"Not quite." She smiled up at him. "I spent a summer in Tel Aviv, back at the end of high school. That little dwarf has nothing on the Arab merchants in the Jaffa flea market—you've got to take the first offer as an insult, threaten a bit of violence . . . then, you can get down to business. Otherwise, you can end up spending the rent money on a pair of sandals—or take the whole afternoon just picking up lunch." She glared at both him and Walter, but there was a bit of pride mixed in. "It seems as though the two of you are going to need a keeper—or at least a teacher. Watch." She paused in front of a fruit vendor's stall and picked out three ripe, red apples from the slanted bin, examining the back sides of the fruits—"you've got to check for worm holes"—before pulling a copper coin from her pouch, holding it out to the vendor in offer of payment.
The vendor, a frowzy, overweight woman, brushed away the two dirty children clinging to her tattered skirts, nodded, and walked over to take the coin.
As they walked on, she handed Karl the reddest of the apples, Walter another, and took a bite out of the last. "Good. See," she said around a mouthful, "if you look like you know what you're doing, you'll save a bit of money, and a lot of time."
Karl crunched a bite out of his apple. It had been too long since his last meal, aboard the Pride; the cool, sweet fruit tasted almost too good. "We've still got to find out when the next Games are." He eyed the afternoon sun. "And then get back to the fountain—I make it about three hours till sundown."
Walter took a last bite out of his apple and threw the shreds of stem and core away. "I could use another beer."
"No." That was a rule he'd learned back when he was a freshman: always set your limits before you have your first drink. "Let's walk this way."
* * *
Ahira found the Librarian in charge of the Room of Gold and Gray to be an unlikely occupant of the post: The man was tall and well-muscled, his shoulders straining at the seams of his gold-trimmed gray woolen tunic as he bustled over to the door to greet the dwarf and dismiss Ahira's escort.
"Welcome, welcome to the Room of Gold and Gray," he boomed. His voice was a deep baritone, his handclasp firm and friendly. "I am Oreen; I am the Specializing Librarian in charge of"—he interrupted himself to chuckle—"all that you now survey. And you are . . . ?"
"Ahira." And I am also confused. This Librarian's manner was diametrically opposite to Callutius'.
"Ahira," the Librarian repeated, drawing up two three-legged stools, seating himself on the shorter one and gesturing Ahira to the other. "This will let us have our eyes on the same level, or close to it. Please, make yourself comfortable. You are both my first patron of the day, and my first dwarvish patron ever—let us enjoy the moment, shall we?"
"Do I get charged extra for the friendly treatment?"
Green's brow furrowed under a shock of brown hair. "Friendly?—oh. Callutius is on greeting duty today, isn't he? I haven't seen the old bastard for months. Does he still look as though he'd just discovered half a maggot in his meat?"
Ahira chuckled. "Quite."
Oreen shrugged. "Well, it's his own fault. He never specialized, you see—instead of trying to learn one room, he went in for indexing, trying to learn what is kept where." Oreen punctuated the words by thumping himself on the knee. "He wants to be Chief Librarian someday. Which he may be, though I doubt it. And, in any case, he is certain to be unhappy in the interim." Oreen gestured at the shelves and racks lining the small, bright room. "As for me, I know every page of every book, every section of every scroll here. Vellum maps and hand-copied books; printed scrolls and explorers' notes—I know them all." Oreen folded his thick arms across his chest. "Which makes me the master of all I see, and a happy man. Now, what is it that we're looking for today?"
"I'm trying to find a map that will show me where the Gate Between Worlds is, if you've ever heard—"
"There's no such map." Oreen held up a hand. "But please, let me show you . . ." He stood, sucking air through his teeth, and walked over to a scrollrack, flipping aside several scrolls before selecting one. "Hmmm . . . I think that this will give you the best overview of the situation." Oreen beckoned Ahira over to a wide table and rolled the scroll open, carefully pinning his selected panel open with four springy clamps. "My own design, these clamps—they keep the scroll firmly open, without hurting it at all. You see, here we are: Pandathaway." The Librarian held his finger over the designated spot, not touching the yellowed parchment. "I could show you the floor plans of most of the structures here. Do you follow me, so far?"
