The Blood of a Dragon Read online

  From the ridgetop the road sloped steeply down toward a river bigger than Dumery had ever imagined rivers could be. He had never seen a real river, of course, just drainage ditches and canals; the broadest canal he had ever seen was the New Canal, between Shiphaven and Spicetown, which was two hundred feet wide for much of its length, big enough for the ocean-going ships to use freely.

  The lower part of the Grand Canal, between Spicetown and Fishertown, was about the same.

  The two of them could have been put side by side and still not equalled more than a tiny fraction of the river before him now.

  And the really amazing part of the view wasn't the river at all; it was the bridge across it. It was stone, soaring arches of stone supporting a roadbed higher and broader than Ethshar's city wall—and built across water, rather than on solid ground!

  Dumery stared at it in amazement.

  Soldiers, four of them, in the uniform of Ethshar's city guard, stood at the near end, chatting quietly and watching half-heartedly for approaching traffic. Just now no one was crossing, but on the far side, in the distance, Dumery thought he could see a wagon on the road.

  What he did not see was the man in brown, and he looked about worriedly as he hurried on down the long slope.

  Then Dumery spotted his quarry; he wasn't on the main road at all. Rather than approaching the bridge, he had turned aside onto a smaller and even steeper road that branched off inconspicuously to the left, just where the approaches of the bridge parted company with the natural contour of the land.

  This little branch road followed the slope down to the river and a dock.

  It wasn't a particularly impressive dock compared with the great trading wharves in Spicetown or the shipping piers in Shiphaven, but it was undeniably a dock. What's more, there were boats tied up there, and the man in brown was heading straight for the biggest one, which waited at the end of the dock, its gangplank out.

  Forgetting about any need for secrecy, Dumery broke into a run, chasing after the dragon-hunter, lest the boat leave with the man aboard before Dumery could reach it.

  The boat was long and square, without masts or rigging, and with little freeboard. Sweeps were racked on either side of the deck, their blades poking up at a steep angle, giving the whole craft something of the appearance of an overturned beetle with its legs in the air.

  Despite its rather ugly shape, the craft was gaily painted; the hull was a deep rich red picked out with gold, the deck and superstructure a gleaming yellow, with predominantly-green fancywork around the ports and hatches. Green and gold banners flew at bow and stern. The sweeps were painted green, with gold scrollwork on the shafts.

  This was not, Dumery realized, a sea-going ship, nor even a harbor boat. It bore more of a resemblance to the flat-bottomed barges that were used to haul materials around the waterfront, especially in the shipyard, than to anything else Dumery had often encountered. He thought he might have seen a few such craft here and there along Ethshar's waterfront, but he wasn't really sure; he had certainly not seen many, and never at the deep-water piers.

  It had to be a riverboat.

  The man in brown marched up the gangplank without slowing and waved a greeting to the handful of brightly-dressed people on the boat's deck. Two of them waved back; a third stepped forward and exchanged a few words with the dragon-hunter.

  Dumery wished he could hear what was being said, but he was still much too far away.

  He was running as fast as he could on the downgrade, but the man in brown's head start and longer legs had given him a sizable lead, and the slope made running difficult. Dumery's feet thumped onto the dock's first plank as the man in brown vanished through a low doorway, his business with the man on deck completed.

  Dumery ran out the dock's length and up the gangplank without slowing.

  At the sound of his approach—which was easy to hear, thanks to the dock's loose planking—the party on deck turned and looked at him. The man who had spoken with the dragon-hunter, a man in a white tunic and sky-blue kilt, stepped over to the gangplank.

  Dumery ran straight into his outstretched arms.

  "Hai, there,” the man said, grabbing Dumery's arms. “What's your hurry?”

  Dumery realized he had made it; he was aboard the boat, with the man in brown. “I didn't want to miss the boat,” he said, panting.

  “No danger of that,” the man in the white tunic said. “We won't be leaving until noon.”

  “Oh,” Dumery said, feeling foolish. “I didn't know.”

