He still hadn’t given this new leviathan a name. One day, he told himself. One day I’ll know. Meanwhile, keeping the beast nameless was one more way for the Sibian exile to keep Lagoas at arm’s length. The leviathan didn’t care one way or the other. So long as it got plenty of squid and mackerel and, those failing, sardines, it stayed happy. Cornelu wished the notion of a full belly cheered him as readily.
At his command, the leviathan reared in the water, working its great tail to propel the front of its body-and him with it-higher above the surface of the sea. But even with that widened circle of vision, he spied no ships. That suited him fine.
He checked the sky again-a beautiful sky, full of puffy white clouds that drifted across it the way dumplings drifted in soup. It remained empty of dragons. He wondered how long it would stay that way. Algarvian beasts flew against Lagoas and Kuusamo, while Lagoan and Kuusaman dragons visited destruction on the mainland of Derlavai.
Sometimes, high overhead, opposing flights met and fought. Sometimes a heavy stick or another dragon would wound a dragon over land, either before or after it dropped its eggs, and the beast and its flier would go into the sea. Fliers hoping for rescue could live for a while in the water.
Ley-line ships weren’t much good for rescuing them. If a flier came down on a ley line, they could scoop him up, aye. But the greater part of the ocean was closed to them. Old-fashioned sailboats and leviathans, both of which could travel anywhere, did far better in such missions.
And so Cornelu traveled with two crystals on this patrol. One was attuned to Lagoan dragonflight headquarters back in Setubal. The messages he got from it would direct him to Lagoan fliers who went into the Strait of Valmiera.
The other crystal had been captured from an Algarvian, and was attuned to the emanations the enemy used. Any Algarvian dragonflier Cornelu captured and brought back to Lagoas was one who wouldn’t fly again for King Mezentio.
Somewhere out in the Strait, no doubt, were Algarvian leviathan-riders with captured Lagoan crystals. There were stories about clashes when men from both sides raced to rescue a downed dragonflier. Cornelu hadn’t been in any of those. In fact, the next dragonflier he brought back would be his first. He understood how war could be that kind of business.
He also understood that the Algarvians would have been happier if their ships and leviathans dominated the Strait of Valmiera and their dragons dominated the sky above it. That meant watching the sky not just for flights of dragons heading south but also for hunters looking for him and others like him.
He felt easier after the sun plunged blazing into the sea. Even with a nearly full moon in the sky, he didn’t have to worry so much about Algarvian marauders-or about Lagoan marauders who might mistake him for the foe. The leviathan liked patrolling at night, too, for larger fish came nearer the surface than they did during the day.
“Attention! Attention!” That was one of the crystals he carried, but which? He had to pause and remember that he’d understood the call without having to think about it-Algarvian was much closer to his native Sibian than was Lagoan. Excitement tingled through him as he brought the captured crystal to his ear to listen better. An urgent Algarvian was saying, “He went into the water after the raid on Branco. We were halfway back to our base at Kursiu, and his dragon just couldn’t fly anymore, poor creature.”
“Noted on the map,” another Algarvian replied. “Will send rescuers as fast as we can.”
“He’s a good fellow,” the Algarvian dragonflier said earnestly. “He doesn’t deserve to drown all alone.”
“No, he deserves worse than that,” Cornelu muttered. Branco lay east of Setubal, and Kursiu … He pulled out a map printed on waterproofed silk and held it close to his face to read it in the moonlight. After a moment, he put it away with a soft grunt. He wasn’t far from where that dragonflier had gone down. Finding him wouldn’t be easy, not in the dark, but it wouldn’t be easy for the Algarvians, either. It ought to be worth a try.
Cornelu tapped the leviathan. It began a search spiral. Lagoans trained their beasts to spiral widdershins, not deasil, as leviathans turned in the Sibian navy. Cornelu knew it didn’t really make a copper’s worth of difference, but he couldn’t help thinking his mount was going in the wrong direction. Trying to retrain the leviathan to Sibian practice would probably just confuse it, though.
“Help me!” came from the Algarvian crystal, so loud and clear that Cornelu thought for a moment he’d come upon the dragonflier without realizing it. The fellow went on, “Don’t know how much longer I can stay afloat.”
An officer, Cornelu thought. A squadron leader, or a flight leader at the least, to have a crystal of his own. That made capturing him all the more important.
Cornelu’s hand slipped to the knife he wore on his belt. If he couldn’t bring the Algarvian back to Lagoas, he’d make very sure the fellow never flew for Mezentio again.
“Help me!” the dragonflier said again. He couldn’t be very far away, not when Cornelu was receiving the emanations from his crystal so clearly.
At Cornelu’s command, the leviathan lifted the front of its body into the air again. The Sibian peered across the moonlit sea, looking for someone bobbing in the water. The leviathan turned this way and that, enjoying the display of strength. Cornelu found nothing but frustration till…
“There, by the powers above!” he muttered, and sent the leviathan racing west. When he drew near, he called out to the man struggling in the water: “Here! To me! Hurry!” He spoke in Algarvian, trilling the r sounds instead of pronouncing them in the back of his throat as he would have in his own language.
“Hurrah!” the downed dragonflier shouted, and swam with sudden surprising strength to the leviathan. Hope of rescue powered him like a shot of strong spirits.
“Give me your knife,” Cornelu said, still in Algarvian. “Don’t want any accidents happening to my beast.”
“You’re the boss,” the Algarvian said, and passed him the weapon. “If you think I’m going to argue with the fellow who fishes me out of the drink, you’re daft.”
“Good,” Cornelu said. “Hold tight to the harness there. I can’t do that for you, and we’re still a long way from home.”
“Too far,” the Algarvian said. “Aye, too stinking far. I thought I’d be able to nurse my dragon across the Strait after that accursed Lagoan flamed him, but no such luck. He sank like a stone when we went into the water, the nasty creature, and I won’t miss him a bit.”
Dragonfliers always talked like that. They had nothing but scorn for their mounts. Cornelu had never understood why they wanted to fly them in the first place. He set his hand on his leviathan’s smooth back. A leviathan, now, a leviathan responded. All a dragon gave you was trouble.
“Hang on,” he told the Algarvian again. The fellow would not have any kind of sorcerous protection against the sea. He might yet freeze before Cornelu could bring him to land-although lying against the warm length of the leviathan would help keep him going.
At Cornelu’s command, the great beast swam south, toward Lagoas. Cornelu’s eyes slid toward the dragonflier. How alert was he? Would he realize what was going on before the Lagoans took him off to a captives’ camp? Cornelu hoped not-his own life would be easier if the Algarvian kept on thinking he’d been rescued, not captured.
For the first half hour or so, everything went as smoothly as the Sibian could have wanted. But then the dragonflier looked back toward the moon, which hung in the northwestern sky-and away from which the leviathan was swimming. “I hate to tell you, my dear fellow, but home is that way.” Mezentio pointed northward, as if certain Cornelu had made a foolish mistake and would turn around once it was pointed out to him.