The Blood of a Dragon

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Faléa wasn't worried about authenticity; she had another concern.

  “An apprentice?” she asked. “A mere apprentice?”

  “Almost a journeyman,” Sella said, dismissing that worry with a wave of her hand. “She's ready for journeyman status; in fact, she's as good as some master witches. We're merely waiting for her eighteenth birthday, which is still three sixnights off.”

  “But if she's...” Doran began.

  “Yes,” Sella said wearily, “she's over fifteen, but she wasn't ready at fifteen. We witches make our journeymen at eighteen—or at least, I do. I want them to reflect well on me, not just to know a few tricks and fidgets, so I don't let them go until they know all I can teach. And sir, I see you suspect me of some sort of trickery, and I assure you there is none. I worked a spell this morning to see who would come to me, and what they would want—it saves a great deal of time and trouble. And a witch, a good one, can read a man's thoughts before they reach his lips.” She smiled wryly. “I'm afraid I'm too impatient to wait for your words to work their way from your tongue to my ears.”

  Doran considered that, brows lowered. Faléa turned to stare at Teneria.

  “He's a little above average in height, for his age,” Teneria said, in a low, soft voice, “but thin. His hair is black and his eyes brown, like most Ethsharites; when last you saw him his hair was still fairly short, having been cut for his apprenticeship trial with Thetheran, but had gotten a little ragged. He was wearing a green cotton tunic and an expensive pair of boots, boots meant for looks, rather than hard wear. He left Westgate Market through the gate around mid-morning of the day before yesterday, passing near the south gate-tower. I can follow him from there, I think.”

  “And the sooner she does, the better,” Sella said. “The trail isn't getting any fresher. I have a pack prepared, since I knew you were coming, and Teneria can leave as soon as you pay our fee.”

  Doran started to speak, but Sella cut him off. “One round of gold—yes, it's a lot, but we will refund all but our expenses should Teneria lose his trail or should Dumery be harmed while in her company, and will swear to that before the overlord's officers, if you insist, or register it as a geas with any competent magician. She will leave immediately, if you consent.”

  Faléa and Doran looked at each other. Doran saw the look in his wife's eyes and reached for his purse.

  Teneria bent down and picked up her pack from the corner. Without a word, she left the shop and headed for Westgate.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Teneria was understandably nervous as she walked out the city gate, her pack on her shoulder. This expedition was, she knew, the final trial of her apprenticeship. If she succeeded, if she found the boy and either brought him home safely or saw that he reached his destination and was safe there, then she would be a real witch, entitled to call herself Teneria the Witch if she chose, free to travel when and where she pleased, no longer at Sella's beck and call—not that Sella was a harsh mistress, or unpleasant to work for, but any sort of servitude chafed.

  If she failed she would need to prove herself all over again. She would still be a mere apprentice.

  And as if that weren't enough to worry about, this was very nearly the first time she had ever left the city alone. Oh, once before she had been sent to fetch herbs from outside the walls, alone, at night—but she had always stayed in sight of the gate, Southgate it was that time, and she had known that Sella was watching over her from afar.

  This time, Sella would not be watching—at least, not once she had gone a few leagues. Her range was limited.

  Teneria's own range was even more limited, of course; she could barely make out a person's aura just a few blocks away, let alone all the way across the city. The Wizards’ Quarter—which really ought to be called the Magicians’ Quarter, she thought for the thousandth time, and probably would have been if not for the political power of the Wizards’ Guild—was in the southeastern part of Ethshar of the Spices, a long way from Westgate.

  Her native Fishertown was on the waterfront to the north, just to the east of the Grand Canal, and as a child she had roamed through Hempfield and Allston and Newmarket, but she had never been in Westgate before. Even so, she was too concerned with the task before her to pay much attention as she passed through the district and out the gate.

  She did spare a glance around at the farmers’ wagons along the roadside, and the fields beyond, before she turned her attention inward, looking for the psychic trace her quarry must surely have left.

