The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  "We will." Lightfingers tugged at Hakim's arm. "Let's hurry, friend Hakim." In a few moments, Wen'l and his cart were out of sight. Lightfingers emptied his sleeve pocket into his hand. "Look at these."

  "Where did you—you stupid son of a—"

  "Look at them."

  Hakim held the scattering of coins in cupped hands. They were just like the ones they had in their own pouches: roughly circular, covered with a rippling pattern on one side like a stylized representation of waves; the other side decorated with a poorly stamped bust of a bearded man. He couldn't read the writing—damn, I should have had Doria read it to me before we left.

  "See?" Lightfingers said. "That solves the money problem—this is local coin. But look at the amount. Wen'l said he did well, but there's a full dozen coppers to one silver coin. Which means that we're rich."

  Hakim's face darkened. "No, that means that you're disobeying orders. Ahira said no stealing."

  He shrugged. "Put them in your pouch." Hakim hesitated. "Unless you want to run after the peasant and tell him you're sorry we robbed him. Look, didn't the dwarf say that we were supposed to gather information?"

  "Well, yes."

  "And isn't the fact that we have legitimate money important information? Well, isn't it?"

  "Yes, but—"

  Lightfingers spat on the ground. "Don't be more of a fool than you have to be. He tried to steal from us—'stay at Frann's Inn'—he's probably getting a kickback from the innkeeper, who'd know to charge us extra."

  As Hakim tucked the coins in his pouch, Lightfingers kept a smile from his face. The bigger thief—hah!—wasn't thinking. Why would Lightfingers have him hold his haul? No reason—unless Lightfingers intended to add to his take, add enough to it that would make a paltry dozen coppers and one silver coin seem too small to bother with.

  If only I'd known how well off we were, I wouldn't have bothered to come along. Just lift all the money in their pouches, and run. Which is what I'll do when we get back—won't let that opportunity escape me again.

  "Ja—Einar?" Concern creased the big man's face. "Are you all right?"

  "Never mind. Just thinking about something." He waved a hand at the guard squatting at the latticework gate ahead of them. "Let's get him on his feet, and get some directions." He raised his voice and switched to Erendra. "You—how do we get to the Street of Two Dogs?" Lightfingers smiled at Hakim. "After all, we don't have to tell him that Wen'l sent us, eh?"

  * * *

  Frann of Pandathaway mopped at his gleaming pate and seated himself across the table from them. "I thank you," he said, tossing back a quart-sized mug of the sour beer that already had Lightfingers' head buzzing. "And would you care to ply me with more beer before you start to extract information from me? Not that it will do any good." He gestured at the scraggly occupants of the low-ceilinged room. "There's little enough wealth here. Not enough to interest a pair of thieves." Frann raised a bushy eyebrow. That appeared to be the only hair on the beefy man's body; his mottled forearms and huge hands were as naked and hairless as his head.

  The tavern was dark and dank, the gloom hardly alleviated by a dozen oil lamps sputtering out clouds of smoke where they hung from the overhead beams. The low, roughhewn tables were littered with pools of spilled beer and gobbets of meat.

  Lightfingers sipped his beer. Hardly a well-kept place, this was. But even at this early hour, Frann's tavern was crowded, several scores of men gathered around the tables, shouting at the three harried barmaids to bring them more beer.

  Hakim smiled broadly. "And what makes you accuse us of being thieves? As we told you, we are men-at-arms." He dropped a hand to the hilt of his scimitar. "If you have any doubts, I'd be happy to demonstrate. Quite happy."

  As Lightfingers set his mug down and reached his hand into his jerkin to loosen his dagger in its sheath, Frann chuckled deeply, raising both palms in mock surrender. "As you say." Shaking his head, he pinched a passing barmaid, the bedraggled girl rewarding him with a squeal and a scowl. "More beer, or I'll feed you to the hogs." He turned back to Lightfingers and Hakim. "As long as you don't annoy my customers, it's of no interest to me whether you're soldiers, or thieves . . . or whores in disguise, for that matter."

  Hakim returned his smile. "A rather good disguise."

