"Karl, what is—"
"Shut up. I'm talking to the dragon."
"You're talking to a dragon?"
*Yes, he's talking to a dragon.*
Walter and Doria both jumped, as Ellegon included them.
*But it's easier to talk to only one.*
You were telling me that there's a dragon there, at the Gate. That was bad. But maybe, if they were lucky, the dragon wouldn't be as large as Ellegon.
*No, He won't. He will be much larger. He has lain there long enough for the mountain Bremon to grow up around him, as He sleeps there, guarding the Gate.*
"Wonderful." He turned to the others. "Ellegon just told me that there's a dragon at the Gate, guarding it."
"Karl," Doria shrilled, "would you tell me what is going on?"
*Tell them to go away. Their minds are even narrower and more cramped than yours. Although the woman's holds more. Strange. And the other's is built differently, as though it's not quite the same kind. I . . . don't understand.*
"Ask him," Walter said, "what the other dragon's name is. Maybe Ari can put together a name-spell, and—"
*Fool.*
"I heard that." Walter glared.
*And fool you are. He was the first dragon, created before all the rest of us.*
"So?"
*So, in the old days, when there was but one thing of His kind in all the world, why would He have need of a name? Just so, billions of years later, some stupid human could cast a spell using it? No. He is The Dragon, oldest of us all, and has no need of a name.*
So what can we do to protect ourselves against him?
*Don't wake Him. He is older than the mountain, and you could break the mountain more easily that you could dent the smallest of His scales. Karl Cullinane?*
Yes?
*I have done one thing for you, no? Will you bring me my sheep now, or must I do the other?*
You make that sound like a threat. And I don't like threats, Ellegon.
*Very well.* Ellegon sighed mentally. *Then, I will let you understand.*
Understand wha—
The universe fell apart.
* * *
He was fifteen, and a nice Jewish girl. Or, at least, she was supposed to be. But there were things she wasn't supposed to be, and things she wasn't supposed to do. Like grope in the dark with Jonathan Dolan, and slip out of—
* * *
*Enough? Or do you really want to understand Doria?*
You're letting me into her memories? Why?
*So you'll understand.*
No, wai—
* * *
And she couldn't tell Daddy, of course. He called her his one-and-only, and Mommy thought she was still a virgin. That was one of the rules: You don't talk about it. But it wasn't only that she was late, there was this burning—and that damn Jonny Dolan was telling everybody that she'd given him the clap. And that couldn't be true. It couldn't. He was the first, and the only one, so far.
And it hadn't even been any fun. Just a sticky mess. He lied. They all lied. It wasn't any fun at all.
* * *
*You still don't see it.*
* * *
But I can't tell anybody. Besides, it's probably not that. Maybe, if I just forget about it, it'll go away?
* * *
*I think, perhaps, just a bit more.*
* * *
"She's a sick little girl, Mr. Perlstein, but with a bit of luck we'll have the fever down in a few hours." She lay panting beneath the plastic, no longer able to paw at the tubes in her nose and arms—they'd fastened her hands down.
"But it can't be gonorrhea. Not my little—"
"You know, Mr. Perlstein, you make me sick."
"Doctor, I—"
"If she'd been able to tell anybody—if she'd felt able to tell anybody . . . if there'd been one goddam person for her to talk to, maybe she wouldn't be lying there now. We could have treated it easily, if we had gotten to it. Before."
"Before?"
"Before it grew into one hell of a raging pelvic infection that'll leave her sterile, if it doesn't kill her."
"Sterile? My little—"
"Sterile. Unable to conceive. Ever. If we're lucky. Nurse." A cold hand felt at her forehead. "I want a temp and BP every five minutes. If her temp doesn't start to drop within the hour . . ."
* * *
*And the last portion of the payment.*
* * *
And I guess it doesn't matter anymore and besides in a lot of ways I'm perfect because nobody ever has to worry about getting Doria Perlstein pregnant ever which means that every cloud has a silver lining because now I can have any boy I want to but they all treat me like I was a cigarette they pass around but I guess that doesn't matter because that's what I deserve isn't it because becausebecausebecausebe—
*Enough*
* * *
"Karl, are you okay?"