"Yes, but—"
"Be patient for a moment, friend Ahira, be patient. We now move north and east . . ." His finger traced a path through a scattering of upside-down V's. " . . . where we reach the Aershtyl Mountains, and Aeryk, there. This is the trade route into the mountains; we have much contact with the Aerir. So, I could show you maps of the landholding around Aeryk—contour maps, if you're familiar with them; much of the land is on its side." His finger went farther north. "Now, here's a problem: the Waste of Elrood. Do you know of it?"
"No." Oreen's friendliness tempted Ahira to be more complete—but it was better to be safe. "I'm new to this area."
"Oh?" Oreen's lifted eyebrow invited him to go on.
"I believe you were saying something about a Waste?"
Oreen nodded. "It was almost a thousand years ago—I don't have the date on the tip of my tongue, but I could get if for you if you want me to—it was a thousand years ago, that two powerful wizards dueled on the plain of Elrood. It was a lush farmland, back then. They destroyed everything around them, for a great distance. Now, it's devastated. Nothing grows." He shook himself. "But . . . you pass through just the edge of the Waste, and—"
"Wait." Ahira indicated a patch of green in the large brown circle that marked the Waste. "What's this? I thought you said that it was all destroyed. That's farmland or forest, isn't it?"
"Very good." Green's smile held no trace of condescension. "That's the forest surrounding the home tabernacle of the Society of the Healing Hand—oh, you know the Society?"
"Slightly," Ahira admitted. "I have a friend who is a member." In a manner of speaking, that is.
Oreen stood back, impressed. "Really. They're powerful healers. Their Grand Matriarch is said to be able to raise the dead, although I couldn't swear to the truth of that. I've never heard of a Hand cleric's talking about it, though." He snorted. "On the other hand, the damn Spidersect clerics claim they can do anything, and they lie. But, as I was saying, the Matriarch is most powerful; she fully protected the tabernacle and its grounds from the battle."
Ahira frowned. "I thought you said it was a long time ago—hundreds of years, no?"
Oreen's face wrinkled. "Where are you from, friend Ahira?"
"What do you mean?" There was a challenge in Oreen's voice that made Ahira's hands itch for the handle of his battleaxe.
The Librarian sighed, and shook his head. "My apologies; it's not my place to pry. But it must be a strange land, where powerful clerics can't maintain their own life functions."
The James Michael part of him welled up with an image of old Father Mendoza, his parish priest, who had collapsed with a heart attack while celebrating Mass, and died a few hours later. It was strange, come to think of it: Why couldn't the gods—God take care of his own?
He shook his head. That was beside the point; the problem was how to deal with Oreen. Possibly the best thing to do would be to lay his situation before the Librarian, and ask his advice. But how could he put it? I used to be a cripple on another world, until a would-be wizard sent me here, to clear the way for him?
No. That wouldn't do. Just because magic worked here didn't mean that there was nothing that the locals wouldn't consider insane.
And how do they treat the insane here? Beat them, to drive the demons out? And might that even work here?
It might, at that. But the cure could easily be worse than the disease. "You were showing me the route, I believe."
Oreen looked at him for a long moment before shrugging. "Very well. As I was saying, I can't show you detailed maps of the Waste, simply because nobody has ever made one. At least, not to my knowledge—anyone going through there would be more interested in getting out than they would be in mapmaking." He smiled. "And to every rule, an exception: I could show you a map of the road from Metreyll to the tabernacle of the Healing Hand." His finger hovered over a line from a lake to the green spot that marked the forest preserve of the Society. "But that would take you out of your way. Far out of your way, if you're going to Bremon."
"Bremon?"
"Bremon." Oreen tapped at a lone inverted V, near the Waste. "That's where the Gate Between Worlds is supposed to be. I have a description—no map, just some notes—of an entrance into the mountain. A hundred years back, someone gave up on finding the Gate when he was just outside of the mountain. So, I can show you where that is. But I can't show you a map of the inside of the mountain, simply because—"
"Nobody who has ever gone in has ever come out again, to tell the tale."