  “Ah,” the man said, releasing one arm. “Well, now you do.” He looked Dumery over, and Dumery stared back defiantly.

  He knew he looked terrible, after sleeping in his clothes in the mud and then tripping over that stupid spriggan, but he didn't care, and he waited for the man to criticize him, ready to reply.

  “I take it,” the man said, “that you'd like to stay aboard for the ride north?”

  Dumery blinked and looked around.

  No, he wasn't confused; there the sun was on the far side of the bridge, which meant that was east. The other direction on the river was west. Was this boat just a ferry, then?

  If so, he could have just walked across the bridge!

  “North?” he said.

  “Yes, north,” the man replied. “Didn't you know, then?” He pointed due west. “We'll be cruising upstream, all the way to Sardiron of the Waters.”

  “Oh,” Dumery said.

  Either the entire World was confused somehow and the sun was rising in the south, or else the river to the west turned north somewhere along the way. This was no local ferry—Sardiron of the Waters was hundreds of miles away.

  In fact, it wasn't even in the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars. It was the council city of the Baronies of Sardiron, a land Dumery had heard described in countless tales as a barbarous foreign realm of gloomy castles, deep dark forests, icy winters, hungry wolves—and marauding dragons.

  Was that where the man in brown was going?

  It made sense, of course. There were no dragons left in the Hegemony, so far as Dumery knew; certainly not anywhere near Ethshar of the Spices.

  He should have thought of that sooner. A dragon-hunter could scarcely ply his trade in such quiet, civilized country.

  He might have to pursue the man in brown for sixnights, even months.

  He hesitated.

  “Were you going to Sardiron, then?” the boatman asked.

  Dumery nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  “Ah,” the boatman replied, nodding. “And you have the fare?”

  Dumery's heart fell. “Fare?” he asked.

  “Of course,” the boatman said. “Did you think we man this boat for the sheer delight of it?”

  “No, I ... how much?”

  “To Sardiron?”

  “Yes.”

  “The full fare, lad, is five rounds of silver, but for a boy your size—call it three.”

  “Oh,” Dumery said. While that discount meant that the price was actually negotiable, Dumery knew there was no way in the World he could haggle three silver pieces down to a few copper bits.

  And all he had was a few copper bits.

  “Haven't got it, have you?” the man asked, glaring at him.

  “No, I...” Dumery began. Then he caught the boatman's gaze and just said, “No.”

  “Off the boat, then,” the boatman ordered, pointing ashore and using the grip on Dumery's arm to turn the boy.

  “Could I work...” Dumery began.

  “No,” the boatman said, cutting him off. “The Sunlit Meadows is no cattle barge, boy, to be hiring anyone who comes aboard with two hands and a strong back—and your back doesn't look that strong, for that matter! This is the finest passenger boat on the Great River, and we've had a full crew of trained professionals working her since before we left Sardiron of the Waters; we've no need for a fumble-fingered farmboy.” He put his other hand between Dumery's shoulders and began pushing the boy down the gangplank.


  “I'm not a farmboy!” Dumery protested. “My father's a wealthy merchant in the city...”

  “Then have him buy you passage, boy!” He gave Dumery a final shove, not particularly hard or vicious, that sent the lad staggering onto the dock. Then he stood there, astride the gangplank, hands on hips, and stared.

  Dumery stared back for a moment, then turned away.

  He was not going to get aboard the Sunlit Meadows easily, that was plain.

  All the same, he was not about to give up. The man in brown was aboard that boat, and wherever he went, Dumery was determined to follow.

  He had no idea how he would follow, just now, but he'd find a way.

  He had to.

  Chapter Ten

  “He still hasn't turned up?” Doran asked, startled.

  “No, he hasn't!” Faléa answered. She glared at her husband. He hadn't done anything wrong, but she was furious with Dumery for worrying her this way, and he wasn't there, so she directed her anger at his father.

  Doran was used to this; it didn't bother him. “Have you asked the others if they've seen him?” he asked.

