The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

  "What?"

  Ahira smiled. "I said, take your clothes off." Not a good time to bring it up, but he didn't want Barak musing on the leader's shortcomings. Best to keep him off-guard. He sobered. "I don't intend to make a habit of explaining myself, but . . . what do you think the chances are that they're looking for Hakim, down there? A big man, dressed only in pants, no shirt? That can't be too common around here, not from what we've seen and heard of the locals. So we make sure he isn't dressed only in pants, go for more standard clothing. You're the only one bigger than he is, so you get to provide the clothes." Ahira extended a palm. "It'll be a bit scratchy for you—the inside of boiled leather isn't too smooth—but that's the way it goes." He tapped a thumb against his axe. "Come to think of it, give me your leggings, too. You can switch pants with him; they won't look so loose on you."

  "Now? Here?"

  "Now."

  Aristobulus snickered; Andrea giggled.

  Glaring at all three of them, Barak began unlacing the front of his jerkin, then shook his head. He chuckled. "You little bastard."

  "Right." Ahira returned his smile. "But hurry up; I want another chance to talk to Hakim before we get going. The sooner I get finished with that, the less time you have to wander around in your bare skin."

  * * *

  Ahira seated himself in front of Doria and Hakim, dropping the pile of clothing to the grass. He jerked his head at Doria. "Go put your pack on. We're leaving in a few minutes."

  She nodded and walked away, shaking her head when she got behind Hakim. Clearly, she hadn't gotten anywhere with him; he was sitting against one of the now-empty boxes, running stiff fingers over the thin pink scar that was all that remained of his wound, staring blankly off into space.

  "I want you to put those clothes on, before we leave. You can give your trousers to Barak. And you'd better stash your scimitar in your pack—I'll give you my crossbow, so you don't feel naked."

  "Fine." He made no move to pick up the jerkin and leggings; he just sat there, rubbing the small scar as though he were trying to rub it away.

  "And you'll be glad to know that Barak knows quite a lot about Pandathaway. Sounds like a nice place." Ahira crabbed himself sideways, into Hakim's line of sight. "No lords."

  "That's nice."

  The best thing to do would be to try—gently, gently—to get him to talk it out. But there just wasn't time. The area around Lundeyll was probably not a healthy place for any of them. The graves of the dead soldiers were shallow, and nearby; it was only a matter of time until the bodies were discovered. And that would be one hell of a problem.

  Quite possibly a fatal one. They could all end up like Jason Parker.

  But why don't I feel anything for Jason? Granted, I never liked him—but I should feel something for him, now that he's dead.

  Ahira shook his head. Introspection could come later; for now, he had to get Hakim up and moving. One more try the nice way. "I thought I could count on you. You disappointed me."

  The thief's head snapped up. "What? How the hell was I supposed to know that he was going to pick Lund's pouch, get himself killed? You told him not to take chances, I told him not to . . ."

  Good. Anger was better than shocked numbness. "That's not what I meant. We've got to get going. But you're just sitting there, feeling sorry for yourself—I expected better of you."

  Hakim spat. "What do you know about it? You ever have to run a few miles with a knife in you, a bunch of people behind you, wanting your goddam blood?"

  "No." Ahira shrugged, then started to rise. "I had better go give Doria a talking-to. Looks to me like she did a pretty poor job of healing you, if it still hurts you like this."

  "Wait." Hakim held up a palm; Ahira lowered himself back to the grass. "It's not that. The time I played in the . . . game against Cornell—the time I played a half with a torn triceps . . ."

  "I remember." He nodded. "That must have hurt almost as much as this did."

  "It hurt more. But that was different. We won, that time."

  "We won this time."

  "But I didn't." Hakim slammed a fist against the ground, "I was supposed to get back intact—with Jason, with information."

  "One out of three isn't bad, considering the situation."

  "You don't understand, do you? I've never failed at anything before. I'm big, I'm strong, and I'm smart. I've always just assumed that was enough. This time, it wasn't." His eyes bored into Ahira's, as though daring him to deny it. "If you and Karl had been just a few seconds slower, I'd be dead. Like Jason." He shuddered. "God, James, you should have heard him screaming. I could have been next. I was lucky."