  It wasn't easy. There were so many traces here! A young woman, a farm girl about Teneria's own age, had passed by here recently in a turmoil about an unwanted and unexpected pregnancy. An older farmer had been worried about his debts, hoping he could hold out until the harvest—and that the harvest wouldn't fail this year, as it had last. Thoughts of money, loneliness, worry, love, greed, excitement, anticipation, despair—this was such a busy stretch of highway!

  She couldn't find Dumery's.

  She wasn't really very surprised; after all, it had been more than two days since he had passed this way, and she had never even met the boy. She doubted even Sella could have tracked Dumery from his traces alone.

  Fortunately, that wasn't necessary. Sella had read everything she needed from the minds of Dumery's parents or from Thetheran, or had heard it, and had passed it on to Teneria. All of them had been thinking about nothing else, which made it easy enough to see the needed information.

  Teneria smiled to herself. Witchcraft had its advantages. It didn't have the raw power that any of the other major magicks had, only the strength of the witch's own body, but she had never heard of any wizard or warlock who could do to people's minds what witches could. And it was so easy, really, once one knew how.

  She still remembered how, when she was thirteen and still just beginning her apprenticeship, she had first used the witch's trick of convincing someone to do what she wanted without him even knowing that magic was in use. She had gotten credit from a notoriously-stingy candy butcher on Games Street.

  She had also overdone it, not realizing how easy it was. She had exhausted herself, pushing at his mind, and had almost collapsed right there on the street. When she had finally made it back to Sella's shop she had fallen into bed and slept for a day and a half—and only found out later that the candy-seller had been so affected that he was giving credit and free samples to every kid in sight for the next sixnight.

  And when it wore off, it gradually sank in that he had been the victim of a witch's spell, and Sella had had to use her own persuasive magic on him to prevent retaliation.

  Teneria had watched, and had seen how subtly it was done.

  She had also, even at that age, seen the hurt and confusion in the candy-seller's mind, and had felt horribly guilty for the next four months. She saved up what she could, and finally paid the man back for his losses—but that still didn't entirely remove the pain.

  When people wondered why some witches were so adamant in their refusal to work harmful magic, no matter how much they were paid, Teneria always remembered the empty candy-basket and the baffled expression of the man holding it, the puzzled discomfort of his aura. It wasn't worth it. Better to just persuade people to go elsewhere for their curses and assassinations—or better still, to persuade them to give them up entirely.

  Some witches weren't so sensitive; some had even gotten involved in some of the petty wars that were a permanent feature of the Small Kingdoms. There were even stories about witches helping the Great Warlock establish the Empire of Vond, a few years back.

  Teneria didn't understand how they could do that.

  Finding a runaway, though—that should be no problem. And once found, it would be easy enough to learn his true situation; no one could lie successfully to a witch.

  It was unfortunate, though, that he had a two-day head-start. She picked up her pace a little.

  She could levitate, she thought, but there wasn't any point in it. She would just we
ar herself out. Levitating would be like carrying her ninety-four pounds over her head; walking was far easier, and almost as fast.

  And she didn't need to worry about following his trail, not yet; Sella had seen in Faléa's mind that Sander the Theurgist had located Dumery of Shiphaven somewhere on the Great River, and a check of Sander's mind had confirmed as much, so Teneria knew she had to get to the Great River. There was only one road from Ethshar to the river.

  She could have gone by sea, of course, and would have preferred to, but Faléa and Doran expected her to follow their son's path exactly, so that was what she was attempting to do.

  It was well after dark, and she was nearing exhaustion, when she knocked on the door of the Inn at the Bridge.

  The man who opened the door, Teneria knew immediately, was the innkeeper, Valder himself—she could sense in him the presence of someone far, far older than he looked, and she knew that Valder the Innkeeper, also known as Valder of the Magic Sword, had been enchanted long ago.

