A Natural History of Dragons (20 page)

(The penny dreadfuls that purport to relate my adventures would have had me braiding grasses together into a sturdy rope, or leaping ten feet in the air to grab the lip and haul myself out by the strength of one hand. My life would have been far easier if such things were truly possible.)

Outside once more, I permitted myself three heaving breaths of relief. Then I got up, found a stick that would support my weight, and hobbled off to find Lord Hilford, planning my lies as I went.

PART THREE

In which scientific progress is made, despite the obstacle of a demon from the ancient past

THIRTEEN

An unexpected greeting upon our return — The continued problem of Jindrik Gritelkin — A possible source of aid

The twisting of my ankle cut our trip to the ruins short, although I maintained that it would be perfectly easy for me to rest somewhere with my foot elevated, sketching, while Lord Hilford concluded his tour. He insisted he was quite finished, however, and that we should depart for the hunters’ hut forthwith. I only just barely dissuaded him from making poor Astimir hike through the night back to Drustanev, so as to return with a rescue party at first light. “I’ve had quite enough of dawn rescue parties,” I said tartly. “Let us at least see how my foot feels come morning, before you call in the cavalry.”

We made the mistake of taking my boot off once we got to the hut; my ankle was swollen, and without the boot to restrain it, the swelling increased. But I bathed it in a stream—grateful, this once, for the frigid quality of mountain water—and got Astimir to select a fat log from the woodpile that I could use to elevate my foot for the night, so that in the morning it was close enough to its ordinary size that I could cram the boot back on. With that laced up as tight as it would go, I told Lord Hilford I would be fine, and off we went.

Before long I was regretting that choice but refusing to admit so to my companions. It’s nasty business, walking on a twisted ankle—even one only mildly wrenched. You step carefully so as not to provoke the injury, but walking in that fashion is inconvenient enough that your body keeps trying to return to more natural patterns, which of course causes discomfort. And such awkward movements eventually cause their own discomfort, as your knees and hips and back begin to complain. Alas for my well-being, I was young, and therefore
far
too stupidly stubborn to admit to any of this; and so we trekked on.

By the time we reached Drustanev, I wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed, with Jacob to bring me a soothing drink. But I knew luck was not with me the moment I saw the people gathered in the center of the village.

I had names for only a few; we had, in the regrettable manner of Scirling travelers the world over, held ourselves almost entirely aloof from the locals. Dagmira was there, however, and with her, a distraught man I recognized as Menkem Goen, the village priest.

Even had I not seen him during the festival, his clothing would have identified him; he wore full religious garb—shawl, sash, embroidered headdress, and all—and even stood barefoot on the rocky ground, as if he were in the tabernacle. Furthermore, no sooner had we spied him than he raised both hands in the air and began, in a loud voice, to recite Scripture in our general direction.

Loudly—but not enough to be heard over the racket that immediately followed, as all the gathered villagers ran toward us waving graggers. Lord Hilford and I stopped dead, gaping, as their noise filled the air.

“What on earth?” I said, but I don’t think Lord Hilford heard me.

I had only ever encountered the wooden rattles during the tale of the Casting of Lots, when they are used to drown out the name of wicked Khumban. That day I discovered they have another use in the superstitions of rural Vystrana: driving out evil spirits.

It took some time to discover this, however. Dagmira glared furiously at me while Menkem continued to recite, and everyone else surrounded us such that we could not progress even a single step farther. We were not to be permitted in Drustanev, it seemed, until the prayers were done. I could not hear enough of Menkem’s words to understand their meaning—then as now, the Vystrani conduct all religious matters in Lashon, rather than the vernacular—but Temple and Magisterial traditions both make use of the same blessing at the end, with the fingers divided. On the last words—“give you peace”—Menkem lifted and blew the sacred horn, and the rattles stopped.

Into the twitchy silence that followed, I said, “What is the meaning of this?”

Dagmira stormed forward. “You didn’t tell me where you were going! I had to find out from that one’s mother!” She jabbed a finger at Astimir, who flinched back as if her finger were a sword.