  "Indeed." Frann accepted the fresh tankard and took a healthy swig before setting it down and folding his hands on the table in front of him. "And now, my two well-disguised trollops, what is it that you want to know?"

  Lightfingers considered it for a moment. This interrogation of the innkeeper was a waste of time, but it couldn't be helped. He had to stay in Hakim's good graces until they got back to the hill. And, for now, that meant getting information out of Frann.

  If the innkeeper knew anything. "Let us suppose something," Lightfingers said, idly running a fingertip through a puddle of beer on the tabletop. "Let us suppose that my friend and I were thieves?" He stared sternly at Frann. "Untrue as that is, of course."

  Frann pursed his mouth. "Why not? And?"

  "And let us suppose that we two thieves were newly arrived from the west—from the far west—looking for something worth stealing, say."

  "Then you would probably pay well for information, I suppose."

  Lightfingers produced a silver coin, spun it on the table in front of him. "Possibly so." As Frann reached for it, he slapped his hand over the coin. "Possibly we would pay for such information, after we had received it." Lightfingers left the coin on the table as he sipped his beer. "Remember, we are supposing that my friend and I are thieves, not fools."

  "Well put." The innkeeper rested his many chins on his fists. "Then I would say this: Take passage from Lundeyll. We are poor here." Frann shook his head sadly. "It's all I can do to make ends meet, keep the lord's men from booting me out into the street. Now, if I were a younger man, I'd go back to Pandathaway." He scowled, then sighed. "There is much worth having, there. I remember once, back home, a dwarf paid for a night's lodging with a diamond. It was the size of my thumbnail." He stared at his dirty, split thumbnail. "I swear, it was."

  Lightfingers didn't ask why Frann had left Pandathaway. In the second place, the innkeeper probably wouldn't tell him. Possibly he had been chased out, exiled, or left just a few moments ahead of the authorities.

  But in the first place, Lightfingers really didn't care. "And how would you suggest we get to Pandathaway?"

  Frann shrugged. "The usual way. Book passage at Lundeport." He smiled. "I know a captain who might give you a good rate for deck passage."

  "Like you gave us here? I don't see the need."

  Hakim elbowed him in the side. All this talk of stealing was not what the big man was interested in. "Perhaps there would be something else, some other—"

  "Quiet." Lightfingers shook his head. "I find what our host is saying to be most interesting."

  Frann smiled knowledgeably. "What are you really looking for?"

  "Actually," Hakim said, quashing Lightfingers' objection with a glare, "we've heard of something called the Gate Between Worlds."

  "Then you're not thieves. You are fools." Frann spared his hands. "Even if it exists, then it would seem a waste of—" He interrupted himself with a shrug. "But it's none of my concern." He turned to Lightfingers, palm up. "But I would be happy to tell you . . ." He accepted the coin, beckoned to a barmaid, and tucked it into her cleavage. " . . . what everybody else knows, that it's said to be east of Pandathaway, somewhere past Aeryk." The innkeeper set his palms on the table and levered himself to his feet. "And I will add this for free: If you have any talent, you would be wise to stay in Pandathaway. Steal from the dwarves, from the elven. The risk is great, but so are the rewards—if you're good enough." He turned away, muttering, "The size of my thumbnail, it was. . . ."

  Lightfingers drained his tankard and shook his head. "A genius, that's what you are. A genius."

  "What did I do?"

  "You told him the truth, stupid. Look, as long as we didn't
seem too eager, I could have kept him talking, probably all night. A silverpiece is worth a lot here—haven't you been listening? Hell, we could buy this place, serving girls and all, for what we've got in our pouches."

  Hakim shrugged his bare shoulders. The big man was completely unaffected. By Lightfingers' scorn, by the hike down, by the chill drafts blowing through the tavern, by the quarts of beer he had consumed. "As you pointed out, money isn't a problem for us." His expression grew grave. "And no more stealing, by the way. Understood? There's nothing worth taking here, and we don't need any trouble with the locals. How'd you like to try climbing those walls?"

  Lightfingers rubbed his stump against the edge of the table. "Wouldn't be hard; they've got a walkway around the top, and staircases leading up to it—the walls are intended to keep people out, not in. It would be tough to get over them from the outside. And I could have done that barehanded, before I lost my—"

  "Jason." Hakim's face creased with concern. "What the hell are you thinking of? You sound as if you think . . ."