"I don't care what he said, Walter, we've got to get him out of here."
"No—wait. I think he's coming around."
Karl pried an eye open. Doria and Walter bent over him, concern creasing their faces. "It's okay," he said, not surprised to hear his voice coming out as a harsh croak. "Help me up."
"What did he do to you?" Doria asked. "He hurt you again. That—"
"Shh." Understanding, eh?
*Understanding. It's not always easy to understand things, Karl Cullinane. Even I know that.*
She doesn't know?
*No, of course not. Why would I want to hurt—*
You would have killed us, a few minutes ago. If you could have reached us.
*A different thing entirely, no?*
A different thing entirely.
*Will you get me my sheep now?* Ellegon asked plaintively.
Karl walked slowly to the railing and stared out at the dragon. "You two keep watch. I've got a debt to pay."
"What did it do to—"
"Shh."
*Then I get my sheep!*
No. He slipped out of his sandals, using their thongs to lash his scabbard to his shoulders.
*No? Then you are like all the rest, you—*
Shh. Just be quiet for a moment.
Karl Cullinane pays his debts. That was the rule. And even if the debt came out of a window into Doria's mind, a window that he wouldn't have wanted to look through . . .
And to think I treated her like—
*You didn't know. What are you doing?*
Karl levered himself over the railing. Good—the rockface below was rough and cracked; there would be many finger- and toe-holds. I took up rock climbing one summer—hey! why are you asking? I thought you could read my mind, even what I'm not consciously thinking about.
*Not now. There's an intensity—*
Shh. I've got to pay attention to what I'm doing. He picked his way carefully down the face, ignoring Doria's and Walter's shouted questions from above. You can't turn off my sense of smell for me, can you? he thought, as he lowered himself into the ankle-deep foul muck.
*No—you're really going to do it? Thankyouthankyouthank-you—I'll leave, I'll fly away, I will. Please, Karl, please don't change your mind. Pleaseplease—*
Shh. Stumbling and gagging at the stench, he started to walk toward Ellegon.
Never mind, Karl. He's been in this for three hundred years.
As he got closer, it became shallower; a harder surface beneath the ooze supported his bare feet.
The dragon loomed above him, its breath coming in short gasps, its wings curled protectively by its sides. Lower your neck, will you? If there's a weak point in this cable, it'll probably be there, where you can't see it.
Ellegon knelt in the filth, his huge head just inches away from Karl. His mental voice was strangely silent as he presented his barrellike throat.
It was a cable, and like all cables, made up of smaller strands. It took a moment for Karl's swordtip to snick through the first strand, and a moment longer for the next.
Easy, my friend, easy. Just a fe
w dozen more. He had to stop to quell his gagging reflex; wading through this . . . sewer was something he'd try to forget.
And—he cut through the last strand—done!
Ellegon's massive head tilted at him. *Thankyouthankyou-thankyou—*
Shh. Better get going. He slipped his sword back in its sheath.
*Grab my neck,* the dragon said, its mind muttering a background of *Free. Free. I'm Free.*
Karl reached out, and as he did so, the creature's wings flapped, blurring with speed as it eased into the air, then whirred over to the balcony, Karl dangling for a moment, then dropping to the tiles.
*Free.*
*One more thing,* Ellegon said, landing.
"Look out, Karl, he's going to—"
The dragon's mouth opened, and a gout of flame rushed out, enveloping Karl. Just flame; no heat, although the reeking muck covering much of his body burst into fire, sparkling and burning away. *My flame couldn't hurt you, Karl Cullinane. Not you. Not now.* It tingled pleasantly, that was all. He turned in the firestream, letting it wash over him like a shower.
*Free.* The flame stopped.
Better get going.
With a snap of his wings, the dragon jumped skyward, his wings just a blur as he left the balcony and the pit behind him.
*Free.*
Fly away, my friend.