"Of course." Oreen was puzzled. "What do you think I've been getting at?"
* * *
An easterly wind brought a stink to Karl's nostrils, as the three of them walked along a quiet cobblestone street. It was a stench of dung, and sweat, and fear. He was about to pick up the pace, to urge the others along, when Walter plucked at Karl's sleeve.
"I think there's a slave market over that way—I can just barely hear an auction. You two want to go look?" The thief shrugged. "I know we can't spend any serious money right now, but it might be worth our while to find out how much some bearers cost. Could be cheaper—" He was interrupted by the crack of a distant whip, immediately followed by a scream of pain. Walter winced. " . . . than buying horses and such."
Karl shook his head. "We won't own people. It's wrong."
Doria frowned at Walter. "How could you even think of such a thing? That's—"
"Thinking it through. Which you two aren't. Look, what would we do with a bunch of slaves, after we reach the Gate? We'll let them go, no? In effect, it'd be more like a temporary indenture than real chattel slavery; they'd trade a bit of service for their freedom."
"No." Karl clutched his sword more tightly. "That's out. Just forget about it. One of the few virtues our world has is—"
"Don't be silly. In our world, it's been the norm for most of history. Even in our time, chattel slavery isn't unknown. It's still legal in half a dozen places I can think of—Saudi Arabia, f'rinstance. You—"
"I won't stand for it." You don't own people. It's wrong.
Doria interposed herself between the two of them. "Just let it be. We're supposed to be seeing the sights, no?"
"Fine."
The street sloped gradually downward as it narrowed, the one-and two-story stone houses that lined it becoming progressively more ill-kept. Through latticed windows, Karl could see an occasional head, peering out at him, ducking aside when he returned the occupant's gaze. Idly, he let his free hand rest on the hilt of his sword, loosening it in its scabbard. Probably that was an unnecessary precaution, but that was the trouble with precautions: You couldn't know which one was necessary until it was too late.
Ahead of them, where the now narrow street opened into some sort of plaza, there was a distant roaring, as though of a fire.
Fire? Karl sniffed the air. No good; the wind was at his back. "You two hear that?"
Doria and Walter nodded, stepping up their pace to keep abreast of him. "Sounds like a fire," Doria said. "A fire? This whole place is built out of stone. There can't be a fire."
"Bets?"
They reached the end of the street. What had seemed to be a plaza was more of a large, railed balcony, overlooking a vast pit, easily two thousand feet across, a hundred feet deep at its center.
And in the center of the pit, chained by the neck to a massive boulder, was an only slightly less massive dragon.
It was a huge brown beast, easily twice Karl's height at its front shoulder, only slightly shorter at the hips. Two leathery wings sprouted from behind its shoulders, curling and uncurling constantly as the dragon flamed patches of brown muck into ash and steam, its tail flicking nervously from side to side.
The head was a horror. It was shaped much like an alligator's head, but it was massive, teeth easily the size of daggers, wicked red eyes that bore into Karl's, sending him reeling away from the pit's edge.
A gout of flame issued from its mouth, roaring as it touched the stream of sludge that poured out of one of the pipes feeding into the pit.
*Go away,* sounded in his head, accompanied by waves of nausea.
Karl fell to his knees, gagging, his tearing eyes jammed shut.
"Karl?" Walter knelt beside him. "What happened to you?"
"Karl—are you all right?" Doria's face went ashen as she crouched in front of him.
Another burst of flame sent up a cloud of steam from a sludge pipe.
Karl forced his eyes open. No, there was nobody else there—all of the buildings that circled the pit presented it with only blank walls.
*After all, no one would want to look out on a sewer, would he?*
This time, the voice was unaccompanied by nausea; Karl staggered to his feet, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "You're talking, in my head."
*Very clever, swordsman.* The dragon's directionless voice dripped with sarcasm. *And you are talking with your mouth. And the mixed-up little healer and the smug thief beside you are standing mute. Have you any more subtle observations to make? If not, please taunt me in my captivity, and then be on your way.* The dragon's forepaw idly clawed at the coils of chain around its neck—no, it wasn't chain, exactly; more like cable. And in spots where the filth that covered it had flaked away, specks of gold showed through.
