by Dave Duncan
Kollwin shook his head. “I don’t think Dilthin Builder would be very happy to have you hammering on his door at this hour. Your mother will tell Inka in the morning and give her your love.”
“And tell her I’ll write?”
“And tell her that you’ll write. Now you must hurry. The entire watch must be searching for Eleal Singer by now. The priests will have half the city roused. Keep your eyes open. Hurry, but don’t be rash. And especially look out for pickets around the trader’s camp—they must know she escaped on a dragon.”
Gim’s fair face seemed to turn even paler. “What’ll I do then?”
“You’re the hero, son. I think you leave the girl by the wall and go on alone to investigate—but you’ll have to make your own judgment.”
Gim nodded unhappily. “The guards may just arrest Dragontrader and seize his stock!”
“No. That’d need a hearing before the magistrates—but I suppose they may even drag them out of bed for something this big. Off with you, my boy, and trust in the god.”
The ensuing farewells became openly tearful. Eleal turned her back and tried not to listen. She could not help but think that no one had ever said good-bye to her like that.
She had no baggage except a few odd clothes Embiliina had insisted on giving her, and they were easily tucked into the top of Gim’s pack. He was already burdened with the lyre, but he made indignant noises when Eleal offered to carry either. He strode off along the dark, windy street, long legs going like swallows’ wings. Suddenly he slowed down and peered at her.
“Why’re you limping?”
“I’m not. It’s just your imagination.”
“Good!” Gim said, and speeded up again. He seemed to have forgotten that she was the heroine and he only her guardian, but she would never ask him to go more slowly, not ever! Soon she was panting in the heavy fleece coat that had been added to all her other ridiculous garments. She grew hot, except where the night wind reached. Perhaps men would be better behaved if they dressed more comfortably.
At the first corner Gim stopped and peered around cautiously. Then he strode off again into the wind.
“Who’s Inka?” she asked.
“My girlfriend, of course.”
“Pretty?”
“Gorgeous!”
“You love her?”
“Course!”
“Does she love you?”
“Very much! You scared?”
“Yes. You?”
“Horribly.”
He was supposed to be a strong, comforting supporter! He had not studied his role very well. “You weren’t scared on the dragon, were you?”
Gim turned into a narrow alley. “Yes I was—and Holy Tion had shown me that bit! He didn’t show me this at all. Along here. Besides, all I had to do was shout Choopoo! and close my eyes and hang on. I’m a painter, not a hero!”
Of course he was brave! Of course he must be a hero if the god had chosen him. She decided Gim Sculptor’s modesty was more admirable than Klip Trumpeter’s pretenses.
“And I’m an actor, not a Historic Personage.”
He chuckled. “I wouldn’t believe you were either if the gods didn’t keep saying so. What you need instead of me, Eleal Singer, is someone like Darthon Warrior.”
“You came?” she exclaimed.
“Dad took me. Just the Varilian. Couldn’t follow half of it. Wish you’d done a masque.”
“So do I. I get to sing three songs in the masque.”
He did not ask for details, so she prompted, “Was I a convincing herald?”
“You were all right,” Gim conceded, “if heralds were ever girls.”
Eleal did not say another word to him for quite some time.
He led her along narrow lanes, down smelly alleys, across cramped, sinister courtyards. Soon she was hopelessly lost, but he insisted this was a shortcut. She kept thinking of Kollwin Sculptor’s warnings about the guard, but the streets seemed to hold no people, only windy darkness. Bats flittered overhead and a couple of times she noted small eyes glinting in garbage-strewn corners.
Ysh shone bright blue in the east and that should be a good omen if the Maiden was supporting Tion’s rescue efforts. But Eltiana dominated the sky, glaring red, and that was bad. There was no sign of Trumb, who must be due to eclipse one night soon. That was always a bad omen, and it would be especially scary now.
When the green moon turns to black,
Then the reaper fills his sack.
“What’s a lovers’ gate?” Eleal asked.
