“Greft. You want some water?” Carson had opened his waterskin. Spit had appeared alongside the two boats. Sedric didn’t know if the dragon was keeping watch for gallators or hoping to eat Greft’s body.

Greft seemed to consider Carson’s question for a long time. Then, “Yeah,” he managed. Carson leaned across from one boat to the other and directed a tiny stream of water toward Greft’s mouth. Greft sucked at the water; then as abruptly as a falling leaf, his head slumped slightly. His eyes didn’t close, but Carson abruptly stopped the flow of water, stoppered the skin, and carefully restored it to its place in the boat. “He’s dead. The venom causes paralysis. Took a while to stop his whole body, but it did. Horrible way to die.”

“Horrible,” Sedric agreed faintly.

“Well. Time to clean it up,” Carson said grimly.

He lashed the two small boats together and poured water over the sides of both until he’d washed away as much of the gallator’s venomous slime as he could. Then he clambered over into Greft’s boat and straddling the body, matter-of-factly patted Greft’s pockets. He unbuckled the keeper’s belt and kept it and the sheathed knife on it. He hadn’t carried anything else that Carson considered worth keeping. “Help me with the body,” the hunter said, and Sedric didn’t ask questions. He took the feet and Carson took the shoulders. They lifted Greft up. Sedric gritted his teeth as the small boat rocked beneath them. The gallators had fled Spit, he hoped, but he still didn’t want to fall in.

They didn’t even have to put Greft over the side. Spit reached over and took the body in his mouth, then turned and stalked off with him. For a moment, Sedric watched the dragon wade through the shallow water. Greft’s head and feet stuck out either side of the dragon’s mouth. Greft’s head bobbed with every step that Spit took, almost as if he were nodding farewell to them.

When he looked back, Carson was crouched in the bottom of Greft’s boat. Like their own, it has shipped some water and he was bailing it out. As items scattered in the bottom of the boat emerged, he picked them up and set them on the seat to drain. There was a broken fishing spear. Carson looked at the snapped shaft and shook his head ruefully. “The head’s probably in a gallator on the bottom by now.”

There wasn’t much to tidy. Greft had been a precise fellow. The same organization and stowing habits that had saved his gear during the wave had preserved it now. Carson opened his canvas pack, glanced inside, and said, “The ship’s bread is there, and mostly dry.”