by A. L. Knorr
Jordan had just spotted a baby dragon in a basket on a woman's hip and had opened her mouth to ask if she could take a closer look, when the locket at her neck began to drift into the air. Her eyes were trained on the small sapphire blue and yellow creature making creaking noises like a rusty hinge, when a silver blob appeared in her vision somewhere in the vicinity of her chin. Jordan stopped walking and stared at the locket, watching it move. It drifted the way a piece of fluff might catch a current, lazily bobbing in front of her face. She tapped the top of it, and it descended only to float upward again. Baffled, Jordan snatched the locket and stuffed it down her vest, lodging it between her breastbone and the bra that Sohne had given her. She levied her attention back on the dragon.
"Excuse me," Jordan said to the woman with the basket.
Big earrings of a yellow metal that looked like gold swung beside the woman’s jaw, and a purple kerchief covered part of her puffy brown hair.
"May I see your dragon?" Jordan asked.
"He is for sale," the woman replied, turning so Jordan could see the scaly baby. "For sale, for sale." She smiled into Jordan's face. "He is very young. Very sweet."
Jordan peered in at the dragon, and he looked up at her, croaking a rusty cry. A little red tongue darted out at her hand as she held her fingers out for him to sniff. Jordan felt her heart begin to melt.
***
Sol had been to Cles's laboratory several times already this year and felt that the medicine man might be okay with Sol letting himself into the lab. Sol was on King Konig's business, after all.
"Hello? Cles?" Sol called into the gloom. "Are you here?" The door closed behind him. The dim space smelled of dried herbs, bitters, vinegar, oil, and smoke. Numerous sprawling tabletops were covered in strange looking equipment: distilling devices, small hot plates with multiple wicks underneath, and bottles and jars of all materials, from glass to ceramic to basalt. Copper pipes curled and spiralled gracefully between copper pots and vats. Nearly everything looked very expensive, and in use. In contrast to the mess of the lab and further toward the back wall was a neatly kept library. Well-stocked storage shelves lined and organized with pristine equipment and containers faced the bookshelves.
"Cles?" Sol crossed in front of two yawning furnaces. Both were cold, and black with soot. He peered up the spiral staircase lined with ornate spindles. Sol had never been upstairs, but he figured it was safe to guess that upstairs was Cles's private quarters.
" ’Lo?" Came a raspy cry, followed by a dusky, deep cough. "Whozat?"
"It's Solomon Donda. Is that you, Cles?"
A phlegm-filled laugh answered him. "Course it be me, no one else living here." His voice tightened as though he was working at getting up from laying flat on his back. Perhaps the old Nycht had been napping; he was getting on in years. "You have a deliver?"
"Yes, I have a deliver." Sol smiled. He'd always liked the way Cles phrased things. "You sound unwell." Sol craned his neck, peering up the steps for some sight of the apothecary. "Anything the matter?"
"Nothing, nothing," came the grumbling voice along with the thudding of heavy footsteps. Cles appeared at the top of the steps, propping wire rimmed spectacles on his face, which enlarged his eyes. He began to descend in a laborious, waddling way, his bulk swaying back and forth with every step. " 'Lergic to miniphos plant. Very 'lergic." As if to highlight the proclamation, he followed these words with another explosive coughing attack.
Sol stepped back from the stairs and watched the old Nycht descend. "Sounds like a cold to me," he said, crossing his arms. "And you must be the only Nycht in all of Strixdom who has stairs in his house and takes them daily."
Dusky light from the frosted glass windows illuminated Cles as he descended. The light traveled over the bottoms of his bare feet, over his simple homespun leggings, past his fat leather belt and paunchy belly—which had seen one too many mugs of ale over the years—to his barrel chest and pale lined face. He was chuckling in his usual throaty way, which was made even more hoarse by the phlegm in his chest. "Don't fly much no more." The Nycht ran a hand over his bald head. His grey leathery wings poked up over his head, skinny and flabby, atrophied from lack of use. The hooked claws at the tops of his wings drooped uselessly, the nails cracked and brittle—their climbing days long over.