  "That I'm Einar Lightfingers?" He sneered. "Who do I look like? And who do I have one hand like?" He slammed his stump down on the table. "For all I know, this Jason Parker was only a dream. Here is real." He waved his stump under Hakim's nose. "This is real."

  He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling. The beer, that was the trouble. He'd had enough to get angry on, but not enough to relax on. Yes, that was it—time for some more, to smooth things out.

  The room canted off to the left; he snatched his tankard from the table and veered right, toward a stoppered keg in the corner.

  He was halfway there when the huge oak door swung open and three men stepped into the tavern. Two were soldiers, tall and muscular in chain armor, swords belted to their waists, each leaning a short stabbing spear against the wall.

  The third man, though, made Lightfingers' palm itch. Man? Maybe boy was more accurate: he looked to be about sixteen, blond, with sunken dark eyes in a narrow face. His soft purple cape, the many-jeweled ring on the thumb of his ungloved right hand, the bulging pouch at his waist—all of it screamed Wealth.

  Frann bustled over as the background chatter died, the new stillness almost painful. "Lord Lund! I am honored!"

  With a crooked smile, the boy removed his other glove and slapped it lightly across the innkeeper's face, his men-at-arms smiling at his side. "Not Lord. Not yet. Just Lordling, until my blessed father dies . . ." He cocked his head to one side and laid a hand on the larger soldier's arm. "Marik, I believe that this fat beerseller has just insulted my father."

  "M-my apologies, Lordling," Frann sputtered, his fingers knotting at his waist. "I meant no insult to your noble father, may he live forever."

  "Oh? Then you think me incompetent to rule Lundeyll?"

  "No, not at all . . . I . . . I mean, what may I bring you?" The innkeeper clumsily dodged the paradox. Clearly, the lordling would choose to take offense at whatever Frann said. He gestured four men away from a nearby table, and wiped at its top, then his own face. "Beer? Wine?" He held a chair for the boy.

  Lund stood silent for a moment, then shrugged. "Let's let it pass, for once." He sat. "And you, innkeeper, will bring us nothing." He jerked a finger at the least bedraggled of the serving girls. "Wine. Your best. Which, I suspect, is none too good. Oh—and clean glasses, if you please?"

  The barmaid scurried off toward the back.

  Lightfingers kept his face blank as he filled his tankard, then returned to his table. He sipped his beer slowly as the level of noise in the room began to pick up, returning to only a fraction of its previous level. Everybody in the room was patently terrified of the slumming lordling. Which was an advantage, of sorts. It might make it—

  "Don't even think about it!" Hakim hissed.

  Lightfingers smiled, taking a deep draught of the sour beer. The taste actually got better after a while. "Easy, my friend. I wouldn't." Unless the opportunity presents itself. Then I wouldn't bother going back to the hill with you. I'd just book myself a passage to Pandathaway, and spend my time picking up diamonds the size of an innkeeper's thumbnail. "Wouldn't think of it."

  "Good." Hakim sat back. "I think it would be a good idea if we get out of here quietly, make our way back to our room. It's a bit stuffy there, but I don't like—"

  "You." The smaller of the two soldiers stood in front of them, glaring down at Lightfingers. "Didn't you see me beckon to you?"

  "No, I—"

  "Very well." The soldier tugged at his forelock in a sarcastic genuflection. "Lordling Lund requests the great honor of your company at his table. He likes to drink with the common people. If you will come this way?"

  Lightfingers called up an expression of terror. Speaking of opportunity . . . "M-my pleasure, s-sir." He stood slowly, and walked shakily over to where the boy sat, a cruel smile flickering across his thin lips.

  "Be seated." He nodded at a chair. "And you are . . . ?"

  "Einar. Einar One-Hand, Lordling." Lightfingers was too obviously the name of a thief.

  A clay winebottle and four glasses arrived, the barmaid setting them in front of the boy, then scurrying away, her smile unchanging, as though it had been painted on.