“What does that matter?” I asked, bewildered. The truth was that I didn’t know the Vystrani word for “ruins,” and didn’t feel like undergoing the tedious circumlocutions necessary to find out; so I had just told her we were going for a walk.

My supposed maid spat on the ground, then kicked the wet spot for good measure. The priest, who had followed at a more sedate pace, laid a calming hand on her shoulder. He didn’t look calm, though; he looked worried. “There is a
gorost
on the
isdevyit,
” he said, giving me a good guess as to what the word for “ruins” might be. What
gorost
was, however, I couldn’t guess.

Lord Hilford’s Vystrani was better than mine, and he frowned. “What kind of
gorost
?” he asked skeptically.

The priest pronounced two more words, these with an air of doom. “It is a
milgri
place; the ancients practiced many
ovyet
there, and the effects remain. It is bad luck to go there, my lord. You should not have gone.”

My limited vocabulary frustrated me, but I was beginning to guess his general meaning. Ghosts or demons or some such, and disaster for whoever crossed them. There were many such famous legends associated with ruins in Akhia; I shouldn’t have been surprised to encounter them elsewhere. “We saw nothing of the sort,” I told him sharply.

“You may not see them,” he said ominously, “but they are there.”

By now my uninjured foot was hurting almost as much as the other because it had to bear the greater part of my weight whenever I stopped. The pain made me snappish. “Nonsense. Or if there are—
spirits,
” I said, substituting the Scirling word because I could not spare the patience to remember what words he’d used, “then I’m sure your most excellent prayers have banished them. We thank you, and we’ll be on our way.”

Now it was Lord Hilford’s turn to lay a calming hand on
my
shoulder. “My good man, I’m sure all will be well. But Mrs. Camherst has suffered an injury to her ankle, and needs to lie down. If you’ll pardon us—”

They did not in the least want to pardon us; his words produced a great stir, as everyone began insisting my twisted ankle must be the work of demons. Lord Hilford told them I had not sprained it at the ruins—which strictly speaking I had not; I told him I twisted it on a slope behind them, and he elided the specifics even further—but that mollified no one. I forebore to tell them their “evil spirits” were only smugglers, as by then anything I said would have come out laced with generous amounts of Scirling profanity.

The white, pinched quality of my face at least persuaded Dagmira to help. Ignoring my protests, she slung one of my arms over her shoulder, and together we hobbled off toward the house.

Or perhaps her sympathy was merely a strategem, allowing her to lambast me without interruption. “Idiot!” she said fiercely, dumping me into a chair so she could pull my boot off. “Dragons, smugglers, ruins—is there any danger you
won’t
go running to meet?”

I said something extremely foul as the boot came off. My ankle had swollen a great deal more with all that walking, and she had to tug quite hard. When I had my breath back, I snapped, “You never
tell
me about these dangers until afterward!”

“I expect a fancy lady from foreign parts to have the sense the angels gave a babe in arms!” The other boot came off more easily, and was a blessing when it did.

“More fool you,” I muttered in Scirling, thinking of some of the brainless young things (not to mention middle-aged ones) I had met during my Season. Before Dagmira could glare a hole in me, I added, “Astimir suggested it, you know. Or don’t Drustanev men have the sense the angels gave a babe, either?”

She spat a few words I suspected were curses. Then, to my surprise, she added something further, in a grim tone. “One of the smugglers has been killed. A dragon attack.”

It distracted me from the pain in my ankle. A fresh incident did not explain all of the alarm in the village; there would be no reason for Menkem Goen and the others to focus their attention on our ruins trip, if what they feared was dragons. But it might account for the vehemence of their response. Wetting my lips, I asked, “Where?”

“Down.”

From the perspective of Drustanev, that meant the sharp descent to Chiavora. The smugglers must have been taking a shipment to the lowlands. “How far?” I asked, but Dagmira only shook her head; she did not know.

Surely it could not be far. The dragons would never leave their mountains. Or would they? These attacks were already unusual; all certainties must now be questioned.

Chastened, I cooperated as Dagmira more or less carried me up the stairs and deposited me in bed. There I lay in troubled thought until Jacob appeared.