“A way over a city wall. You’ll understand when you’re older.” Gim stopped at a dark archway.
“I understand now.”
He hissed. “Sh! Watch your step in here.”
“Here” was a black tunnel. He felt his way, leading her by the hand.
They emerged into a well enclosed by sheer walls stretching up to a tiny patch of sky where two bright stars were visible. There was no visible exit except the tunnel arch and one stout wooden door that looked very determinedly shut. The smell was nauseating.
“Made a mistake?” Eleal inquired in a whisper.
“Not if you can climb like my sisters. Hold this a moment. And be careful with it.” He handed her his lyre case while he removed his pack. Then he showed her the handholds and footholds in the walls, leading up to a patch of not-quite-so-dark darkness. She had missed it because it was higher than even his head and a long way above hers.
“I’ll pass the pack up,” he said, taking his lyre back for safer keeping.
“What’s on the other side?”
“Kitchen yard. Private house. Don’t expect they’re hanging out washing at this time of night.”
“Can you fit through there?”
“Could last fortnight. Up with you.”
Leggings did have some advantages over long skirts when it came to climbing. Eleal scrambled up, feeling the stones icy cold in her hands, but it was an easy climb, as he had said. The opening had once been a barred window, although which side had been “inside” and which “outside” she could not tell. Now it was a gap between two yards, only one bar remained, and there was room for a child or a slim adult to squeeze through—the sort of illegal shortcut every child in the city would know about and love to use. She wriggled her head and shoulders through and then stopped.
The yard was small, not large enough to hang very much washing, just house on one side and sheds on the other. No lights showed, but moonlight revealed that the way was definitely not clear. She looked back down at Gim, his face a barely visible blur.
“There’s a small problem,” she whispered.
Gim said, “What?” impatiently.
“A dragon.”
“What?” He sounded as if he did not trust her to know a dragon from a woodpile. She was blocking the preferred route, but he stepped on his pack, leaped up with long arms and legs and a scrabbling of boots on stone, catching a grip on the bar and hauling himself up beside her, dangling by one hand and one elbow.
“I’m so sorry,” Eleal said in his ear. “I see it’s only a watchcat after all.”
It was Starlight. He was crouched directly below her, and he knew she was there, for he was snuffling inquiringly. With his neck almost straight up, the soft glow of his eyes seemed close enough to touch. Any minute now he might decide to recognize her and issue an earsplitting belch of welcome. He would probably dislike having people drop packs and lyres and themselves on him.
Gim grunted. “Better take the long way round.” He let go and dropped. He had forgotten his pack. The sounds of body parts thumping stone seemed to go on rather a long time.
Eleal clambered down cautiously. By then he had stopped using bad words and was sitting up, trying to rub his head and an elbow at the same time.
“You didn’t dirty your coat, I ho
pe?” she inquired solicitously.
“Shuddup!”
“Whose house is that?”
Gim clambered painfully to his feet, rubbing his hip. “Gaspak Ironmonger’s.”
“Do you suppose he has a private shrine, too? Do you think T’lin Dragontrader belongs to another mystery?”
“Probably. Most men do.”
Interesting! She’d suspected that. “Not Tion’s, though? Then whose?”
“Why do girls talk so much? Keep quiet.” Gim hoisted his pack again, but he made no objection when Eleal slung the lyre strap over her shoulder.
They crept back to the tunnel. This time the way was easier, for Ysh’s eerie beams shone in from the street entrance.
Now Eleal had a whole new problem to consider. T’lin had said he would give thanks to the gods in his own way. That suggested that he had gone to seek out the Narshian lodge of whatever god bore his particular allegiance.
