Reluctantly, Dumery climbed up, dismayed by the slimy feel of the planking, and lay down. He pulled the ragged blanket over himself, curled up, and tried to sleep.
Cramped and uncomfortable as he was, dismayed by the hard planking and the smell of cattle, it took time, time he would have spent counting stars had any been visible through the overcast. The outside world seemed all too real, now.
Eventually he dozed off.
His last waking thought was that that was the end of the day's adventures, but he was wrong. He had been asleep no more than half an hour when he began dreaming.
The dream began in an ordinary enough way; he was on Wizard Street, wandering from door to door, looking for someone—but he didn't know who.
At first none of the doors were open, and no one answered his knocking and calling, but then he saw that all the rest of the shop doors were open, and he had somehow failed to notice before. He ran up to one, and found himself facing Thetheran the Mage.
He didn't want to talk to Thetheran; he turned away and ran to the next door.
Thetheran was there, too.
Again Dumery turned away, and this time Thetheran was there behind him, looming over him. He looked taller and more gaunt than ever.
“Hello, Dumery,” the wizard said.
Dumery turned away, and found himself facing another Thetheran.
“Sorry to bother you, lad,” this one said, “but your parents are quite worried about you. You went off without a word of warning, and they were concerned for your safety. They hired me to contact you and make sure you're all right.”
Dumery turned, and turned, and turned, and Thetheran was always there in front of him.
“I'm fine!” Dumery said angrily. “Go away and leave me alone!”
“Don't worry,” Thetheran told him. “Your parents only paid me to talk to you, in your dreams, not to bring you home. They just want to know what's become of you. Your mother's very worried.”
“I'm fine!” Dumery repeated.
“Well, I'll let you tell her that, then.” Thetheran stepped aside, and Dumery saw that the door of the shop on Wizard Street led into the front hall of his home in Shiphaven. “Go on in, she's waiting,” Thetheran urged him.
Reluctantly, Dumery obeyed; he stepped into the corridor, and Faléa emerged from the parlor to greet him.
“Dumery!” she said. “Is it really you?”
“It's me," Dumery said a little doubtfully, “but is that you?"
“Of course it is!” Faléa replied. “Or at least ... I don't know. I don't understand all this magic. It doesn't matter. All that matters—Dumery, where are you?”
“I'm on a cattle barge,” Dumery said.
“A what?”
“A cattle barge,” he explained. “You know, a big flat-bottomed boat with a lot of cows and steers on it.”
“What are you doing there?" Faléa demanded.
“Well...” Dumery wasn't sure what he wanted to say. For one thing, he wasn't entirely certain whether he was talking to his mother, or Thetheran, or himself. He knew he was dreaming, but he didn't know any way to be sure that it was a magical dream sent by the wizard and not just his own imagination running amok.
And if it was really a magical sending, did that mean that he was talking to his mother, or to Thetheran? He had no idea how such things worked.
“I'm going to be an apprentice,” he said.
His mother blinked at him, startled.
“On a cattle barge?” she asked.
“Well, that's how I'm getting there. I met a man in Westgate Market, and arranged to meet him in Sardiron, and I didn't have time to tell you before I had to leave.”
The possibility that Thetheran had some mystical means of telling truth from falsehood in this dream occurred to him, a trifle belatedly. If the wizard did have such a spell...
Well, he wouldn't worry about that.
“What kind of an apprenticeship?” Faléa asked.
Dumery hesitated. “Well, dealing in exotic goods, mostly,” he said.
“You need to go to Sardiron for that? Couldn't your father have found you something here in Ethshar?”
“I wanted to do it on my own!” Dumery burst out.
“Oh,” his mother said. “Oh, well, I suppose...” Her voice trailed off, but then she gathered her wits and said, “You be careful! Are you safe? Is everything all right? You tell me about this man!”