  And you're terrified that you won't be lucky next time. I don't blame you for that.

  Once, he had envied Walter Slovotsky. His attitude, his perfect faith and complete confidence that he was firmly at the center of the universe, and that all was well with him and his universe—that didn't seem so enviable. Not now. A self-image cast in stone could shatter. "Of course I never failed at anything." That was easy, as long as you didn't run into a situation you couldn't handle; that was fine, until you had to stagger down a road, armed men chasing you, knowing that if you fall, you die.

  But when that self-image shatters, where do you go from there?

  He clapped a hand to the thief's shoulder. "I don't know about next time. No promises." He shrugged. "But I'll be there, if you need me." He rose to his feet. "And for right now, I need you to get back on top of things. We had better get down to Lundeport and book passage the hell out of here. There could be trouble, if anyone recognizes you. On top of that, Barak is giving speeches when he should be fighting, Aristobulus is objecting to anything and everything, Doria can't get her spells back—and I'm waiting for Andrea to give me a problem; so far, she's the only one who hasn't." He held out a hand. "So I need your help."

  Hakim sat motionless, then nodded weakly. "I'll do my best. I . . . I can't promise that that'll be good enough." He accepted the hand, and let the dwarf pull him to his feet.

  "Welcome to the real world." Ahira found himself smiling. Almost. "Now, get the hell out of your clothes and into Karl's." He raised his voice. "Everybody—we're moving out."

  * * *

  Aristobulus, standing sweatily in his robes, bent to lower his rucksack to the sunheated wood of the pier. There was no need to keep it on his back while Ahira and Hakim negotiated with Avair Ganness, captain of the Ganness' Pride—it looked to be a long bargaining session, and Aristobulus' muscles were already complaining from the strain.

  He rubbed a fist against the small of his back and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the constant babble from merchants arguing over the price of grain, the squawking of the gulls overhead, the foul stench of rotting fish.

  Eyes closed, he could see his own power wrapped about him, a strong crimson aura that warmed him—and pleasantly, despite the heat of the day. He raised his hand in front of his face, working his fingers, enjoying the way the redness outlined his unseen hand, even as it moved.

  It was magic, of course. Which meant that it was good. And which meant that it was power—something Lou Riccetti had always wanted, but never known.

  Off to his side, another source blazed—but less intensely, much less so. Andrea simply wasn't in his league. Was that just because her character had been of a lower class than his? Or was it that she just hadn't wanted this as badly as he had?

  He shrugged. It really didn't matter. The only thing that did matter was that he had been reprieved by Deighton. Life had condemned Lou Riccetti to be an inconsequential little man; at best, a second-rate civil engineer in an age when damn close to nothing important was being built. No more great suspension bridges to span mighty rivers, few if any dams; the future of American engineering was in electronics—diddling with little circuit diagrams, not building things, not making magic.

  And if you couldn't make magic with stone and steel, all that was left was to dream about real magic. All that had been left. . . .
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  He let his remaining spells cycle through his brain, making sure each one was ready and complete. Not that that was necessary; an incomplete spell wouldn't make his mind pulse, wouldn't push at him night and day to release it, as though it were some sort of huge sneeze, backed up in his nostrils. He could live with that, easily, in exchange for the power.

  He could even live with the knowledge of his best friend's death. His only friend's death. Probably he should be mourning Jason; perhaps Lou Riccetti would be going over all his contacts with Jason, dredging up pleasure and pain from their friendship, regretting that Jason was gone.

  But he couldn't do it. Not with his power wrapping him, keeping him warm. The death of one powerless human just didn't seem significant. Now, the loss of the spell books, that hurt.

  Which makes me a small person, perhaps?

  If that was so, then so be it. He—

  "Are you falling asleep?" Andrea asked, nudging him. "Standing up?"

  He opened his eyes regretfully, the warm glow of his power overwhelmed by the bright sunlight. "No."

  "Well, Ahira says to keep an eye out for anybody who looks official—since the soldiers chasing Hakim didn't come back, the locals may be looking for him. And I don't think that would be very healthy for the rest of us."

