“Yes, sir,” said the chamberlain, swallowing. “I … I’ll do just that.”
But he didn’t move. Clinging with deathlike grip to the bulwarks, his rigid face white as the clouds sailing past them, Alfred stared fixedly out at the blue sky.
“Alfred?” said Hugh, tugging on one of the cables.
The ship dipped to the left, and a glimpse of treetop sprang suddenly and dizzingly into view.
“I’m going. Right now, sir. I’m going,” said the chamberlain, not moving a muscle.
Up on the deck, Bane leaned over the rail, entranced by the sight. He could see Pitrin’s Exile sliding away behind him. Below him and before him were blue sky and white clouds; above him sparkled the firmament. The dragon wings extended on either side, their leathery skin barely rippling with the motion of the ship’s passage. The center wing stood up straight behind him, swaying slightly back and forth.
Holding the feather in his hands, the boy brushed it idly back and forth across his chin. “The ship is controlled by the harness. Magic keeps it afloat. The wings are like bat’s wings. The crystal on the ceiling tells you where you are.” Standing on tiptoe, he stared down below him, wondering if he could see the Maelstrom from this high up. “It’s easy, really,” he remarked, twiddling the feather.
CHAPTER 24
DEEPSKY, MID REALM
THE DRAGONSHIP SLICED THROUGH THE PEARLY, DOVE-COLORED NIGHT, ITS WINGS gliding on the magic and the air currents that swept upward over the floating isle of Djern Hereva. Strapped into the flight harness, snug in the small steerage room, Hugh lit his pipe, leaned back, and relaxed, letting the dragonship almost fly itself. A touch here or there upon the cables attached to the harness tilted the wings to slice through the air currents, sliding effortlessly across the sky, from one swirl to another, gliding trackward toward Aristagon.
The Hand kept a lazy half-watch for other winged transports- either live or mechanical. In his elven ship, he was most vulnerable to attack from his own kind, for human dragonriders would immediately take him for an elf, probably a spy. Hugh was not particularly worried. He knew the flight paths the dragonriders took on their raids of Aristagon or elven shipping. He was flying higher purposefully to avoid these, and figured it unlikely that he’d be annoyed. If he did run into a patrol, he could always dodge it by slipping into a rift of clouds.
The weather was calm, the flying easy, and Hugh had leisure to think. It was then that he decided not to kill the child. The need to make a decision had been in his mind awhile now, but he had put off thinking about it until this time when he was alone and all around him was quiet and conducive to thought. He had never before defaulted on a contract and he needed to satisfy himself that his reasoning was rational and valid and not swayed by sentiment.
Sentiment. Though something within the Hand might have sympathized with a childhood such as Bane’s-a childhood unloved, cold, and bleak-the assassin had grown too callous to feel his own pain, much less that of another. He was letting the kid live for the very simple reason that Bane was going to be worth more to the Hand alive than dead.
Hugh did not have his plans quite worked out. He needed time to think, time to wring the truth from Alfred, time to unravel the mysteries that wound around the prince. The Hand had a hideout on Aristagon which he used when he needed his ship repaired. He would go there and wait until he had his information; then he would either return and confront Stephen with his knowledge and demand more money to keep silent, or perhaps contact the queen and discover what she would pay to have her son back. Whatever his decision, Hugh figured his fortune was made.
He was settling into the rhythm of flying the craft, which he could do with his body and part of his mind, letting the other drift free, when the object of his thoughts poked his towhead up through the hatch into the cabin.