  "Allow me," the boy said, pulling the cork, then pouring wine in two of the mottled glasses. "My . . . friends don't like to drink while they are working." He raised a glass to his lips and took a sip. Lund frowned. "Too tannic." He lowered his glass and smiled. "I hope you won't be offended by their abstinence?"

  "Oh no, Lordling. I follow the same custom."

  Lund picked up his glass again and drank deeply, the overflow of the purple liquid running down his chin and onto his tunic. That was good; either the boy was normally a slob, or he was more than a little drunk. "Please drink, Einar One-Hand. After all, you are paying for the wine, are you not?" The two soldiers looked at each other, smiling knowingly. Obviously, this was not Lund's first stop on a night of slumming, drinking with the common folk, forcing them to pay for his wine.

  "Of course. I am honored." Lightfingers drained his own glass, then let his hand fall into his lap. It should be easy, actually. The purse dangled from the near side of Lund's belt, hanging next to Lightfingers as though it were a ripe fruit, begging to be picked. He reached out his hand—

  "Would you be kind enough to pour me another glass?" Lund rapped his wineglass against the table. "It shee—seems that I am a bit uncoordinated this evening."

  Lightfingers kept his scowl off his face. "Delighted, Lordling." He poured, then set the bottle down. A bit of distraction seemed called for; he brought his stump up to the table as he let his hand drop to his side.

  The boy recoiled. "I . . . I understand your name now. How did you lose it?"

  Easy, now . . . Lightfingers dipped two fingers into the mouth of the boy's pouch and pried them apart gently, slowly. Easy . . . "An accident. It was crushed in a mill." Inside the pouch was a jumble of coins; he grasped one between his fingers and eased it out.

  It was platinum, thick and heavy.

  Lightfingers fingerflipped it into his sleeve pouch, then took another, careful to be slow enough, smooth enough to prevent it from clinking against the others.

  "Long ago?"

  "Many years, Lordling. Many years." He took another, then another, slipping them carefully into his sleeve pocket. That's enough for now. No sense in being too greedy, Jason.

  Jason? I'm Jason? Then what—

  His hand slipped.

  Its full weight came to rest on the pouch.

  And tugged firmly on the boy's belt.

  Lund's eyes shot downward. "My pouch!" He snatched at Lightfingers' wrist, his glass clattering on the table.

  Rough hands grasped Lightfingers' shoulders; a sharp blow to the back of his neck sent the world spinning.

  "Marik—grab his friend, too," Lund rasped.

  He opened his eyes. Hakim was in the doorway, his scimitar in his hand, off-balance as though he had decided to run, then changed his mind. He
snatched a knife from his belt, sent it spinning toward the soldier holding Lightfingers

  The knife clanked against chainmail, then clattered harmlessly, uselessly to the floor.

  "Don't be a fool, run." He put all his strength into a scream. "Now!"

  The big man hesitated. The smaller soldier picked up the knife and flung it at him.

  With a meaty thunk, it sank into Hakim's shoulder. Dripping blood, he staggered through the doorway and into the night.

  "Get him, Marik." The soldier, sword in hand, ran after him.

  The other wrestled Lightfingers to his feet.

  Lordling Lund stood easily in front of him, hefting a spear. "We will deal with your friend. I promise." He twirled it, the foot-long steel head catching and shattering the light of an overhead lamp. "But you won't see that, will you?" He touched the spearpoint to Lightfingers' tunic.

  His arms were held behind him; no way to reach his dagger. Not that that would do a lot of good. "Lordling, let me explain. Please." What can I say? But I've got to say something, talk my way out. It can't end like this.

  The boy hesitated, then nodded, "Of course."

  "You misunderstood me. I—" An explosion of pain burned through his belly.

  He screamed.

  Bloody vomit choked his throat, spewed out of his mouth and down the front of his tunic.

  He looked down. Half of the spearhead was sunk into his midsection.

  Lund pulled the spear out and considered its bloody head. "A gut wound. I always liked gut wounds."

  He was a long time dying. He only stopped screaming toward the end.

  Chapter Six

  Second Blood

  . . . a soldier, full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation, Even in the cannon's mouth.

  —William Shakespeare

  Barak came awake at a touch, flinging away the blankets, reaching for his sword—