  "Very well." Although Aristobulus didn't see why he had to be the lookout—probably there was something interesting going on at the boat. Keeping an eye on the shoreside crowd, he moved closer to where Hakim was haggling with the captain.

  Avair Ganness tapped bare toes on the wood, his heavy calluses clicking like dice. "Well then, make up your mind. It hardly matters to me. I can make a profit of five, perhaps six gold by carrying good Lundess wine, instead of you." He spoke Erendra in a pleasant rhythm, his r's rolling melodiously. Huge shoulders shrugged inside his sweat-stained sailcloth tunic, belted at the waist with a length of rope. The tunic stopped abruptly at midthigh; below, his thick legs projected like treestumps.

  Hakim smiled, raising an eyebrow. "There would be advantages to carrying us, instead."

  Ganness nodded. "That is so." He sighed. "I do have this problem—happens to many a man my age. It would cost me much to have it cured in Pandathaway. Perhaps even more than your passages will cost me, all things considered. But only perhaps."

  Problem? He looked healthy enough.

  "That wasn't what I meant." Hakim gestured at the crewmen swarming around the sloop, checking lines, stowing cargo, pausing occasionally to leer at Doria and Andrea. "I have been watching the way they check their bows, their arrows. There are few spots on deck that don't have a weapon within reach. You are concerned about pirates, no?"

  "Not concerned. Properly cautious. I've sailed the Cirric for . . . forty years, man and boy. Only run into pirates seven, eight times." He grinned, a gap-toothed smile that was not at all friendly. "And I have managed to give a good account of myself, those few times." He tossed his head, his waist-length pigtail curling around his torso like a snake. "So I have no need of wizards or warriors to protect me. But"—he extended his arm toward Doria, frowning as Hakim moved between them—"I do require a cleric's help." His face went blank. "But that can wait until we dock in Pandathaway. I won't need . . . I won't have any use for it until then. I don't bugger my seamen." He smiled at Doria.

  Well, that explained what his "problem" was—a case of impotence, eh? And just perhaps Avair Ganness was a bit more eager to have her cure it than he appeared to be—otherwise, he might well have set his price for passage at enough money to overcompensate the loss of cargo space.

  Aristobulus nodded to himself. Yes, that made sense—but best to whisper it quietly to Ahira or Hakim, rather than confront Ganness. The trouble with most people was that they weren't rational; the captain might refuse to carry them, just out of stubbornness.

  He took a few steps closer, and called to the dwarf.

  "What is it?" Ahira snapped. "We're talking, here—and I thought you were told to—" He cut himself off, his eyes going wide, as he looked past Aristobulus' shoulder.

  The wizard turned. A troop of ten—no, twelve soldiers were working their way toward the pier, stopping and questioning passersby as they came. He moved toward the end of the pier, trying to carry his rucksack casually.

  "We had best conclude this quickly, no?" he said, careful to speak in English rather than Erendra.

  Ahira turned to the thief. "Hakim?"

  Hakim shrugged in the loose tunic. "I don't think they'll recognize me, not unless—cancel that. The one with the longbow is Marik—he'll know me, if he sees me. Maybe."

  "Then turn around."

  Ganness frowned. "What tongue was that?"

  Barak took a step toward him, smiling faintly. "I don't think that is any of your concern, is it?" He switched to English. "Better agree to something, folks—other than her Heal Disease spell, the only decent one she's got left is for Minor Wounds. And she's only got one of those left. If we get in a fight . . ."

  Doria spoke up. "I don't remember anyone asking me if I wanted to cure him, and then . . . prove that I have."

  Aristobulus sneaked a glance over his shoulder. The soldiers were still working their way toward the end of the pier, where the Ganness' Pride was tied up. But unless the one that knew Hakim recognized him at a distance, they still had a few minutes; the soldiers were a few hundred yards away on the crowded pier.

  Barak shrugged. "I don't see what your problem is. After all, you've always been willing to make it with practically any—"

  Her hand struck Barak's face with a loud whack! It probably wasn't the force of the blow that staggered him, it was the surprise.