Dumery sighed. “I'm fine, Mother,” he said. “Really, I am. I'm perfectly safe. I didn't have the fare for the fancy riverboat, so I'm working my way north on a cattle barge, and the crewmen are treating me well, and I have plenty to eat and a good place to sleep.” This was not, perhaps, the exact and literal truth, but it was close enough. “I'm going to meet this man in Sardiron and sign on as his apprentice, and I'll send you a letter telling you all about it as soon as I can.”
"What man?” Faléa demanded. “Who is he? What's his name? Where did you meet him?”
“He didn't tell me his name—he said he wanted to keep it a secret until I'd earned it.” Dumery had considered making up a name, but had caught himself at the last moment; if and when he really did sign up as the dragon-hunter's apprentice, he didn't want to have an awkward lie to explain. He continued, “I met him at the Dragon's Tail, and he offered me an apprenticeship if I could prove myself by meeting him on ... on the Blue Docks in Sardiron of the Waters in a sixnight.”
Dumery hoped that this impromptu lie would hold up—he had no idea if there were any “Blue Docks” in Sardiron, or whether his mother would know one way or the other. As far as he knew, she had never been to Sardiron—but he was a bit startled to realize that he didn't really know much of anything about her past, even though she was his own mother. Had she ever been to Sardiron?
Either she hadn't, or there really was such a place as the Blue Docks, because she was somewhat mollified by his tale.
“All right,” she said, “but you be careful, and take care of yourself!”
She turned, and was gone; her abrupt disappearance reminded Dumery that this was all a dream.
He looked about, wondering what would happen next, and as he did Thetheran stepped out of nowhere.
The mage told Dumery, “Well, lad, I've done what your parents paid me to do, so I'll let you get on with your regular night's sleep now. In case you aren't sure this dream is really a wizard's sending—well, I can't give you any proof, but I think you'll find you'll remember it more easily and more clearly than a natural dream. I hope that you'll send a letter if and when you can, and save your parents the expense of doing this again—I don't particularly enjoy staying up this late working complicated spells just to talk to an inconsiderate young man who runs off without any warning. Good night, Dumery of Shiphaven, and I hope your other dreams will be pleasant.”
Then the mage's image popped like a soap bubble and vanished, taking with it the corridor and everything else, and Dumery woke up, to find himself staring stupidly at the hind end of a steer, faintly visible in the diffuse light from the watch-lantern on the foredeck.
Chapter Fourteen
Faléa stared at the packed dirt of the street as she walked, shading her eyes from the morning sun. “I don't like it,” she said.
“Don't like what?” Doran asked. “Arena Street?”
“No,” Faléa replied, without rancor. “I don't like it that Dumery's on that barge—if that's really where he is.”
“That's where he said he was,” Doran pointed out. “Why would he lie?”
“That was where the dream said he was, anyway.”
Doran looked at his wife, puzzled. “Do you think the wizard was trying to trick you? That there was something wrong with the dream?”
“No,” Faléa said. “Or maybe. Or ... I don't know. I just don't like it.”
“Well,” Doran said, trying to sound determined and cheerful, as if everything was satisfactorily settled, “I can't say I do, either, but if that's what Dumery wants to do...”
/>
“But is it?” Faléa asked. “There's something wrong here. That man he says he met—who was that? Why would he arrange to meet Dumery in Sardiron, instead of accompanying him along the way?”
“I don't know,” Doran said. “I suppose to see if the boy can follow instructions and handle himself alone.”
“But it's dangerous,” Faléa said. “And making the boy do something like that before even starting an apprenticeship, isn't that awfully severe?”
“Well, yes,” Doran admitted. “I'd have to say it is.”
“And this place he's meeting him in Sardiron, what's it like? Is it safe? Maybe if we knew more about it...”
“Well, then, what did the boy say about it? You didn't mention that. I've been to Sardiron—remember, when you were pregnant with Derath, and I didn't want to be away too long, so instead of the regular run to Tintallion I went up the river to Sardiron, and it took just as long as Tintallion would have, and I didn't get back until two days before he was born?”
“I remember that,” Faléa agreed. “Was that Sardiron? I thought it was Shan.”