Three times the dragon circled overhead, gaining height as he flew.
*Free.*
"Karl," Doria said, shaking her head, "would you mind telling us just what's going on?"
"I think we'd all better get out of here, folks," Walter said, moving them along. "When the authorities find out about this, they aren't going to be all that pleased."
Ellegon flew off toward the north, now so high he was only a dark speck against the blue sky.
*Free.*
"Karl, why?" Doria asked.
He slipped one arm around her waist, the other around Walter's as they walked away. "Because I never felt this good in my Whole. Damn. Life."
*Free.*
That was faint now; did he hear it, or just imagine it?
It really didn't matter.
Not at all.
*Free.*
Chapter Ten
The Inn of Quiet Repose
We may live without poetry, music and art; We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends, we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks.
—Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Earl of Lytton
Walter Slovotsky suppressed a chuckle at Andrea's bubbly enthusiasm as she led the group down a broad street toward the Inn of Quiet Repose.
"You should see it," she said, hurrying them along. "And I got a fine deal for the suite—it's going to cost us just one hundred gold for the next ten days."
A hundred gold? By local prices, that wasn't much at all. Walter shrugged. Either she had landed them in some horrid hovel, or her Charm spell had been awfully effective.
Apparently, Ahira had the same idea. "If you charmed whoever's running it, won't—"
"Nope." She took a smug, prancing step. "The owner has an amulet around his neck, one he thinks wards that kind of spell away." She spread her hands. "But it doesn't have any kind of aura at all—either it's dead, or it's a phony. But here we are."
The inn was a three-storied edifice, a marble mansion like a stone version of something out of Gone with the Wind. Tall fluted pillars guarded the broad staircase; the foyer was a vast, soundless room, with deep, blood-red carpets that seemed to suck the weariness out of Walter's legs. He smiled as he tilted his head back to enjoy the mural that spanned the high ceiling: chubby nymphs chasing unicorns through a green glade.
He started to lower his pack to the floor, but six young women in filmy white kimonos descended on them, relieving them all of their burdens as others arrived bearing silver trays laden with steaming cloths to bathe their hands, feet, and faces, and yet others carrying thick towels to pat them dry, and tall, frosty glasses of ice and wine.
And all this when they were barely inside the door. Walter nodded. I think I'm going to like this.
And then, for a moment, he had his doubts. A huge man, yards of yellow silk caftan barely containing his oversize belly, stepped from behind a curtain. "Well, it seems as though you were correct, my little friend." He scowled down at Andrea, easily half again her height. Walter tried to guess his weight; three-fifty, four hundred perhaps? "I wouldn't have believed that there was so scruffy a group if—but never mind, pay no attention, Tommallo is but ranting, again. And these are guests; their way has been pai—" He stopped himself, rubbing a finger against his almost impossibly aquiline nose, then shook his head. "My guests: Will you go to your suite now, or would you care to dine first?"
Ahira spoke up. "Is there a bath—"
"You insult me!" The owner stood back, his hands on his hips. "This, my dear sir, is the Inn of Quiet Repose. Nowhere, I say, nowhere in glorious Pandathaway will you find an establishment so well kept, so replete with every facility necessary to provide a guest ease or comfort. Every comfort."
Walter looked the nearest of the serving girls up and down. Quite a difference from the ugly, unbathed serving girls of Lundeyll. Then he glanced at Karl. On the other hand, maybe the stupid swordsman would give him trouble over that—couldn't he see that there was a difference between here and home? When in Pandathaway . . .
The owner was still talking. " . . . you will even discover—perhaps I should save this? No, no—you will find that your suite's bath is complete with running water, requiring only the merest turn of a valve for its use." He stamped his bare foot soundlessly on the carpet. "And you will find your rooms to be quiet; your sleep will be deep and sound and filled only with light, pleasant dreams. Our table is the finest, with food—" He smacked himself on the forehead. "But I forget my manners! I am Tommallo, your host for the next ten days—and at an unusually low fee." Again, his forehead wrinkled, as though he were trying to figure out why he had agreed to such a relatively small charge. He glanced at Andrea and Aristobulus, in their gray robes. "It's as though—but no," he murmured. "I've a token to ward that away. But perhaps its potency has fled? No, no; pay attention, Tommallo, for you have guests, and yet to find out what their pleasure is, you old fool. Letting your mouth run free when—"
Ahira held up a hand. "I'm for the bath, first. I suppose everybody else is, too."