Sol knew that Cles hadn't flown in several years. A body that big would be hell to carry, even for a strong Nycht. Regular use was critical for any Strix who wanted to keep the ability to fly as they aged. The part of the population who didn't care enough for flying to do it every day had baffled Sol since he'd been a young Arpak. Flying was Sol's life and independence, his freedom and happiness.
"Between we," Cles said, winking conspiratorially, "I'm considering to cut."
Sol blinked at the casual way Cles delivered that he was thinking about making this irreversible operation. Losing one's wings by passing out of Oriceran meant they could grow back when fed enough magic. Losing one's wings by amputation meant the wings would be gone forever. Sol was sure the Elves could probably reverse amputation if they were paid enough, but anyone who amputated did it because they were certain they no longer wanted wings. In some cases, the Rodanian Council might hand down a sentence of amputation to a criminal, but it was extremely rare, reserved as punishment for murder or acts of treason that could lead to regicide. Sol swallowed hard at the idea of any Strix having their wings amputated, on purpose or by the Rodanian justice system.
"At this point for my little life," Cles rasped. "They are more nuisance than blessing. But enough of this old Nycht. You have a deliver?"
Sol handed the yellow envelope to Cles with the words, "It's from Juer."
"Course it from him." Cles took the envelope in one meaty fist and bumped his other one against his chest as he gave another rasping cough. "It always from doctor." Cles turned away and lumbered to where the light was better. "Always a doctor. Always a Juer," he muttered. The lab fell silent while he read. After a little while he gave a harrumph. "He want what I only have so small of."
Cles swayed heavily over to the cabinetry along the side wall, and opened the doors to reveal shelves full of various containers, each marked by a hand printed label. He rooted through the supply, gently tapping the tops of various jars with the pads of his blunt fingers. He selected a small jar of black liquid and leaned over a small desk under the window.
"Wait," Cles said to Sol, hand patting at the air, gesturing that Sol should sit. "I write slow. Rest please, or you make me anxiety. Needs quiet for thoughts. When you be tranquil, Cles be tranquil."
His better nature thus appealed to, Sol perched on a nearby stool. The tips of Sol's wings shifted to cross at his ankles, hovering just out of the dust.
Cles sat as well, but the old Nycht's approach was to kick his wingtips with a heel to move them out from under the stool's three legs. He reached for a piece of paper and a pencil and scratched out a short note. "I not have what he ask." Cles grumbled. "Lapita; must be sick, or crops gone bad. I know not."
Sol felt a niggling rodent of anxiety burrow into his gut. This probably wasn't good. Until now, Cles always had whatever Juer asked for, and plenty of it besides. Cles had always made a point of saying so and encouraged Sol to purchase extra of whatever concoction the doctor had ordered. Sol was a courier; his job was to deliver important messages on behalf of the king and the king's staff. But it was sometimes impossible not to get sucked into palace drama as he came into direct contact with the parties on either end of a delivery. He wondered which important Arpak the medicine was for.
"How much is he asking for?" Sol asked, getting to his feet.
"Too much. Don't have raw material." Cles folded up the note and stood.
Sol frowned. Obviously.
"He ask for lapita many times, and many times I give." The big shoulders rose and fell. "Lapita in short supply now." He held out the letter and the small jar to Sol. "This all I have. Last of stock. Take it. If it for Juer, it much important."
/> "What if it’s not enough?" Sol took the small jar sloshing with black liquid and the letter and tucked both into his satchel.
Cles waved a plate-sized hand. "Find new source, or wait til source replenish. I see many things go in, go out." He rubbed his stubbly chin with his fingers. "Lapita no different. Is eighteen coin." He held open his palm.
"Eighteen!" This price was outrageous for any concoction, even lapita.
"Is commodity, so-" Cles shrugged. "Supply go down, price go up. Is simple economy."
Sol frowned and dug into his satchel. He'd picked up lapita many times before, and it had never been so pricey. It wasn't his money—it was the king's money. Still, he had to report the outrageous price to the royal accountants, and they wouldn't be happy that the price of lapita had tripled. Sol counted out the price and spilled the gold into Cles's hands.