“No, it was Sardiron. Strange place. Cold. Very damp.”
“Oh. Do you know the Blue Docks, then?”
“Blue Docks?” Doran puzzled for a moment, then abruptly stopped walking.
Startled, Faléa stopped, as well.
“There aren't any ‘Blue Docks’ in Sardiron of the Waters,” Doran told her. “The riverfront's not ... everything's named for the person who owns it, usually Baron somebody-or-other. Are you sure Dumery said ‘Blue'?”
“Yes, I'm sure,” Faléa said. “Are you sure about the names? Or is there a Baron Blue, perhaps? Or a baron who uses blue as his colors?”
“I never heard of any. And you said Dumery was supposed to meet this man there in a sixnight?”
Faléa nodded.
“A sixnight isn't much time to get to Sardiron, either,” Doran pointed out. “It took me eleven days; you'd almost need magic to get there from here in a sixnight. Or did he mean a sixnight from where he is now?”
“I don't know,” Faléa said, worried.
“There's something wrong here,” Doran said.
“Do you think Dumery lied to us?”
“Maybe,” Doran said. “Or maybe Thetheran did.” He turned and said, “Come on, we're going back.”
Together they marched back to Wizard Street.
Thetheran listened to their worries in polite silence. When at last both of them had said all they wished, the mage said, “I assure you, to the best of my knowledge the spell worked perfectly, and if it did, then I did in fact speak to your son Dumery. If he did lie about where he is and what he's doing, I have no way of knowing—the spell does not force the truth. At least you know that he is alive and well, and that he is not in any immediate danger. Had he wanted help, he would have said so; one hardly need worry about being overheard in a dream!”
Doran grumbled an uneasy wordless agreement.
Faléa was not so easily swayed. “I want him back,” she said. "Something is wrong!”
Thetheran sighed. “Lady,” he said, “nothing was wrong with my spell. If you wish to pay an additional fee and stay here again tonight, I can perform the spell again, and you will be free to argue with your son all you like—or at any rate, up to half an hour or so; I doubt I can sustain the contact much longer than that.”
“I don't want to just talk to him,” Faléa snapped, “I want him brought back here!”
“And what does that have to do with me?” Thetheran asked.
“I want you to fetch him!”
Thetheran blinked at her. “Lady,” he said, “while I may be able to find a spell that would transport your son back here, consider carefully. It would be very costly, I make no pretenses about that. Furthermore, if your son does indeed have a legitimate appointment in Sardiron of the Waters a few nights from now, fetching him back here would almost certainly cost him the apprenticeship he has gone to so much trouble to arrange. I doubt he would thank you for that.”
“Then you can go and find him and see if his story is true, and bring him back if it's not!” Faléa shouted.
Thetheran stared at her in astonishment. “Lady,” he said, “I sincerely doubt that your husband has enough gold to pay me to do that. If he does have that much, I'm sure he has more sense than to waste it so. I am not interested in leaving the city. If you're determined to send someone after your son, find someone else.”
“You won't do it?”
“Not willingly.”
“Why not?”
Exasperated, Thetheran looked at Doran, who merely shrugged. The mage turned back to Faléa and explained, “I, lady, am a wizard. I make my living from wizardry, not by traveling hither and yon about the countryside. I have a shop here; if I were to go gallivanting off after your son I would need to close it down for a few days, which would undoubtedly hurt my regular business. Furthermore, there is no telling what sort of hazards I might encounter out there, and I would be hard pressed to know which spells I would need to prepare, which ingredients I would want to take with me. Wizards do not travel well; we are too dependent upon our books and supplies. Or at least, I am. I am not desperate for work; I make a comfortable living here in Ethshar, and see no reason to face hardship and danger elsewhere.”
Faléa glared at him for a long moment.
“Then you won't go after him, and you won't send a spell to fetch him back?”
“Lady, I will do either one if you pay me enough,” Thetheran said mildly. “I merely state that I think it would be a very, very bad investment to hire me, in this case. Why don't you go after your boy yourself, or hire someone else to do it? I'm not the only one who has magic for sale that can locate him.”
