The Blood of a Dragon

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  "Hai!" he shouted, jumping up and running down the slope. “Hey, wait!”

  His feet pounded on the planks, and one popped up beneath him and tripped him. He fell sprawling.

  When he lifted himself up again the Sunlit Meadows was well clear of the dock, the sweeps working steadily, propelling it upstream. Dumery could see no one aboard paying any attention to him, or to anything else the boat was leaving behind.

  In fact, he couldn't see much of anyone aboard save for the man at the tiller; the sweeps were working by themselves, by magic—or at least by some completely invisible force—and everyone else seemed to be belowdecks.

  Dumery wanted to cry. The man in brown, the dragon-hunter, the key to his future, was aboard that boat.

  And he, Dumery, wasn't.

  He looked around and saw a few miscellaneous people smirking at the pratfall he had just taken; he didn't cry, but instead climbed solemnly to his feet. He brushed dust from his sleeves and pretended to ignore his surroundings, including the slow, uneven drumming noise that was coming from somewhere.

  "Hai, boy,” someone called, “better look out behind you!”

  Startled, Dumery turned and looked back at the land.

  A small herd of cattle, perhaps a dozen head, was marching down the road toward the dock—straight toward him.

  Dumery blinked, and started backing out further onto the dock, but then stopped.

  That wasn't going to work if the cattle were really going to charge right out; he would just be crowded off the end of the dock into the river. Since he didn't know how to swim that was not a pleasing prospect—to say the least.

  Instead he turned aside and jumped from the edge of the dock onto the deck of a convenient, if small, boat.

  He misjudged his landing and sprawled once more. This time, when he lifted his head, he found himself looking at an old woman's grinning face.

  “Hello,” Dumery said.

  “Hello yourself, boy,” the old woman replied gleefully.

  “I, ah ... I wanted to get out of the way,” Dumery explained as he shifted around into a sitting position.

  “I gathered that,” the woman said, with a smile that exposed her two remaining teeth. “And you're free to stay until the dock's clear; I'm in no hurry.”

  A possibility occurred to Dumery. He asked, “Where are you going, then?” Perhaps he could beg a ride, if she were headed upstream, and maybe he could catch up with the Sunlit Meadows somewhere.

  “Downstream to Ethshar,” she said, dashing his hopes. “Got family there I haven't seen since the third moon last rose.”

  Dumery puzzled for a moment over that expression. He'd heard “when the third moon rises” used to mean “never,” but this was different. If there had ever actually been a third moon it had been gone for a thousand years or more, or so Dumery had heard, and this woman didn't look that old, so he assumed it was a figure of speech.

  It must just mean not for a long time, he eventually decided.

  “Oh,” he said, disappointment plain in his voice.

  “You were looking for a ride upstream?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Can't help you there. You missed the Sunlit Meadows, and by the look of you you couldn't have afforded it anyway. Only other boat I know bound for the north is that cattle barge they're loading, and I wouldn't expect them to carry passengers.”

  “Cattle barge?” That reminded him of what the crewman on the Sunlit Meadows had said when Dumery had offered to work for his passage. He stood up and peered across the dock.

  Sure enough, the cattle were being herded across a heavy gangplank onto a great flat-bottomed barge.

  “That's right,” the old woman said. “The lords up in Sardiron like to get their beef from the south. I've heard they think it's better-tasting and more tender than the local meat.”

  “Oh,” Dumery said, reaching a quick decision. “Excuse me, but I think I'll be going. Thank you very much for your help.”

  “You're welcome, boy,” she said, watching with amusement as Dumery clambered back up onto the dock.

  He had had a sudden inspiration when she had said the cattle were going north, and now he acted on it; he ran forward and slipped between two of the steers as they were herded across the gangplank onto the barge.

  The drovers were too busy keeping the cattle headed the right direction to worry about anything else, and the barge crew was crowded to the ends, out of the way of their frightened and rambunctious cargo. If the drovers noticed Dumery at all they didn't mention it, and the barge crew, he was sure, hadn't seen him.

