Dragonborn (2 page)

 

EVERYONE KNOWS THAT DRAGONS BRING LUCK; the trouble is, you never know whether it is going to be bad luck or good luck. And, the worst thing is, dragons have a way of bringing people the luck they deserve.

That makes it difficult when you meet a dragon. If you suspect that you are a bad person, then you deserve a bit of bad luck from the dragon. On the other hand, a good person should get good luck. You get the luck you deserve.

So, whatever sort of person you are, you behave as though you are glad to see a dragon, because you want people to think you are good and deserve good luck.

This, of course, is good for dragons, because it means they are made welcome everywhere. But it's also bad luck for dragons, because it means that there are lots of secret enemies who pretend to like them, but hate them really, and plot behind their backs to
get rid of them and do them harm. In this way, dragons are like most people, who can never tell who their real friends are, and who never know who is only smiling to their face and all the time getting ready to hurt them as soon as their backs are turned. For the world is full of deceit and danger, and it's as well to know that early on.

As everyone knows, Green and Blues bring the most luck, good and bad. There are seventeen varieties of dragon, all told, but only nine of them have ever been seen by people. The Green and Blue is not the smallest variety—the Snake-Tail and the Boulder Dragon are smaller—but the Green and Blue grows to the size of a Memmont, and so is popular around the house. Also, unlike many other dragons, it can be taught to be clean and it does not smell. On the other hand, you can't decide to have a dragon, like buying a puppy. If you leave a bay tree in a square pot by the kitchen door it's a sign that you would welcome a dragon, and if one sees it and decides to stay, then it will. Otherwise, you have to do without one. Or at least that was what people said. Not that many people had dragons, anyway.

Except for wizards, of course, who can let it be known that they would like one to come and stay. Green and Blues like to live with wizards. It gives them a bit of status with the other dragons.

of the river, and their shade was welcome, even this early in the morning. Flaxfield said that summers were getting hotter. Sam hadn't seen enough of them to be any judge of whether that was right. Flaxfield was always saying that sort of thing.

Sam selected slender branches, new shoots that had grown since the last winter, straight and smooth with fine foliage, the tender leaves a lighter green than the older growth. They had the pliant quality of youth, easily curved and guided. He piled them under an oak.

When he had twenty he sat down and stripped them of their greenery, leaving long, slim, smooth wands.

At first Starback made a nuisance of himself, running up and down the willows as Sam selected the best branches. But he soon tired of this and dived into the river to cool off.

It was hard work, but Sam made it simpler by not setting
himself a time to complete it. He knew he had more than enough time, so he didn't rush.

Leaving the piles of willow, he ran to the river and dived in, his body entering the water like a needle piercing silk, leaving scarcely a ripple. Starback squealed with pleasure, grabbed his leg, and pulled him deep into the water. Sam was ready for this and he had taken a deep breath before diving. He wrestled playfully with Starback for a while, then tapped him on the nose to tell him it was time to let go. Starback could breathe underwater, so he easily forgot how important it was to let others gasp for air.

Sam lay back in the water, his legs dangling, kicking just enough to keep him afloat. He turned and dipped his face in the water, to cool it. A sharp pain cut across his back. And another. He dived deep, just as the same pain sliced into the back of his thighs.

Axestone stood on the riverbank, a willow wand in his hand.

“I told you to look out for strangers,” he shouted.

Sam paddled out of range of the switch. Starback snarled and spat.

“I did look out. There's no one for miles.”

“And work. I told you to get the willow ready.”

“He's done quite a lot, Axestone. He needed a rest.” A woman stepped forward from the shelter of the trees and stood next to Axestone.

“He won't get much rest now that Flaxfield's gone. The old man was too soft on the boy. He'll learn what work is when he goes down the mines.”

Sam shuddered. The mines were what mothers threatened children with if they were naughty. But if ordinary people feared the mines, so much more did wizards. Magic was different there.