  He helped her to a table, and had food and drink fetched.

  She didn't need to say a word, nor to even begin to frame a spell; Valder was well-versed in handling weary travelers.

  He did pause, though, just before putting her dinner on the table.

  “You do have money, don't you?” he asked.

  She nodded; he smiled, and placed the platter before her.

  She slept that night in a warm feather bed, too tired to worry about where Dumery might be, or for that matter much of anything else.

  At breakfast, however, she pursued her mission, and asked Valder if he remembered seeing a boy of Dumery's description.

  He cocked his head and gazed at her warily, and she began to prepare a small coercion spell.

  “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “His parents hired me to find him,” she said.

  Valder looked at her for another moment, then shrugged.

  “He was here,” he said. “The night before last. He looked pretty bad, dirty and frazzled. He didn't have any money, but I let him sleep in the stable and gave him a bowl of scraps. He looked harmless enough.”

  “So he stayed here all night? In the stable?”

  “As far as I know, he did,” Valder said. “I didn't see him in the morning. And I'm not sure how much he ate; there were spriggan tracks all over the bowl I'd left him.”

  “Spriggan tracks?”

  “That's right.”

  “Excuse me, but what's a spriggan?”

  Valder looked startled. “You haven't met them yet? Well, maybe you haven't. We've had them here for months now; they hide in people's baggage, and on wagons.”

  “But what are they?” Teneria asked.

  “Little creatures about so high,” Valder said, holding his hands out to demonstrate. “They look like frogs trying to be human, sort of, with big pointed ears, and they talk, after a fashion. And they get into everything and make real nuisances of themselves. They come from somewhere in the mountains in the Small Kingdoms, I'm told, and the rumor is that they came about from some wizard's spell gone wrong, four or five years ago. No one knows how many there are, or how long they live, or how they breed—if they breed. They like to play games, though, and they're always hungry—when one turns up I need to warn the guests and keep a careful eye out, or it'll be stealing food right off customer's plates.”

  Teneria was fascinated. “I never heard of anything like that,” she said. “How do you get rid of them?”

  Valder frowned. “Well, you can kill them, of course—they aren't that magical. Run one through with a steel blade and it'll die, just like anything else. I hate to do that, though—the creatures don't really mean any harm. When I can, I just catch them and throw them outside and tell them not to come back, and usually they don't. Most of the time they'll wander off down the road somewhere. Sometimes if there's a whole gang of them—we had six at a time, once—they'll work up their courage and try to slip back in, and I'll have to get more drastic.”

  “More drastic?” Teneria asked. “How? Magic?”

  “No, they're not worth wasting magic on.”

  “What, then?”

  Valder looked around as if slightly embarrassed, then leaned forward and whispered, “I get them drunk.”

  Teneria smiled. “You do?”

  “I do. It was my wife's idea. I put out a bowl of brandy or oushka with cherry syrup in it—they love cherry syrup—and wait. Sooner or later they'll drink it, and when they do they pass out drunk on the floor—can't hold their liquor at all, not even as well as a Tintallionese. And they wake up with hangovers. All I need to do is pick them up while they're unconscious and dump them out by the highway, and when they wake up they're too sick to want to come back.”

  “Always? None of them develop a taste for the stuff?”

  “Well,” Valder said, “none have so far, anyway.”

  “Are there any around now?” Teneria asked, looking about at the inn's main room. “I'd like to see one.”

  “I haven't seen any lately, but as I said, there were spriggan tracks in the boy's bowl.”

  Teneria nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “You've been very helpful.”

  She settled her bill, picked up her pack, and left the inn.

  Outside she paused and looked about. From this point on, Dumery had had a choice of ways. He could have crossed the bridge to the east bank, or headed up the highway on the west bank, or gone down to the dock and boarded a boat right there.