  Of course, his chosen method of boarding was not particularly comfortable. The cattle jostled against him from all sides, and several times he narrowly avoided falling and being trampled. Even staying upright, three or four times a heavy hoof landed directly on his toes, making him gasp—but not cry out—with pain.

  He'd seen cattle now and then in the markets, and had passed a few on the way from Ethshar to the Inn at the Bridge, but up until now he had never come directly into contact with the beasts. They were, he discovered, quite large, completely solid, surprisingly warm to the touch, and not very pleasant company.

  He stood there, half-smothered by steerhide pressed against his face, for what seemed like half of eternity, getting bumped back and forth and scraped about. Several of the steers were lowing plaintively, their hooves were thumping loudly on the decking, and people were shouting incomprehensible orders, adding up to a real cacophony. The stink of unwashed, frightened cattle was thick and foul in his nostrils. He could see nothing but brown hide.

  Then the barge began moving, and though the shouting died away the cattle made more noise than ever, stamping about and bellowing. Dumery waited, concentrating on continuing to breathe.

  He was considering several interesting questions, such as whether it was time to reveal his presence to the crew, whether he wanted to reveal his presence at all, how he could attract their attention in the first place, and whether he was going to survive this little escapade, when he raised his head to take a breath and found himself looking up directly into a man's face.

  “Just what the hell are you doing there, boy?” the man demanded, in oddly-accented Ethsharitic.

  “Mmmph,” Dumery said.

  "Hai!" the man called; he slapped the steers surrounding Dumery, and they parted, as if by magic.

  Relieved, Dumery obeyed the man's order to march up to the little deck at the bow of the barge. The man followed close behind.

  Dumery found himself the center of attention for the five-man crew as he clambered up onto the narrow deck; all eyes were on him.

  “Who are you?" one man demanded.

  “Dumery of Shiphaven,” Dumery replied. There wasn't any point in lying.

  “And what are you doing here?" asked another.

  “I needed a ride north,” Dumery explained.

  The five just stared at him for a long moment, and he added, “I can work for my passage. I have no money, but I really want to go up north...”

  The five men exchanged glances with one another.

  “You'll work?” one of them asked.

  Dumery nodded. “Whatever's needed,” he said, “if I can do it, I will.”

  Another man grinned. “Kid,” he said, “I think you've got a deal.”

  “Hey, Kelder,” another called, “where's the shovel? We've got someone here who's really going to need it!”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Well, now,” Thetheran said, “it's not really my specialty, finding things...”

  “Dumery is not a thing," Faléa said. “He's our son.”

  “Oh, I know, I know,” Thetheran assured her. “I merely meant that locative magic is outside my usual practice.”

  “Your sign says you're a mage,” Doran pointed out, “and when I brought my boy here I was told you were one of the best wizards in the Quarter. Are you telling me you can't even find my son?”

  “Oh, no, no, nothing like
that,” Thetheran said hurriedly. “Merely that it's not a spell I commonly use, so that I may not have the ingredients readily available! I'll need to check. And I'm not sure just which spell would be best. Do you merely wish to know where he is, or do you want to know his state of health? Do you want a message conveyed? Would you...” He stopped, catching himself. He didn't want to promise anything he couldn't deliver. The truth was that he had no idea what spells he had that might apply in this case, or which spells he could buy from the neighbors without his customers finding out about it.

  “Well, we certainly want to know if he's still alive and well!” Doran snapped. “It isn't going to do us any good to locate a...” Suddenly realizing that completing the sentence with the word “corpse,” as he had intended to do, might upset his wife, he let it drop and instead said, “I mean, yes, we want to know the state of his health!”

  “And if there's some way we could talk to him...” Faléa added, ignoring her husband's blunder.

  “Ah,” Thetheran said, stroking his beard. “Well, if you actually want to talk to him, that will call for a little research. Tell me, do you have any idea at all where he is? Is he still inside the city walls?”