"Not me." Those were the first words out of Karl since they'd left the sewage pit. The stupid—but never mind. I've got to help Jimmy contain the damage. Not sure what kind of police force they have here, not really—but whatever kind they have is going to be looking for Karl. And they'll be bloody unlikely to overlook his accomplices.
"I managed," Karl went on, "to get myself cleaned up earlier. Right now, I could use some food. Anyone else?"
Well, that might have been true for Karl, but Walter hadn't been cleansed by fire—and had no desire whatsoever to try it out. He scratched at his arm; the itching from lack of bathing had subsided into a dull background of irritation, but now there wasn't anything he wanted more than a bath.
Except survival. And that means I'd better keep an eye on Mr. Cullinane. "I need some food, too." Walter patted at his stomach. "Been a long time since breakfast. Tommallo?"
"Yes?" The innkeeper beamed at him. "Snacks—I have a fresh, pungent beetlepaste—or would you prefer something more substantial?"
"Beef?"
"Ah . . . the cooks have a wonderful roast in the pit. Hindleg of a virgin heifer, marinated in wine and herbs for a week, then cooked in a vat with—"
"Enough." Aristobulus held up a hand. "Let us get to it, shall we?"
Andrea nodded, as did Doria.
Ahira shook his head. "The rest of you go along—I'll head up to our suite, and get myself a bath and a nap."
Tommallo snapped his fingers. A buxom blonde led the dwarf away. "And for the rest of you—would you care to dine in the common room,
or—"
Walter shook his head. "We need some privacy."
The innkeeper tilted his head, smiling knowingly. "Ah—and will you require an additional wench or—"
"We're fine the way we are."
Tommallo nodded, and conducted the five of them down a hallway, to a staircase, then up two flights to another hallway, and finally to a room at the corner of the building, two walls composed mainly of open windows and bead-curtained exits to the veranda outside. He bowed them in, waiting until everyone was seated on a bench at the massive oak table before clapping his hands together. "Wine for my guests!" he commanded the air.
As though they had been waiting behind the curtains, three women stepped out, bottles in hand, along with heavily laden trays. Bowls and small sharp knives were set in front of them, along with serving dishes of buttery corn, served on the cob with a tangy brown sauce, small fowl—squab, perhaps?—the skin broiled to a perfect golden crispness, a purple paste that was somehow sour and hot and sweet, all at the same time, and delightfully so.
Tommallo bowed. "Enjoy yourselves, my guests. If you have any desire at all, you need merely snap your fingers, or when in your room, pull a bellrope." He left, but the servitors kept bringing platters of food, setting them down, and leaving.
Walter sampled a knobby sheet of bread. The bulges turned out to be a cheesy orange filling. A strange combination of flavors, but a delightful one; he debated for a moment whether to reach for another helping or sample the steaming slices of beef and lamb or the silver tureen of leeks floating in a clear broth before deciding to take all three, and more of the bread.
There was no sound for minutes, except for the noises of chewing and frequent oohs and ahhs as all sampled the fare. Do we talk here or—stupid!
"Everybody," he said in English, "no Erendra—just keep the talk in English, understood?"
Aristobulus shook his head. "No," he said around a mouthful of fowl, "I don't understand—we've got nothing to hide."
"We do now." Walter jerked his thumb at Karl, who was silently chewing on an ear of corn, careless of the way the sauce was dripping on the tabletop. "Genius, here, decided to ruin the city's sewage system." He looked over at Andrea. "And besides, we don't want the staff here to overhear how we got the cut-rate price on the lodgings, do we?"
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