  “Of course I have!” Faléa snapped. “Dessa saw him yesterday morning at breakfast; Doran and Derath won't even admit that much. All three of them swear they haven't seen him since. I've got them out searching the neighborhood, asking his friends, but so far they haven't found any sign of him.”

  Doran considered this, and said, “You asked that little ratty one with the long hair, what's his name, Pergren of the Runny Nose, or whatever it is?”

  “Pergren of Chandlery Street,” Faléa corrected him. “Dessa talked to him an hour ago. From what she said I think she threatened to beat him so hard his nose would stop running...”

  “From what I've seen of him that would probably kill him,” Doran muttered under his breath.

  “...but he still didn't know where Dumery was,” Faléa said.

  “All right,” Doran said, “I can see that you're seriously worried, and I suppose it's with good reason. What is it you want me to do? What do you think might have happened to the boy?”

  “Oh,” said Faléa unhappily, “I don't know. Maybe some slaver took him by mistake. Or maybe he ran away to sea. Or...” She took a deep, unsteady breath. “Or maybe he got himself killed, somehow.”

  Doran sighed. “All right, listen,” he said. “I'll send a letter to Lord Talden; he'll alert the city guard and get a description posted everywhere. And I'll check with the Slavers’ Registry; if they did pick him up, even if they've already shipped him off to Ethshar of the Sands or something, they'll have reported the capture.”

  “If it was a registered slaver...” Faléa began.

  “Well, damn it, woman,” Doran burst out, “if he got captured by an unregistered slaver, then he's in the hands of outlaws, and it doesn't much matter whether it's slavers or kidnappers or what, does it? There isn't much we can do!”

  “Oh, I know that,” Faléa admitted dismally.

  Doran grimaced at her despairing tone. “Where was he going when he disappeared, anyway?” he asked.

  “Westgate Market,” Faléa explained, “to see if he could find an interesting career to apprentice for.”

  “Well, then, maybe he found one!” Doran roared. “Why didn't you tell me that sooner? Maybe the boy signed on as an apprentice somewhere, and will send word when he can, in which case we're all getting upset over nothing! Have you sent anyone down to Westgate to ask around?”

  “Derath,” Faléa said. “He left half an hour ago. But Dorie, we'd have word by now...” She let her voice trail off.

  “We should, anyway,” Doran admitted. “But some of these tradesmen are eccentric. Listen, are you sure he went to Westgate? If he was looking for an apprenticeship, maybe he went back down to the Wizards’ Quarter again—he might have some new scheme for learning magic. You know how stubborn ... how determined he can be!”

  Faléa did indeed know how stubborn Dumery could be, and she considered this suggestion. It sounded plausible, but there was one problem with it. “Why would that keep him overnight?” she asked. “And ... but Dorie, if he did go there...”

  “If he went there,” Doran finished for her, "anything could have happened, with all those magicians and all their spells running around loose.”

  “Even if he didn't go there, maybe we should. We could buy a spell to find him.” Faléa's tone and expression shifted from woe to delight with amazing speed. “Oh, that's what we'll do! We'll buy a spell! That wizard you went to, what's his name?”

  “Thetheran the Mage,” Doran replied. He was less enthusiastic than his wife; magic was expensive. He started to say something to that effect, then took another look at Faléa and swallowed his words.

  After all, this was his son they were talking about, not an escaped chicken or strayed cat.

  “All right,” he said. “We'll go buy a spell.”

  “Good!” Faléa said, almost grinning. “It's chilly out there; I'll get your coat while you find your purse and some money.” She bounced toward the doorway.

  “I thought we could go after lunch...” Doran began.

  The grin vanished. "Now," Faléa said.

  Doran sighed. “Now,” he agreed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dumery sat on the slope above the dock, to one side of the road, and stared disconsolately at the river.

  The World was going about its business all around him, albeit in a more leisurely fashion than a city boy like himself was accustomed to. Travelers were crossing the bridge in both directions, on foot or horseback, or riding in wagons and ox-carts, and the soldiers were collecting tolls from all of them. Boats of various sizes and shapes were moving up and down the river, some powered by sails, some by oars, most by magic. Some had tied up to the dock; some had departed.