*That is so I can't flame myself free, fool. Were I so foolish as to try, I would only burn myself.* It had tried that, more than once. The gold plating on the steel cable conducted the heat away. To the dragon's neck.
Karl's hands flew to his burning neck, circled by a ring of fire.
But the fire wasn't there; the pain faded instantly, until it was only a memory, as distant as a half-forgotten pain from a childhood fall.
*How do you like the feeling, human? Your kind—*
"No, not me."
"Karl, would you—"
"Shut up." You're not hearing my voice, are you?
*Why would I be interested in your voice?*
I . . . don't know. But . . . how can your own flame burn you? And why are you angry at—
*A magical creature the dragon is, but not immune to flame, to heat, to burning. I control my own flame, of course, but the . . . indirect effects, no. And I hate you because . . . wait. Who are you?*
"My name is Karl Cullinane. This is Doria and Walter." And I don't know why you're angry at me. I never did anything to you.
*I am Ellegon. The disposer of wastes.*
I . . . don't understand.
*Wait until the wind changes, Karl Cullinane. This pit is where the sewers of Pandathaway empty, so as not to foul their precious harbor. I must flame the wastes into ash, or sit here buried in human filth. They captured me, when I was only half a century out of the egg, and chained me here, dumping their excrement on me for these three centuries.*
You're more than three hundred years old?
The dragon had been chained in sewage for three centuries; it let Karl feel what that was like.
For just a moment.
As he lay retching on the stones, Walter pulled at his shoulders. "C'mon, we've got to get him out of here. It's killing him."
*Yes, I'm only a child. Do you think it's right, to treat a child like this? Do you?*
Nausea.
Karl shrugged their hands away, closing his eyes, trying to close his mind. Please. Don't do that again.
*You wouldn't have done it? No, I see that you wouldn't, not even to a dragon.*
The nausea cease
d. "Take it easy, you two. Everything's okay." No, I wouldn't do it to a dragon.
Karl would kill a dragon, if it endangered him. If he could. But this was wrong. Karl had felt just a trace of Ellegon's suffering, and that was more than enough. Unless the dragon wasn't as sensitive to—
*Do you want to feel it again?*
No. This was wrong, but it didn't look as though there was anything that Karl could do about it: The dragon looked hungry, and the cable was thick.
*I am hungry, and I haven't asked you to cut the cable. Not that I need to eat; dragons are magical, don't you know. We like to eat*—the satisfaction of crunching a cow, eating it in two bites, sent the last traces of nausea away—*but we don't have to.*
I didn't know. I didn't know anything about dragons.
A mental shrug. *Are you stupid, or merely ignorant?*
Just ignorant, I hope.
*Hmmm. I have a proposition for you. If I do two things for you, would you do one thing for me?*
That depends. You can't—
*I can't reach your mind from much farther away, yes. You could run away, and I wouldn't be able to talk to you, or do thi—*
DON'T. I don't want you to make me vomit again. But you were offering me a proposition? I . . . I'm not sure I trust you enough to go down there, and try to free you.
Flame roared. *Fool. I wasn't asking for that. Not from a filthy human. But if you could see your way to bringing me something to eat? A sheep, maybe? I'll do something for you. I'll start by telling you something you need to know, if you are going to find the Gate Between Worlds, Karl Cullinane.*
How—how do you know?
Blistering scorn. *I read minds, remember?* Ellegon roared.
Sorry.—And yes, if I can afford a sheep, if you do something for me that makes it worthwhile, I'll bring you one. Or something else to eat, if I can't manage to buy a sheep.
*Agreed. First: You will find the Gate deep under the mountain Bremon, just north and west of the Waste of Elrood. And—*
I thank you, but maybe Ahira—
*—I know. Your companion may already have found that out. I wasn't finished. I was going to tell you something else, something that he could not have found out. Something that I know, simply because I am a dragon, and know where all of my kind are.*
The Sleeping Dragon Page 13