  Aristobulus sighed. It was starting to look like he'd have to waste a spell or two. The stupid, overmuscled, underbrained—

  "That is it," Ahira snapped, then switched back to Erendra as he turned to Ganness. "We have been trying to reach an accommodation with you, captain, but clearly you're unwilling to talk business," And in English: "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a pimp. Hakim, keep your head turned away; everybody, up packs and move quietly down the pier. And I do mean quietly." He fiddled with the straps holding his battleaxe to his chest. "We just might be able to get out of this without—"

  Doria raised a palm as she shot a look back at the approaching soldiers. "Wait. I . . . I agree to your terms, Avair Ganness," she said in Erendra to the captain. "Free passage for all, in return for . . . in return for . . ."

  "Agreed." Ganness smiled gently, then spoke to the others. "Your cabins are forward, belowdecks. A bit cramped, perhaps, but I do keep a clean ship. And my cook is of the best; I bought him in Pandathaway." Ganness vaulted over the railing, landing lightly on the deck. "And you, Lady, I will see in my cabin, as soon as we clear the harbor" —he ran blunt fingers across his stubbled cheeks— "and I shave myself. I'll be gentle, I swear." He smiled. "You might even enjoy it.

  Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the railing. "This is a business affair, Ganness. And I'm only agreeing for reasons—"

  "—that are nobody else's concern," Ahira interrupted. "Captain, you were about to show us our cabins?"

  "That's him!" A rough voice shouted, from down the pier. The twelve soldiers broke into a trot. Aristobulus sucked air into his lungs. "I'll slow them down—yes?"

  Ahira nodded, unstrapping his axe. "Everybody else—get on board. Captain, you're about to be in the same trouble we are, if you don't get this ship moving quickly." Idly, he tore through the leather strap that slung his crossbow across his shoulders and tossed the bow and his quiver to Hakim. "Use it."

  Ganness stood motionless for a long moment, then shrugged. "It seems I have little choice. All hands! Cast off!"

  Asristobulus turned, raising his arms. Now, let the power flow. . . . It would have to be the flame spell; nothing else would slow down the charging soldiers.

  So I'll give you fire. He let the spell click to the forefront of his mind, his chest tightening, straining as though he had drawn in twice as much
air as his lungs could handle. The red glow brightened, a hot envelope enshrouding him, tingling his skin, so intense it blanketed his vision.

  And the urgency grew; the spell had been pushing constantly at the back of his mind—but pushing gently. Now it roared, demanding use, painfully growing in his skull until he thought his head would explode from the pressure and heat.

  Aristobulus released it, the rush of sound so loud he couldn't begin to hear or understand the words issuing from his own mouth.

  The charging soldiers were a scant hundred feet away; halfway between the two men at the head of the group, the pier exploded into fire. The wood glowed with white heat for a moment before it could start to flame.

  The wall of fire grew, tongues of flame licking easily two hundred feet into the sky, roaring, crackling.

  Aristobulus dropped his hands. It was done.

  "You stupid—" Ahira grabbed the collar of his robes; the pier dropped away under his feet as the dwarf threw him over the rail. He landed on his shoulder on the deck of the Ganness' Pride, sliding until he banged into a mast.

  Pain lanced through him; he staggered to his feet.

  And then he understood: He had cast the spell too far away; the lead soldiers had been able to get past the wall of fire before it blocked the way for the rest.

  Ahira waited for them, his battleaxe held easily in his hands.

  "Cast off, damn you all!" Ganness shouted at his crew, following his own orders as he raced to the front of the boat to slash through the bow line. "Get those sails up—a hard hand on the tiller, there."

  The first soldier glanced at the boat as seamen pushed it from the pier, then moved toward the dwarf, only his outline visible against the wall of fire.

  Aristobulus had known that the dwarf was strong, but he had never realized just how strong; Ahira ducked under the swing of the soldier's sword, planted the stock of his axe against the man's chest, and pushed.

  The soldier tumbled back, head over heels, a full fifty feet into the leading edge of the fire. He jerked to his feet, gibbering and flaming, and twitched himself over the side of the pier, splashing into the water.