one of the men from Sorcor’s boat explained nervously. Was King Kennit displeased with him?

“He’s Reyn Khuprus, a Rain Wilder. My sister is betrothed to him.” Wintrow uttered these amazing words quite calmly. “Sa alone knows how he managed to find her here, but he did. Help me turn him over,” he added. He seized the man by one shoulder. As he tugged, Reyn groaned. His hands scrabbled weakly against the deck.

Althea crouched beside Wintrow. “Wait. Give him time to clear his lungs,” she suggested as he began to cough. Reyn wheezed, lifted his head slightly from the deck, and then let it sag back. “Malta?” he asked in a thick voice.

She gasped and sprang back from him. She threw her hands up before her face. “No!” she cried out, then wheeled and jostled her way through the crowd. Etta stared after her in consternation.

“What was that about?” she asked of anyone.

Before anyone could answer, a lookout shouted, “Sir! The Jamaillian ships are coming back!”

It was Kennit’s turn to whirl and hasten away. He should not have let anything distract him from his enemy, no matter how damaged and scattered they had appeared. He gained the foredeck as swiftly as he could and stared in amazement at the oncoming ships. They were attempting to close around his three ships. Were they insane? Some were obviously limping, but two in good condition had come to the fore, leading the others. On their decks, he saw the telltale scrabble of men readying war machines. He appraised them thoughtfully. He had the Marietta and the Motley to back him, both with seasoned crews. The Jamaillian men would, at the least, be wearied, and they had probably spent a good amount of their shot. Technically, the Jamaillian fleet still outnumbered him, but most of their ships had taken substantial damage. Two were already going down, their crews seeking safety in small boats.