"Pleasure being business," Cles said as he pocketed the coin.
"Doing business," corrected Sol, still perturbed at being charged so much. "The auxiliary verbs in English—"
Cles's eyes glazed over and his jaw sagged a bit.
"Nevermind. I'll show myself out." Sol left the dim, odd-smelling lab and stepped out into the gardens and sunlight. "Ready to…"
But Jordan was not on the terrace.
CHAPTER THREE
It didn't take Sol long to spot Jordan from the sky over Maticaw. Her blonde hair and bright yellow feathers caught his eye like a beacon on a stormy night. She seemed to be in active conversation with a gypsy woman dressed almost entirely in purple. Sol's Arpak vision sharpened on the pair. There was a basket on the gypsy woman's hip, but whatever was in the basket was blocked by the golden arch of Jordan's wing. He banked and drifted, finding an open space in the street to land in.
Dodging merchants and shoppers, Sol wound his way to Jordan. The gypsy had a cloud of brown curls puffing up from a purple headscarf, and bangles twanged from her wrists. A holey, knitted shawl was tied around her waist and trailed in the dust of the street. Her face was lined with age, but her brown eyes were keen with intelligence, the whites very white and brown very rich. Her expression was an interesting blend of kindness and craftiness.
"Jordan, I'm finished. Ready to go?" Sol said at Jordan's elbow. "I have a delivery for Upper Rodania." His irritation that she'd not been on the terrace waiting for him was only mild, as she'd been so easy to find. "Wish you hadn't left the—whoa!" His eyes dropped to the small blue dragon perched in Jordan's palm. "I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a dragon on you."
The little reptile was no larger than a rat and had diamond-shaped scales of bright blue. A yellow patch, nearly identical to the brightest yellow of Jordan's own wings, ran from its throat to its chest and along the insides of each leg. Its dark blue wings were folded against its back, and its long tail was wrapped around Jordan's arm like a spiral bracelet. Small, blunted nails the color of midnight sprang from short little claws, which were clutched around Jordan's wrist and in between her fingers. The dragon had shiny black orbs for eyes that were too big for its face, which gave it a mousy quality. Two little holes on either sides of its head served as ears, and two slender blue horns curved gracefully back from its skull. The scales that ran over its brow and neck were brighter and smoother than the rest - almost pearly. This dragon was well fed and well taken care of.
The reptile cocked his head at the sounds of the women's voices, his tongue darting out now and then, smelling the air or maybe the situation. Sol had studied dragons during his training, but more about how to recognize and avoid the dangerous ones than anything else. This little reptile, covered in his jewel-like scales and observing the world with a bright intelligent gaze, didn't look like any of the ones Sol had studied. It also looked like a baby.
Jordan blinked up at Sol, bewildered. "I'm sorry you had to come find me. I meant to be back at the terrace before you were finished. Yes, I'm ready to go, but we seem to have a problem." To illustrate, she held the dragon out to the gypsy woman.
The gypsy reached out for the dragon, and the dragon squawked and skittered up Jordan's arm to perch on her shoulder. Jordan winced at the sharp claws running the terrain of her body.
The gypsy dropped the basket at her feet and put her hands on her hips with a huff. "He has imprinted on you, girl. You have to buy him. There is nothing else to be done." The gypsy looked up at Sol, as though hoping to find an ally in him. "Tell her."
"That's just a sales tactic," said Sol, reaching for the dragon. "Nothing more." He scooped the reptile up and handed it back to the gypsy, who glowered at him.
"It's not a trick," she grumped. "Berla is many things, but she's not a trickster." She took the dragon back and picked up the basket, setting him inside it and perching it on her hip. She looked down expectantly. "You watch. It's not a trick."
"Let's go." Sol put a hand on Jordan's shoulder, and they began to head back toward the stairs leading up to the apothecary's terrace, where they could catch an updraft.
There was a throaty, despairing scream behind them. As they turned, a flapping blue blur fell into the dust at Jordan's feet. The little dragon turned his liquid black eyes up to Jordan and gave a plaintive cry.