After the scare over my disappearance with the smugglers, I was afraid of what his mood might be, but he came in grinning. “I hear you alarmed the locals,” he said, perching on the edge of the bed and taking my hand.

“Lord Hilford did his part,” I said, then grimaced as Jacob inspected my ankle. “That part is all my doing, I own. A foolish misstep.” And that was true enough.

My husband shook his head. “Oh, Isabella. I know you crave the freedom to explore, but—”

“But you wish I could do it without spraining my ankle?” I coaxed him into lying down at my side, and fitted my head onto his shoulder. “I quite agree. At least I was not eaten by a dragon, though.”

Jacob went still, then shifted out from under my head. “What aren’t you saying?”

The question surprised me. “Have you not heard? About the smuggler?”

His frown made it clear that he had not. Was this something the mayor had been saving to tell Lord Hilford, rather than his men? Or had Dagmira spilled a secret not meant to be shared with the outsiders? I told Jacob what little I knew, reluctantly surrendering the pleasant moment in favor of more important matters.

“I’ll talk to the others,” he said when I was done. “We need to find out how far down this happened.”

I heard the warning before he could voice it. “My ankle will keep me safely at home, filing papers like I’m supposed to.” I could not suppress a sigh. “Mr. Wilker shall be pleased.”

Our companion might be, but my husband was not. Frowning still, Jacob kissed the top of my head, then slid off the lumpy mattress and left me to my rest.

True to my prediction, I was completely housebound for several days. The first morning, I abandoned dignity and went down the staircase on my rump; the steps were narrow, dark, uneven, and prone to bending underfoot, and I did not like the prospect of pitching down them headfirst if my ankle gave out. I was certainly not fit to go anywhere. I occupied myself filling out my rough sketches of the ruins, but soon enough something else came along to engage me.

Our sample of hide from the dragon’s wing had not well survived its journey back to Drustanev. Lord Hilford had examined it under the microscope, but was unable to make much out. I was quite surprised when, three days after the trip to the ruins, a boy came charging into the workroom and shoved a pottery jar into my hands.

Mystified, I picked apart the knotted string holding the lid in place. A powerful smell greeted me as soon as I opened the jar; it was mostly filled with the plum-based spirit they call
tzuika,
which is alcoholic enough to drop a mule in its tracks. But something floated inside, and I rose and hobbled carefully over to the window to see.

It was a piece of dragon hide, nearly fresh. “Where did you get this?” I asked the boy.

His broad smile showed missing teeth; I guessed his age to be about ten. “A dragon came after us,” he said. “Tata shot him.”

Another attack. It had been less than a week since the smuggler was killed; the pace, it seemed, was picking up. I bit my lip in worry.

The child in front of me was not obviously bleeding or bandaged, nor did he look terribly upset; still, I had to ask. “Was anyone hurt?”

The boy shook his head. “We were hunting deer. Hidden, you know? Tata said the lord’s man wanted skin, so he sent me back with that.”

The lord’s man? Mr. Wilker, I guessed. I hadn’t been aware that he asked the locals for help. “Not a bad idea,” I murmured under my breath, fetching a pair of tweezers and lifting the scrap of hide from its aromatic container. Many of the shepherds carried jars of
tzuika
with them; it was my pet theory for how they survived without anything one could call a proper summer. “Light more candles, if you wouldn’t mind—”

The boy obeyed, then hovered to watch eagerly over my shoulder as I gently patted the hide into a semblance of dryness and laid it on the microscope. My familiarity with the device was minimal, but I dared not wait until the men returned. Biting my lower lip, I bent to look through the eyepiece.

Microscopes are fiddly things; it took endless minute adjustments of the knobs before I had a clear image. I held out my hand and called for a needle, several times, before the boy said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” and I realized I’d been commanding him in Scirling. I surfaced long enough to point at my pincushion (I had been mending my much-abused ruins dress—
ruined
dress, rather—when he arrived), and he brought it to me. Instrument in hand, I returned to the microscope, and began to prod at the magnified hide.