Dragon's Fire (25 page)

Shortly after dusk the snow picked up and was soon falling so thickly that they couldn’t see the road.

“We’ll stop,” Tarri told him, pointing to the large drays behind. “You and I are first watch.”

Pellar nodded and got down from the wagon, walking back to the end of the short column of workdrays. Tarri’s was the only sleeping wagon—everyone slept in shifts, and there were only three work drays in the caravan.

“Less to lose, better prices,” Tarri had explained when Pellar had first joined up.

In two hours Pellar was relieved and trudged back to his place at the front of Tarri’s wagon. He was freezing cold.

Tarri’s head poked out from the curtains.

“Come on inside—it’s too cold and we’ve another watch before we move out,” she told him.

Gratefully, Pellar crawled inside. He was immediately warmer. With a few gestures he asked permission to spread his sleeping roll; at Tarri’s nod, he removed his boots and socks and crawled in.

Tarri gave him an amazed look and snorted, “You’ll freeze if you try to sleep like that. You need to get out of those clothes.”

Pellar nodded and smiled back, carefully removing his clothes while modestly hidden in his sleeping roll. He pulled them out and laid them beside him.

Tarri laughed. “I’m not as deft as you, so I’d appreciate it if you looked the other way.”

Pellar nodded and rolled over.

Moments later, Tarri crawled under her pile of blankets and called out, “You can turn over now.”

She was answered by Pellar’s soft snores.

Tenim spread his marks liberally to get information. Yes, there had been a suspicious lad with a large pack. No, no signs of a harper. The lad couldn’t talk, that was odd, managed to get a ride with the traders heading up to Camp Natalon. Daft to head up the mountains in midwinter, no matter what the price of coal, even with the improvements that had been put in. Tenim had bought another round or two of drinks before disappearing into the night.

Egg or no, purse or no, this “lad” owed him. He’d taken Tenim in, convinced him for three days that he’d been following Moran and a sack of marks or, better, a watch-wher’s egg. Now Tenim was sure that he wasn’t following Moran, and he had his doubts about the egg, too.

So this “lad” had decided to play Tenim for a fool. Moran would have to know, would have been in on it, Tenim was certain. What was the harper to the lad that he’d go out of his way to protect him? Why would the lad risk his life for a broken-down man who claimed he was a harper but spent most of his time stealing?

Or was the lad protecting something else? Had Moran stumbled on something the lad felt he had to protect? Something to do with watch-whers?

Tenim had smiled coldly to himself as he strode out of Crom and up the mountain path to Camp Natalon.

He’d find out soon enough; he’d been close behind the traders all day and he knew they’d stopped for the night. The lad might not talk, but when Tenim was done with him, he’d wish he could—and he’d still tell Tenim all he wanted to know. And, after that, well, no one who made a fool of Tenim lived to tell it.

Dawn was coming. He stopped and removed his pack. It was heavy and cumbersome, but the extra weight was worth it. His sources had said the lad had a fire-lizard.

Tenim unlaced the special compartment, reached in with a well-gloved hand, and restrained the falcon resting inside. With the other hand he finished opening the compartment, exposing it to the cold morning air.

“Come on, my pet, I’ve got a job for you,” he crooned as he settled Grief onto his hand.

Pellar woke the instant the hand touched his shoulder. He twisted his head quickly and looked up to see Tarri above him.

“Our watch,” she said. “You get dressed and search for kindling. I’ll keep watch here and ready some
klah.
”

Pellar nodded and Tarri left the wagon. He dressed quickly, rolled up his bedroll and left the wagon, waving to Tarri.

The caravan had stopped at a bend in the road, crouching close to the mountainside. On the other side of the road the mountain fell away in a cliff. Pellar looked over and saw a stand of trees and a stream in the distance below. He shrugged to himself and started carefully down the cliffside to the only source of kindling.

Chitter joined him as he reached the plateau, chiding Pellar against the cold morning air. Pellar nodded and waved in companionable agreement—yes, it was cold and only fools would climb down cliffsides in search of kindling. He unshouldered his pack and put it down by a tree, looking around the clearing. Why, he wondered to himself, would Chitter have stirred from his warm spot in the wagon?

The thought made him go suddenly cold and still, his eyes moving over the terrain in front of him. Had something disturbed the fire-lizard?

There! Pellar spotted a movement in the trees high above him, moving very fast. It was a bird, diving. He formed a warning in his mind for Chitter and was just about to send it when the fire-lizard dove in front of him, screeching a warning of his own.

Chitter was too late. A hard fist landed behind Pellar’s ear and he stumbled in pain. His last sight was of Chitter and claws and a beak—and then the air was filled with shrieking and green ichor. And then he was falling into the stream, cold water engulfing him.

CHAPTER 8

C
AMP
N
ATALON,
AL 494.1

W
hen he didn’t show up, we sent out a search party, and we found this,” Tarri said, holding up the mangled body of a fire-lizard for Master Zist’s inspection.

“And this.” A pack, torn and shredded. There was some sand and shards still inside it.

“I need you to take me there,” Zist said.

“It’s half a day away on foot,” Tarri protested.

“Please,” Zist begged, “I’ve got to see.”

“We can take my wagon,” Tarri said. “That will save us some time.”

The day was cold and clear—the clouds that had brought snow the night before had dissipated. Tarri easily followed the trail the drays had left on their way up to Camp Natalon. When she reached the bend, she pulled the wagon to a halt.

“Right over there,” she said, pointing across Zist to the cliff on their right. “Down the ravine.”