Would he be giving thanks or seeking instructions? And what god would he favor? Obviously not Tion, or he would have prayed at Sculptor’s shrine, nor Eltiana, or he would not have aided in Eleal’s rescue. She could not imagine T’lin dedicating himself to the Maiden. Astina was the patron goddess of warriors, true, and athletes, oddly enough, but her attributes included justice and duty and purity. None of those sounded like T’lin Dragontrader’s preference. Visek was the All-knowing, of course, but he was rather an aloof god, and not easily swayed, god of destiny and the eternal sun. T’lin ought to be more concerned with commerce and domesticated animals, and the gods for those were avatars of Karzon, the Man.
Who was also Zath, who had told his reaper not to let her reach Sussland alive.
Who was also Ken’th.
Daddy.
Gim grabbed Eleal’s arm and pulled her back into a doorway.
She waited, but he did not explain what he had seen, or thought he had seen. Of course the guard would not necessarily parade around on dragonback with bands playing. It might be skulking in alleyways just as she and Gim were.
Gim did not move for some time. Shivering at his side, Eleal realized that T’lin might have more mundane concerns than gods. She had told him about the Thargians, and she had specifically mentioned the Narshian she had recognized in their company—Gaspak Ironmonger. The dragon trader had laughed then, and made a joke about farmers buying leopards to guard chickens.
Perhaps T’lin Dragontrader was a Thargian spy himself.
The lyre was becoming unpleasantly heavy on her shoulders when Gim reached his objective.
“We scramble up this trunk,” he said, “along that branch, and across the roof to the wall. Think you can manage that?”
“No. You’ll have to carry me.”
“Stay here then.” He reached for the first branch. “There’s quite a drop on the other side, so don’t break any ankles.”
A couple of minutes later, they were outside the city. Neither of them had broken an ankle, although Eleal’s hip was hurting now, missing her special boot. Gim yanked her back into shadow while he scanned the moonlit meadow. Light shone on a bend of Narshwater in the distance, and the mammoth steps stood like a monument to a forgotten battle. The pen was invisible. Although this was spring, the grass seemed covered with a shimmer of silver frost. Perhaps it was only dew. T’lin’s camp was an isolated patch of darkness, from which the wind brought faint belching noises.
“See anyone?” Gim asked nervously.
“No.”
“This is ridiculous! There’s gotta be soldiers out there waiting for us! Dad said so. T’lin did too, more or less.”
Eleal yawned. She knew she ought to be excited and keyed-up, and she very definitely did not want to be captured and dragged back to Mother Ylla, but…she yawned again. The night had gone on too long.
She understood what was worrying Gim, though. There were few dragons in Narsh and those mostly belonging to the watch. Ranchers owned dragons, but the guard would very soon have accounted for all the dragons in the city itself and learned that none of them had been involved in her escape. The next move would have been to investigate the trader’s camp outside the wall. It was absolutely certain that there would be soldiers there still.
Furthermore, the camp was visible from the city gate, which was closed and guarded until dawn. Two people walking away from the wall would be as visible as a bear in a bed.
“Why’re they making all that noise?” Gim muttered.
“Dragons always make that noise. If there were strangers around, they’d be making a lot more.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Eleal said with a confidence she did not feel at all. She yawned again.
“Come on, then!” Gim said. “It’s trust the god or freeze to death!” He marched off across the meadow, leaning into the wind. Eleal followed by the light of the moons.
As they reached the huddle of sleeping dragons, a tall shape stepped forward to meet them.
“Name?” The voice was low, and not T’lin’s.
“Gim, er, Wrangler and, ah—my cousin, Kollburt Painter.”
“Goober Dragonherder. Follow me, Wrangler.” He led them to a tent, dark and heavily scented by the leather it was made of. It thumped rhythmically in the wind, but the inside seemed almost warm after the meadow. “Sit,” said the man.
There was a pause while he laced up the flap, and another while he flashed sparks from a flint. Eventually a very small lantern glowed dimly, showing a few packs and a rumpled bedroll, no furniture, three people kneeling on the blankets, and beyond them the dark walls and roof swallowed the light, so that there was nothing more in the world.