  “We don't know,” Doran said, annoyed. “All we know is he's gone.”

  “Well, then,” Thetheran said, “I suggest that the two of you go keep yourselves busy for an hour or two while I investigate the matter, and when you come back I hope to have a spell ready for you.”

  He hoped he would, but he admitted to himself that it wasn't very likely.

  The merchant and his wife hesitated, and whispered to each other for a moment, but then they rose from the velvet chairs and made a polite departure.

  The moment they were outside Thetheran slammed the door and ran for his laboratory. He snatched his personal book of spells from the shelf and began flipping through the pages, encountering one useless or inappropriate spell after another.

  “Eknerwal's Lesser Invisibility,” he muttered to himself, “Felshen's First Hypnotic, The Polychrome Smoke, the Dismal Itch. Damn. Love spells, curses, invisibility, levitations, nothing about finding anything. The Iridescent Amusement. Fendel's Aphrodisiac Philtre. The Lesser Spell of Invaded...”

  He stopped, and turned back.

  “The Lesser Spell of Invaded Dreams,” he read. “Requires fine grey dust, incense tainted with morning mist...” He nodded to himself as he read over the instructions and the lessons of his own long-ago apprenticeship came back to him.

  Then he got to the detailed description of the spell's effects and stopped, cursing.

  "That won't do,” he said. He stood staring at the page for a moment, then looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “There's something, though. This isn't quite what I remember.”

  Then it struck him. “The Lesser Spell,” he said, and he began hurriedly flipping pages again.

  He found what he wanted and stopped. “Ah!” he said, tapping the page with his finger. “Here we go!” He began reading avidly.

  An hour later he was waiting in his cozy front room when Faléa and Doran knocked on the door. Thetheran sent the sylph to let them in, while he stood and adjusted his robe to make the most imposing figure possible.

  “I believe, Doran of Shiphaven, Faléa the Slender,” the mage declaimed as the pair entered, “that I have just the spell you need.”

  Doran was suitably impressed. Having spent the intervening time buying and eating a more-than-adequate luncheon, Doran was in a much better mood than before. “Oh?” he said, politely.

  Faléa had spent the entire meal worrying about whether Dumery had found anything to eat in the past day or so, and was too upset to say anything.

  “Yes,” Thetheran said. “It's known as the Greater Spell of Invaded Dreams. It will permit me to speak to your son in his dreams, and to question him regarding his present circumstances. By performing the spell in a certain way, I believe that I can put one of you—not both, however—into the dream as well, so that you, too, will be able to speak to him. That is what you wanted, I believe?”

  Both of Dumery's parents nodded, Faléa with rather more enthusiasm than her spouse.

  “I cannot perform the spell with any chance of success until the boy is asleep, however,” Thetheran explained. “That means that I had best wait until well after dark tonight. I will also need to know the boy's true name, if it is not Dumery of Shiphaven...”

  “That's the only name he's got,” Doran interrupted. “Only one he ever had.”

  “Then it is his true name,” Thetheran said, unperturbed. “Now, which of you will speak to him?”

  Doran glanced at his wife, who immediately volunteered.

  “I will need your true name, as well, then,” Thetheran said, “and it would be easiest if you were to remain here, with me, throughout, though in fact it should be possible to conduct the entire affair successfully if you are at home and asleep in your own bed.”

  “I'll stay here,” Faléa unhesitatingly replied.

  Doran eyed her briefly, then looked over the mage, and decided that the risk of being cuckolded was minimal. “All right,” he said. “Is there anything else you need, wizard?”

  “Not for the spell itself,” Thetheran replied, “but there is the matter of my fee...”

  Chapter Thirteen

  There may, Dumery reflected, be worse ways of paying for one's passage than by shoveling manure, but offhand he couldn't think of any.

  Seeing the five crewmen lolling about doing nothing much most of the time didn't make the work any easier or more enjoyable, either. Oh, they fed the cattle four times a day, and directed the gaseous spirit that was pulling the barge along at an impressive speed, but that was about the extent of it. Dumery wondered why all five of them were along, since it seemed that three would have been plenty, even if he hadn't been there himself to help.