  Dumery just sat, staring at the Sunlit Meadows and plotting out possibilities.

  What if he headed to Sardiron of the Waters overland? There must be a land route, after all. Could he meet the boat there, in Sardiron, and pick up the dragon-hunter's trail?

  Probably not; he suspected that the boat would get there by water much more quickly than he could on foot, particularly if it used magical propulsion. The boat didn't look as if it could hold enough men to work all those sweeps without magic.

  And if Sardiron of the Waters was anything like Ethshar, he might not be able to find the right dock even if he got there in time. Ethshar of the Spices was the largest city in the World, yes, but Sardiron was surely good-sized itself.

  Besides, he didn't even know whether the man in brown was really going to Sardiron. It seemed likely, but what if he were planning to disembark somewhere along the way? The boat probably didn't just run from the bridge to Sardiron, but made stops at other places along the river.

  For that matter, he wondered if this was as far downstream as it came. It was low enough to fit under the central arch of the bridge, certainly. It might have gone all the way to Ethshar itself.

  If so, though, why hadn't the man in brown boarded it there?

  Well, maybe this particular vessel didn't go that far. After all, Ethshar wasn't on the river, it was on the south side of the bay, and the river emptied into the northwest corner, if Dumery remembered his lessons correctly, where the water was all shoals and shifting sandbars. Getting across the bay wouldn't be easy sailing.

  But even if this was as far downstream as the Sunlit Meadows went, that still didn't mean that it wouldn't make stops on its way north.

  Maybe, Dumery thought, he could ask the boat's crew where the man in brown was going. They might know. They might even be willing to tell him.

  Just as that thought occurred to him, he felt something like tiny fingers grabbing at his arm. He turned his head, startled, to look for the cause.

  The spriggan grinned up at him. “Found you!” it said. “We have fun, yes?”

  “No,” Dumery said. “Go away!”

  “Aw,” the spriggan said, “we have fun!"

>   “No,” Dumery repeated. Before the spriggan could reply, he demanded, “What are you, anyway? Where did you come from?”

  “Me, spriggan!” the creature said. “Came from magic mirror, me and all the others.”

  “A magic mirror?” Dumery asked, intrigued.

  “Yes, yes,” the spriggan agreed. “Mirror!” It mimed staring at a glass, its eyes bulging absurdly.

  “Where?” Dumery asked. “Where was this magic mirror?” He remembered that the very first place he had glimpsed a spriggan had been in Thetheran's laboratory; had that despicable wizard created these little nuisances?

  The thing developed an expression of comical and complete bafflement. “Don't know,” it said. “Not good at places.”

  “In Ethshar?” Dumery persisted.

  The spriggan thought about that for a moment, then said, “Don't think so.”

  “Then how did you get here?” Dumery asked. “I saw a couple of you ... you spriggans in the city before I left, I think.”

  “Yes, yes!” it said enthusiastically. “All over, now. Go on ships and in wagons and ride everywhere we can!”

  “Oh,” Dumery said. He considered this for a moment, then asked, “Why?”

  “Have fun!" the spriggan explained. “Spriggans have lots of fun! You and me, we have fun, now!”

  “No,” Dumery said, losing interest.

  “Fun!” the spriggan repeated.

  Dumery just stared at it, silently.

  It stared back.

  After a long moment the spriggan realized that Dumery wasn't going to say anything more.

  “Have fun!" it repeated.

  Dumery just stared.

  The spriggan looked up at him for a minute longer, then said, “You no fun.” It kicked Dumery's leg and walked away.

  The kick didn't hurt; in fact, Dumery hardly felt it. All the same, he was tempted to swat the stupid little creature.

  He didn't; he just stared after it as it stamped off.

  When he looked back at the dock he saw the tillerman on the Sunlit Meadows casting off a final hawser. While Dumery had talked with the spriggan the crew had been readying the boat for departure.