  If he was on a cattle barge by his second night away from home, boarding right there seemed most likely. It also felt right. She wasn't sure if it was witchcraft causing her hunch, or common sense, or nothing at all, but she decided to trust it. She headed for the dock.

  As she walked, she thought about spriggans. She hadn't heard of them before, at least not by that name.

  One of them had gotten at Dumery's food; did that mean anything?

  Maybe it did—and if that spriggan was still around maybe she could learn something from it.

  That was an idea. She stepped off the path onto the green, lush grass of early spring, and settled down, cross-legged, her skirt spread around her. She rested her hands on her knees and filled her mind with thoughts of warmth and affection, good food and soft fur and friendly smiles; she held those thoughts while she watched the sunlight dancing on the river, projecting them in all directions at once.

  A fieldmouse wandered up, walked onto her skirt, curled up, and fell asleep. A rat eyed her warily, but didn't approach—which was just as well, as she didn't like rats.

  Some of the people down on the dock were starting to glance in her direction; she realized she was radiating a little too much warmth.

  Then the grass rustled behind her, and she turned to see a peculiar little figure, seven or eight inches tall, standing there. It was green and had spindly little legs and an immense belly, which did give it a froglike appearance, but its feet and hands were not webbed, and its oversized head was fairly human in appearance, if one ignored the big pointed ears and complete lack of hair.

  “Hello,” she said quietly, trying not to startle it.

  “Hello, hello!” it said back, in a squeaky, rather irritating voice that was not quiet at all. “You like spriggans?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said.

  “We have fun?”

  “If you like.”

  “We have fun!" it emphatically replied.

  “All right,” Teneria agreed, “we'll have fun. But I'm looking for a friend of mine, first. We could have more fun if we found him. Maybe you can help.”

  “Friend?” The spriggan looked puzzled.

  “Yes, a friend. His name is Dumery of Shiphaven. He slept in the stable up at the inn there the night before last—a half-grown boy with black hair and brown eyes. Did you see him?”

  “Saw him, saw him,” the spriggan said, bouncing up and down as it spoke. “No fun. No fun at all. Went on boat, went away.”

  “On a boat?”


  “Cow boat, went that way.” The spriggan pointed at the river, then waved a hand in a vaguely upstream direction.

  “I see,” Teneria said. “Then I'm afraid I'll have to go after him.”

  The spriggan looked suddenly crestfallen, and Teneria had to smother a laugh even as she wanted to cry at the thing's misery. “You go, too?” it asked.

  “Yes,” Teneria said. “But we can have fun when I get back.” She smiled.

  The spriggan didn't care. “You go?” it asked, its voice cracking. “Got to? Can't stay?”

  Teneria couldn't stand it; the thing was so woebegone that her witchcraft-heightened senses could not face it. Besides, she realized that she had a use for the little creature, a very important use. It had seen Dumery, probably talked to him. Stupid as it appeared to be, it might provide a psychic link that she could use.

  “Listen,” she said, “I could take you with me.”

  “Go with you?” The spriggan's woe vanished. “Oooooh, fun!” it burbled. “Go, go! Yes, yes, go!” The change was overwhelming; black despair had transformed instantly into golden delight. Teneria burst out giggling.

  “Yes, go,” she said. “Come on; we'll hire a boat.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  By his third day on the barge Dumery no longer noticed the smell as he worked, nor the stickiness. His feet still hurt, and his back ached, but he was able to do his work without giving it much of his attention, which left him free to admire the scenery—what he could see of it. Most of the time the grassy banks were too high for him to see much of anything from his place down in the bottom of the barge.

  Sometimes, though, the river spread out a little, or the land flattened, and he could see farms and fields, pleasant little villages, and, on the western bank, traffic along the highway that paralleled the river. People on foot, ox-carts, even full-sized caravans passed along that road, bound upstream and down.

  Since the barge stayed mostly toward the eastern shore, though, Dumery could make out none of the details of these fascinating figures; the wagons were squares of bright color, the people like walking twigs.