  It wasn't any of his business, though. He stuck to his shovel—sometimes literally, when the sweat from his hands mixed with the accumulated crud on the handle—and didn't ask questions.

  An hour or two after leaving what the crewmen called Azrad's Bridge came the first really enjoyable part of the journey, when the bargemen hauled out provisions and ate lunch. Dumery was included, and stuffed himself with cold smoked ham, creamy cheese, hard brown bread, and a thin, watery ale.

  It was simple food, but after the near starvation of the last day or two it was absolutely delicious and wonderfully filling.

  The break didn't last long, though.

  Dumery was pleased to see, when he looked up from his shovel and considered the sun's position an hour or so after that excellent repast, that the river had indeed turned north rather than continuing to the west. Sardiron of the Waters, everyone agreed, lay to the north, and the dragon-hunter was on board a boat bound for Sardiron of the Waters.

  Not that Dumery had seen any branches where the Sunlit Meadows could have turned aside, or that he thought the crew of the barge had lied to him about where they were going; it was just reassuring to know that the World around him was behaving in a consistent and rational manner, and that they hadn't all gone mad or wandered into some demonic netherworld. Being outside the familiar walls of Ethshar was not good for Dumery's peace of mind; he didn't entirely trust the exterior World to stay solid and consistent. The whole experience of gliding along a river had a feeling of unreality to it.

  The sun grew steadily less visible as the day wore on; clouds gathered and thickened, but no rain fell that afternoon.

  As soon as the barge had pulled over to the side and tied up to a tree for the first night, Dumery and the five crewmen ate a simple, hearty dinner, very similar to their lunch. It wasn't until after they had all finished eating and were settling in for the evening that Dumery got up the courage to ask how long the journey to Sardiron would take.

  “Oh, a sixnight or so,” the first mate, Kelder the Unpleasant, told him. “Depends on the weather and how well the sylph does. Those things are pretty unpredictable.”

/>   “Short of hiring a seer, anyway,” Naral Rander's son remarked.

  Dumery guessed that the sylph was the almost-invisible thing that pulled the barge—all he could see of it by day was an occasional flicker, like the distortion in the air over a hot stove, and now that night had fallen it appeared as a faint filminess, like a wisp of steam. Emboldened, he asked, “Where'd you get the sylph, anyway?”

  “Oh, it's not ours,” Kelder explained. “The baron who bought this load of cattle has a wizard working for him who sent it along. It's fast. We need to be quick so we can fit enough feed on board; wouldn't want the cattle to starve. The baron likes his meat fat and tender, I guess. Anyway, getting pulled by the sylph is a lot faster than poling upstream, or hiring some sort of tug, or rigging a treadmill and paddlewheel.”

  Naral snorted. “I'd like to see anyone pole a loaded cattle barge upstream!” he said.

  Kelder whacked the back of Naral's head, and the conversation degenerated into general insults.

  Not long after that the crew bedded down for the night, four of the five crawling into the tiny, cramped space under the foredeck—too small to be called a cabin, really—where four narrow berths took up virtually the entire space.

  The fifth, Kelder the Unpleasant, took the first watch, sitting quietly on the foredeck.

  Dumery was tossed a decaying brown blanket and told he could sleep on the afterdeck, a space about two feet fore and aft and thirty feet across.

  Dumery eyed his assigned bed nervously. There was no railing across the back, only a low coaming, and the prospect of rolling off the barge into the river was unappealing.

  His only other option was to bed down under the hooves of the cattle, however, and getting stepped on seemed rather more likely than rolling into the river, and almost equally undesirable. There were other unpleasant aspects to sleeping in the bottom of the barge, too, since Dumery hadn't done any shoveling since just before supper. The planks of the afterdeck were blackened by several years’ accumulation of grease and grime, but the bottom of the barge was far worse.