Another man joined them. Sam had only seen one black man before, black with skin like midnight. Not like this one. This one was the color of ale, dark winter ale. He stood as high as Axestone, and as slim. They might have been twins, save for the color of their skin. The same arrogant pose marked them both.

“Enough of that for now. There are still decisions to make,” said a fourth, very old man, older than Flaxfield by the look of him.

Sam felt his stomach churn with fear. How many were there? How had he missed them? And who were they? And why were they here?

“Get out,” said Axestone. The switch dangled by his side.

“Not if you're going to whip me again.”

“Get out!”

“He's right,” said the old man. “He's taken his whipping. And he's made a good start on the willow. Let him be.”

Axestone growled at them, more wolf than fox after all, but he dropped the switch and turned away.

By the time Sam had climbed the bank, they were all under the oak, looking at his pile of willow.

“He has chosen well,” said the old man. “The very best saplings.”

“And the right sizes,” said the woman, who was sorting them into smaller piles according to length and thickness.

Axestone nodded angrily. “But not enough,” he snapped.

“Then let us make that good,” said the dark one.

He unsheathed a long, curved sword, pointed to a willow, and, in an instant, a pile of branches bigger than the one Sam had gathered appeared at the base of its trunk. Each one was trimmed smooth and all were perfectly straight and true.

“Khazib!” Axestone snapped. “Have you forgotten yourself?”

The woman clutched herself in distress. Sam flung himself in fury at the man, but before he could reach him, Khazib slapped him away like a fly, and he fell, dazed, on the grass. Starback growled and his nostrils flared.

Axestone waved a hand, and the branches shriveled and bent, all sap dried up; they were as brittle as old bones, useless.

Khazib walked away without looking back. The woman helped Sam to his feet, then sat him against the rough trunk of the oak in the shade while the three of them set themselves to cutting and piling more branches of willow.

The old man, before he joined them, fetched cool water from the river for Sam to drink. The boy looked away as it was handed to him. No one had ever waited on him before, and with such courtesy.

He watched them at work, the sweat dampening their brows, as it had his. He remembered the trout he had caught for Flaxfield. The fish were biting well yesterday, so Sam had played with Starback at the river to pass the time. Once, he had fished all afternoon and none had risen. He was hot, tired, smelly, impatient, and
bad tempered. So he conjured a trout. It was a little spell, one he had taught himself, really, like learning how to do a handstand.

As soon as he walked into the house he knew he had made a big mistake.

Flaxfield was at the desk. He was always at the desk. It was the only desk Sam had ever seen. More or less everything in Flaxfield's house was the only one he had ever seen. Flaxfield had taken him in when Sam was only three years old, so he didn't really remember much before that. There had been a woman, called Flaxfold, who looked after things. She looked after Sam as well, and taught him to cook and clean, and to make useful things for the house—bookshelves and doorstops and bolts.

At the same time, Flaxfield had taught him to read and write. Later, he also taught him how to tell his numbers, which plants in the forest and fields were poisonous, where to find the best berries and mushrooms, how to catch a trout with a rod and line, not to touch fire, but how to light one.

On his sixth birthday, Flaxfold said, “I'm off now,” and gave Sam the only hug he ever remembered having from anyone.

“Wait,” said Flaxfield. He went to the old oak dresser that took up nearly one whole wall of the kitchen. Opening a door, he took out a loaf of bread, some figs, a small bottle of cordial, and a bag of silver coins. They had been put there recently, because the bread was fresh, and there was nothing else in the small cupboard.

He handed them to Flaxfold. “You have done all things well,”
he said quietly. “Go where you must.” To the boy's astonishment, the old man kissed her cheek and smiled.

She said nothing more, but closed the door quietly after her.

“Go and get me a trout,” said Flaxfield.

That was the first day that Sam cooked their food on his own. He had done it every day since then for six years. When he came back with the trout, Flaxfield said, “Now, wash your hands and look at this. Read it carefully.”