Goober was a thin-faced man with a dark beard, solemn as if he never smiled. Gold glinted faintly in the lobe of his left ear. He was garbed in the inevitable Ilama skin garments, plus a black turban. He pointed to it. “Can you tie one of these?”
“No,” said the fugitives together.
He produced two strips of black cloth and wrapped their heads up. Then he made them practice. To Eleal’s fury, Gim caught the knack much faster than she did. She was too sleepy.
“You’ll do, Wrangler,” Dragonherder said. “You keep trying, Small’un. You look like a boiled pudding. Don’t uncover the lantern until you’ve laced up the door again. Wrangler, you come with me.”
“To do what?”
“To learn how to saddle a dragon and stop asking questions. I’m told you know the commands.”
By the look on Gim’s face, he had already forgotten them, but he did not say so. The two departed. Left on her own, Eleal struggled with the infernal turban until it felt as if she had it right. Then she had nothing else left to do except wait.
She inspected the mysterious packs—not opening them, in case she was interrupted, but feeling them carefully. She decided they contained little else but spare clothes.
Sudden weariness fell on her like…like an avalanche. Why did she keep thinking about avalanches? She leaned back against a pack. There had been no guards around the dragons, so the god was still helping her, right? Right.
Goober Dragonherder had known she was coming, so T’lin had returned here from Kollwin Sculptor’s and then gone back into the city again to visit Gaspak Ironmonger. Right?
That must be right, too, but it seemed very odd. What had that meeting been about, and what had T’lin learned that evening that had made it necessary?
34
EDWARD JUMPED DOWN TO OPEN THE FIRST GATE. HE DEliberately closed it from the wrong side so he could vault over it, dressing gown and all. He felt a whirling sense of wonder as he swung back up to the bench, agile as a child. Being a cripple had been a pretty stinky experience. The dogcart set off across the meadow.
“Is his name really Oldcastle, sir?”
Creighton shot him a frown, as if warning that they were not out of earshot yet.
&nbs
p; “No it isn’t. There is no Mr. Oldcastle. Oldcastle is a sort of committee, or a nom de plume. Our friend back there is…He’s just that, a friend. He’s been there a long, long time. I don’t know his name. Probably nobody does anymore.”
The dogcart rattled down the slope toward the next gate. In daylight the land was bright with goldenrod and purple thistles.
“Robin Goodfellow?”
“That was the name of the firm. He would have been the local representative.”
No wonder his face had seemed Puckish. “Why blood? I thought a bowl of milk and a cake was his offering?”
Creighton’s tone had not encouraged further questions, but he must appreciate a chap’s normal curiosity when he had just received a miracle.
He cleared his throat with a Hrrnph! noise. “Depends what you’re asking him to do, of course—or not to do, in his case. The value of a sacrifice is in what it costs. Blood’s pretty high on the list.” He stared ahead in silence for a while, then said, “He would have lost on the exchange, though. You heard him say he husbands his resources. The mana he used to cure your leg he has probably been hoarding for centuries, and he can’t replace it now—I don’t suppose he gets any worshipers at all these days. We wouldn’t have given him much, even with the blood. He’s one of the Old Ones, but he does not belong to any of the parties involved in this. My associates here were desperately shorthanded and asked him to help, as he lives in the neighborhood. He agreed, much to everyone’s surprise. For that you should be very, very grateful.”
Edward licked the cut on the back of his wrist. “I am, of course. Anything else I can do, sir?”
“Yes. As soon as you’ve opened this gate, you go behind the hedge and get dressed. You look like a bloody whirling dervish in that rig-out.”
As he stripped, Edward discovered that his assorted scrapes and bruises had not been cured, only his leg. The flannel bags and blazer he wanted were badly crumpled, but he found a presentable shirt. His cuff links seemed to have disappeared altogether, his collars were all limp. He detested tying a tie without a looking glass, so he left that to be attended to on the road. In record time, he tossed his case into the dogcart and scrambled up beside Colonel Creighton, once more a presentable young gentleman.