Tarri showed Zist the way down. The site where they’d found the fire-lizard and Pellar’s pack had been trampled down by the trader’s boots as they searched.

“We think he fell in the water here,” Tarri said, pointing to a depression on the bank of the fast-moving stream. “There’s a fall just down there,” she added sadly.

Zist grunted his acknowledgment, shading his eyes against the sun to peer farther into the distance. He sighed and turned back to the trampled site, particularly examining the ground where the snow was stained green by Chitter’s ichor.

Zist remembered the brown fire-lizard’s battered body. Some sharp object had cut through Chitter’s neck just where it joined the shoulders. There were claw marks on his sides—some large bird, or a very small wherry. Zist guessed it was a bird, probably a falcon, because he’d never heard of a fire-lizard being so surprised by a wherry that it couldn’t get
between
to safety.

There was a large patch of sand not far away and some shards. What had Pellar been carrying in his pack? And why had someone murdered him for it? Had the attack by the bird been an unhappy accident or part of a plan? Why had Pellar been on his way to Camp Natalon?

“We may never know,” the harper said softly to himself.

“Pardon?”

Zist shook himself and rose from beside the ichor-stained snow, saying, “I’m sorry, I was talking to myself.” He pointed up to the wagon. “I’m ready to go now.”

But it seemed to Tarri as she watched the harper climb feebly up the ravine he had so vigorously descended only moments before that Master Zist was not at all ready to go—that, in fact, he left a large part of himself behind in that ravine.

They rode back toward Camp Natalon in silence and the setting of the sun.

After tens of Turns in his cave near the Harper Hall, Mikal had learned to cipher the drum codes. He always perked up when a message came in from Zist, wondering about Pellar and his fire-lizard.

But the message wasn’t good. “Chitter dead?” Mikal whispered to himself as he deciphered the message. He closed his eyes from the pain of the ancient loss of his own dragon, now relived in the loss of the fire-lizard he had been afraid to meet.

The message continued and Mikal’s face drained of all color. “Pellar?”

Wordlessly, sightlessly, he reached around for a flask of wine and remorselessly, hopelessly tried once again to blot his pain by getting drunk.

Tenim was in a foul mood as he entered the kitchen of Tarik’s cothold. He had gone up to the mine, taking the long route around to the coal dump and then out of sight beyond the crest of the hill to come back around to the mine, only to discover from the miners’ chatter that Tarik’s shift had been relieved by Natalon. If he hadn’t been on his guard he might have been caught.

The thrill of Grief’s deadly strike on the fire-lizard—Tenim had never dreamed the attack would be so successful—had completely drained from him in the ensuing events: first, the boy’s unexpected fall into the river and, second, the infuriating discovery that the boy’s pack held only a fake egg made of clay. Tenim had been led on a wild wherry chase for no profit.

“What are you doing here?” Tarik asked as Tenim let himself in. The miner was sprawled in a chair, a bottle of wine on the table in front of him and a mug in his hand.

“I might ask you the same,” Tenim said. “Let’s just say that I’m here to see how we are doing on our investments.

“Only,” he went on, gesturing toward the mine, “I discover that you’ve been relieved.” He gave Tarik a sour look. “Something about skimping on the wood joists, I hear.”

Tarik flushed angrily. “Natalon’s a fool. He’d have us use three times as much wood as we need.”

“So you decided to profit on your own initiative?” Tenim asked, glowering down at the miner. “And, instead, we stand to lose everything.”

Tarik took an angry breath, caught the murderous look in Tenim’s eyes, and let it out with a deep sigh.

“I thought you weren’t going to be back until spring,” Tarik said.

“My plans changed,” Tenim replied, dragging up a chair opposite Tarik. The miner gestured to the bottle on the table, but Tenim shook his head irritably. “One of us needs to keep his head clear enough to think.”

“Why bother?” Tarik said. “Natalon’s as good as sacked me. I’ll never find work after this.” He shook his head dejectedly. “His own uncle, and he’d throw me out.”

“You’re no use to me if you’re thrown out,” Tenim said, eyeing Tarik thoughtfully. The older man was too much in his cups to recognize his peril.

“I should be the master here,” Tarik grumbled, “not him. I’ve Turns more experience in the mine, helped train him, too.”

Tenim’s murderous look altered subtly as he listened to Tarik.

“Where’s Natalon now?”

Tarik quirked an eyebrow at him, saying querulously, “In the mine, my shaft, shoring up the joists, of course.”

Tenim rose from his seat in one fluid motion, like a bird rising to swoop on its prey.

“Stay here,” he ordered Tarik. “Don’t let anyone in the mine.”

Tarik looked up at him in confusion. “I’m not in charge.”

“Yet,” Tenim replied curtly.

“Master Zist? Master Zist?” Cristov called at the door to the harper’s cothold.

The mine had collapsed and Tarik had forbidden anyone to enter it, declaring it too dangerous. He’d even hit Kindan when the lad had insisted on going in with his watch-wher.

“That dumb animal’s no use now,” Tarik had sworn angrily.

Someone had to take charge, someone had to do something. Cristov had run down to Zist’s, hoping the harper could restore order.

“Master Zist?” he called again, inching inside the door. His resolve grew and he walked all through the cottage, calling Zist’s name.

In the kitchen, on the table, he spied the grisly remains of a brown fire-lizard. The memory of stroking that fire-lizard’s cheek woke an anger in Cristov that he had never before felt. He turned on his heel and strode out of the cottage.

He was going to get his axe.