Sam read it.

“Do you understand it?”

“No.”

“It says that if you sign it at the bottom of the page,” he pointed with an inky finger, “then you will be my apprentice for twelve years. I will teach you everything I know and then you will be able to go and work for yourself. It will make you rich if you want to be.”

“Are you rich?” Sam asked.

“I said,” Flaxfield repeated carefully, “if you want to be.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to be my apprentice?”

“I don't know. What if I say no?”

“You can stay here as my servant, or you can go away and do whatever you want. I'll pay you thruppence a week as my servant, or I'll give thirty shillings to take with you if you go away.”

“I'll be your apprentice,” said Sam.

“That's right. Now, sign your name here—S-A-M—and then after it, on the next line, C-L-O-U-D.”

“Why?”

“Because Sam is your everyday name, but Cloud is going to be your secret name. That's your first lesson as my apprentice: never tell anyone your secret name.”

Sam nodded.

Flaxfield frowned at the paper. He tapped his fingers against the table, put his hand into his pocket, hesitated, took it out again, and smiled at Sam.

“Is that it?” asked Sam.

“Usually,” said Flaxfield.

He put his hand back into his pocket in a rush, pulled out a stubby piece of metal, and put it on the table.

“Perhaps we should seal it,” he said. “Make it special.”

He found a lump of hard red wax and lit a candle. Sam watched as he held the corner of the wax over the flame and it melted, dripping onto the paper below the two signatures. When there was a small pool of soft wax, Flaxfield took the metal and pressed it in. When he took it away it had left a mark, and the wax was dry again and hard.

“There. That's sealed,” said Flaxfield. “Do you like it?”

Sam peered at the wax. The metal had left an indentation, like a coin, with a picture of a bird in the center.

“Can I see?”

Flaxfield handed him the metal.

“You like it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You should have it, then.”

He found a leather thong, threaded it through a loop in the metal, and tied it around Sam's neck.

“Is it mine?” asked Sam.

“You look after it for me.”

Sam liked the weight of it against his neck.

“But can I keep it?”

“Will you?” said Flaxfield. “Will you look after it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now, go and cook that trout.”

And that was how it had all started.

From time to time Sam looked secretly into the cupboard, to see if it was where the bread was kept, but it was always empty. Once, when Flaxfield was there, he opened the door to put a loaf of bread in, but the old man said, “That's not where it goes. Leave that door alone.”

When he was ten, he learned a hard lesson. He conjured the fish because he couldn't be bothered to dangle a hook any longer, and he knew he was doing a bad thing. Which was why he shouldn't have been surprised when Flaxfield was angry with him for doing it.

“Put it here,” said Flaxfield.

He put the fish on the desk.

Flaxfield looked into its mouth.

“Where did the hook go in?” he asked.

Sam kicked his toe against the leg of the desk and mumbled.

“Eh?” Flaxfield put his hand to his ear and leaned forward. Although he was old, he could see like a hawk and hear like a dog.

Sam owned up.

Flaxfield nodded and walked out, waiting at the door for Sam to follow him. When they reached the riverbank, he handed the fish to Sam.

“Make it swim.”

He dropped it into the water where it floated, belly-up and dead.

“Go on.”

“I don't know how to.”

“Why not?”

Tears ran down his face, making patterns in the dirt.

“You never showed me.”

Flaxfield nodded.

“Remember that,” he said. “If you can't undo by magic what you have done with magic, then don't do it. And stop crying. That won't make it any better.”

Sam wiped his nose with his bare arm.

Flaxfield scooped the fish out of the water. He closed his eyes and began to hum. After a while, he leaned forward, dipped his head in the river, his long hair spreading out like a cobweb, and filled his mouth with water. He put his face close to the mouth of the trout and sprayed the water straight between its jaws. The trout flickered. Flaxfield shook it. It twitched. He lowered it gently into the running current. It hung for a second, motionless, then darted to life and swam off.