"Oh, look at him." Jordan's expression melted and she squatted. She picked up the dusty creature and brushed him off. The dragon leaned into her touch and emitted a clicking rumble from deep in his chest, a reptilian purr. Jordan stood, cupping the creature next to her stomach. "He likes me."
Sol rubbed a hand down his face and sighed.
"He more than likes you," said the gypsy woman, approaching with the basket dangling from one hand. "Dragon imprinting is a bond for life. It's not a joke. If you don't take him with you, he'll die of a broken heart."
Jordan gasped and looked up at Sol, eyes beginning to take on a pleading glaze.
"Jordan, dragons aren't allowed on Rodania," he said, firmly but with compassion. "I'm sorry. They grow to be enormous and, not least of all, dangerous. Let's go, we're wasting time—"
"This one won't," interjected the gypsy woman. "He's a Predoian Miniature. He won't get any bigger than what he is now."
Sol looked down at the tiny reptile now nuzzling between Jordan's elbow and ribs. "Really? He looks like a baby to me. He can't even fly yet."
"He is young but he is full-grown." The woman lifted her chin. "I know dragons. And don't insult me by saying it is some kind of ruse. I care for my dragons; they are not just my business. I do not send them to where they will be unhappy."
Jordan stroked under the dragon's chin. His mouth opened and his tongue snaked out as he dropped his jaw into her hand. "Who knew reptiles could be so affectionate? Are miniature ones allowed on Rodania?"
Sol hesitated.
Jordan's face brightened. "They are?"
"Yes, but he can't fly, and neither of us is equipped to take on a pet right now." Sol scooped the dragon up a second time and handed him to the woman in purple. "Hold him, please. Don't let him follow her. We're leaving now."
The gypsy took the dragon reflexively but her eyes widened in fear. "I can't do that! Do you want me to lose a finger or an eye?"
Sol snatched the rope lying in the bottom of the basket. "Then tie him up and wait until we're out of sight." His nimble fingers fashioned a noose and he slipped it over the dragon's head, scooped him up, and bent at the nearest tree. He tied the dragon to the tree trunk and stood up, satisfied. "There, now he can't hurt you."
The gypsy woman rolled her eyes. "You are not even an amateur."
Sol steered Jordan toward the steps. "Let’s. Go." There was another screech as the two Arpaks strode away. "Ignore him, Jordan."
"But—" Jordan looked back over her shoulder. "What if she's right? What if he dies?"
They couldn't ignore the second, much louder screech, which was followed by a panicked flapping of wings and desperate snapping of jaws. The dragon strained at the cord. He turned his head almost completely backward and sawed through the rope with his back teeth like it wa
s nothing but floss. He came at Jordan in a flapping run and took a bounce at her feet. The reptile landed awkwardly on Jordan's shoulder, his wings flexed for balance. He looped his head under her chin with a distressed whistle.
The gypsy followed, her hands on her hips. "Many would sell everything they own in order to have a dragon imprint with them. You are stupid if you do not see the benefit of this."
Sol rolled his eyes. Jordan wrapped her fingers gently around the dragon and held him next to her heart, murmuring soft words.
"You do not need to take care of a dragon. They take care of you." She jabbed a long-nailed finger into Sol's face. "You do not need to feed them. They are our most deadly predator. You do not need to clean up after them. They do their business in the woods because it’s the only time they feel vulnerable," she cocked her head with a faint smile, "and a little embarrassed." She looked down at the dragon with affection. "And they will love you until they die." She looked back at Sol and Jordan, and her face hardened. "You are a fool if you do not take him with you. And you would also be murderers."
"Easy now," muttered Sol, flushing faintly under Jordan's gaze. He was rapidly losing this fight and soon he would be the bad guy, if he wasn't already. "We didn't come here for a dragon. How much is he?"
The woman lost a little of her composure. "Sixty coin," she said, shuffling from one foot to the other, purple skirt swaying.
Sol barked an outraged laugh. "We don't even want him!"