Faléa started to say something, but Doran cut her off.
“The wizard has a point,” he said. “If he's not interested, we'll find someone who is. Thetheran, is there anyone you'd recommend?”
Thetheran frowned, considering. “Not offhand,” he said. “There are wizards who specialize in information, and who could find out exactly what the boy is doing and where he is, but they can be very expensive, and they wouldn't be interested in fetching him back if you did decide on that. You might try another school of magic—they aren't all charlatans.”
Doran nodded. “Is there a theurgist around here?” he asked.
“Dozens of them,” Thetheran replied. “And you might also consider a witch—some of them have a knack for finding lost things, I understand. Or a warlock. I'd stay away from sorcerers, though—they make big claims, but half the time their spells don't work. And of course demonology is dangerous, but it might serve, if you want to risk it. I can't see much use for most of the lesser varieties of magic in a case like this...”
“We'll try a theurgist,” Doran said.
They tried a theurgist. In fact, they tried three theurgists.
Two of the three said they could find Dumery; one of them even did so, for a fairly modest fee, and reported that the boy was on a cattle barge on the Great River, a good many leagues northwest of the city.
None of the three, however, was willing to go after the boy, nor to fetch him home by magic.
They tried a warlock next.
She claimed she had no way of finding the boy except to go out looking for him. She was perfectly willing to do that, if they could give her rough directions and would pay her rather exorbitant fee.
Or at least, she said she was perfectly willing, right up until they told her about the barge.
“North?” she said. “How far north?”
Faléa and Doran looked at each other.
“We don't know,” Doran said. “The theurgist just said it was a long way to the northwest, he didn't say exactly how far.”
She looked uneasily about, then down at the ornate carpet that covered most of the floor of her shop.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “but I can't go far to the north. It's too ... well, it's risky, for a warlo
ck.”
“Why?” Faléa demanded. “I never heard of anything that made the north any more dangerous than any other direction!”
“You aren't a warlock,” the warlock told her. “I don't dare go too near to Aldagmor.”
“Why not?” Doran asked. “What's in Aldagmor?”
“I don't know,” she said, “but I won't go near it.”
Dumery's parents argued for another twenty minutes before they gave up and went elsewhere.
The next shop they tried bore a sign reading, “Sella the Witch, Diviner & Seer.”
Sella was a smiling, rosy-cheeked woman of fifty or so; Faléa found herself rather resenting the existence of so much bounce and cheerfulness in a woman older than she was. The moment the two of them stepped into the shop, Sella was there, bustling them to a pair of overstuffed chairs and fetching them over-sweetened herb tea. They were so caught up in this whirlwind of domesticity that neither of them had time to spare a thought for the thin, sad-looking girl standing in a shadowy corner of the room.
Once Faléa and Doran were seated, and before either of them could get out a word, the witch said, “You're worried about your son? Well, I'm afraid that I can't tell you very much; he's too far away. He's alive, though, and tired, but healthy.”
Doran's eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“No, sir, I'm not a fraud,” Sella told him. “Your son's name is ... Dumery, I think? And he ran off to find an apprenticeship, though I can't see the details. You want someone to find out the exact truth of his situation, and to bring him safely home if possible. I can't tell you the exact truth; no witch could, at this distance. Nor am I willing to leave the city myself and fetch him home. However, for the appropriate fee, I would be willing to send my apprentice, Teneria of Fishertown, after your boy.” She gestured toward the girl in the corner, who managed a weak smile.
Doran hesitated. This was all going too quickly; he had expected to have to explain the situation, negotiate details, wait while the witch worked her spells—and instead, they had been in the shop scarcely two minutes, and everything seemed to be all but settled.
He didn't like that. It might be witchcraft—or it might be fraud. Sella might have had informants, or a scrying spell, watching while Doran and Faléa talked to the other magicians.
The Blood of a Dragon Page 9
