Dragon Wing

14

The morning Limbeck was gliding downward into the Terrel Fen, Hugh and the prince were flying dragonback into the nightside somewhere over the Uylandia Cluster. The flight was cold and cheerless. Trian had given the dragon its directions, so that Hugh had nothing to do but sit in the saddle and think. He could not even tell what track they were flying, for a magical cloud accompanied them.

The dragon would occasionally dip down below the cloud to get its bearings, and then Hugh tried to glean, from the softly glowing coralite landscape moving smoothly beneath them, some idea of where he was and where he had been. Hugh had no doubt but that he’d been double-crossed, and he would have given half the money in his purse to know the whereabouts of Stephen’s hideout in case he decided to complain about his treatment in person. It was useless, however, and he soon gave up.

“I’m hungry—” began Bane, his childish high voice splitting the still night air.

“Hold your tongue!” snapped Hugh.

He heard a swift intake of breath. Glancing around, he saw the boy’s eyes widen and shimmer with tears. The kid had probably never been yelled at in his entire life.

“Sound carries clearly in the night air, Your Highness,” said the Hand softly.

“If someone is following us, we don’t want to make it easy for him.”

“Is someone following us?” Bane was pale but undaunted, and Hugh gave the kid credit for courage.

“I think so, Your Highness. But don’t worry.”

The prince pressed his lips tightly together. Timidly he slid his arms around Hugh’s waist. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?” he whispered. Small arms tightened around Hugh, he felt a warm body nestle against his, and the child’s head rested lightly on his strong back. “I’m not afraid,” Bane added stoutly, “it’s just nicer when you’re close.” A strange sensation swept over the assassin. Hugh felt suddenly dark and empty and abhorrently evil. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the impulse to free himself of the kid’s touch by concentrating on their immediate danger. Someone was following them. Whoever it was, he was good at it, too. Twisting around in the saddle, Hugh searched the sky, hoping that their shadow—fearful of losing sight of them—might grow careless and show himself. Hugh saw nothing, however. He couldn’t even have told exactly how he knew they had company. It was a prickling at the back of his neck, instinct reacting to a sound, a smell, something glimpsed from the corner of the eye. He quietly accepted the warning, his one thought: Who was trailing them and why?

Trian. There was that possibility, of course, but Hugh discounted it. The wizard knew their destination better than they did. He might have been following them to make certain the Hand didn’t attempt to subvert the dragon and make off with it. That would have been foolish in the extreme. Hugh was no wizard, he knew better than to meddle with a spell, especially one laid on a dragon. Ensorceled, dragons were obedient and tractable. Break the enchantment, and they regained their own will and intelligence and became totally erratic and unpredictable. They might continue to serve you, but they might also decide to make you their evening repast.

If it wasn’t Trian, who was it?

Someone from the queen, no doubt. Hugh cursed the wizard and his king long and hard beneath his breath. The bungling fools had let slip their plans. Now, undoubtedly, Hugh had to contend with some baron or earl attempting to rescue the child. The Hand would have to rid himself of this nuisance, which meant laying a trap, cutting a throat, hiding a body. The kid would probably recognize the man, know him to be a friend. He would grow suspicious. Hugh would have to convince the prince that the friend had been an enemy; that his enemy was truly his friend. It looked to be a lot of bother, and all because Trian and his guilt-ridden king had been careless.

Well, thought Hugh grimly, it’ll cost them.

The dragon began spiraling down, without guidance from Hugh, and the Hand guessed that they had reached their destination. The magical cloud disappeared and Hugh glimpsed a patch of forest, dark black against the blue-glowing coralite, and then a large cleared area and the sharply defined and delineated shapes that were never found in nature but were created by man. It was a small village, nestled in a valley of coralite and surrounded by heavy forests. Hugh knew of many such towns that used the hills and trees to hide themselves from elven attack. They paid the penalty by being well off the major airlanes, but if it came to a question of living well or living at all, some people gladly chose poverty.

Hugh knew the value of life. Measuring it against good living, he considered them fools.

The dragon circled the sleeping village. Seeing a glade in the forest, Hugh guided the beast to a smooth landing. As he unpacked their gear from the dragon’s back, he wondered where their shadow had set down. He did not spend much time considering the question. The Hand had laid his snare. It required only baiting.

The dragon left them immediately after it was unloaded. Rising into the air, it disappeared above the treetops. Casually, taking his time, Hugh shouldered the packs. Motioning to the prince to follow, he was heading off into the woods when he felt a tug at his sleeve.

“What is it, Your Highness?”

“Can we talk out loud now?” The child’s eyes were wide. Hugh nodded.

“I can carry my own pack. I’m stronger than I look. My father says someday I’m going to grow up to be as tall and strong as he is.”

Stephen said that, did he? To a kid he knew would never grow up. If I had that bastard in front of me, it’d be a pleasure to twist his neck. Silently Hugh handed Bane the pack. They reached the edge of the forest and plunged into the deep shadows beneath the hargast trees. Soon they would be lost to sight and hearing, their feet making no sound on the thick carpet of fine dustlike crystals.

The Hand felt another tug at his sleeve.

“Sir Hugh,” said Bane, pointing, “who’s that?” Startled, the Hand glanced around. “There’s no one there, Your Highness.”

“Yes, there is,” said the child. “Don’t you see him? It’s a Kir monk.” Hugh halted and stared at the boy.

“It’s all right if you don’t see him,” added Bane, shifting his pack to lie more comfortably across his small shoulders. “I see lots of things other people don’t. But I’ve never seen a Kir monk walk with anyone before. Why is he with you?”

“Let me carry it, Your Highness.” Hugh took the pack from the prince and, propelling the child in front of him with a firm grip of his hand, resumed walking.

Damn Trian! The blasted wizard must have let something else slip. The kid had picked up on it and now his imagination was running wild. He might even guess the truth. Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. It only made the assassin’s job that much more difficult—and therefore that much more expensive.

The two spent what was left of the night in a water harvester’s warming shed. The sky was lightening; Hugh could see the faint glimmer of the firmament that presaged dawn. The edges of the Lords of Night glistened a fiery red. Now he could determine the direction in which they were moving and could at last orient himself. Inspecting the contents of his pack before leaving the monastery, he’d ascertained that he had all the proper navigational equipment—his own having been taken from him in Yreni prison. He removed a small leather-bound book and silver baton topped by a quartz sphere. The baton had a spike on the end and Hugh shoved it into the ground.

All such sextants are of elven make—humans possessing no mechanical magic skills. This one was practically new and he guessed it was a trophy of war. Hugh gave the baton a tap with his finger and the sphere rose into the air, much to the delight of Bane, who was watching in wide-eyed fascination. Scarcity of water in the Mid Realm means that much of it must be harvested from plant life. Water farmers raise such water-producing plants; water harvesters go foraging for the liquid.

“What’s it doing?” he demanded.

“Look through it,” Hugh offered.

The prince hesitantly placed his eye level with the sphere. “I just see a bunch of numbers,” he said, disappointed.

“That’s what you’re supposed to see.” Hugh made a mental note of the first number, turned a ring at the bottom of the baton, read off the second, and finally a third. Then he began flipping pages in the book.

“What are you looking for?” Bane squatted down on his haunches to peer over Hugh’s arm.

“Those numbers you saw are the position of the Lords of Night, the five Ladies of Light, and Solarus, all in relation to each other. I find the numbers in this book, match them with the time of year, which tells me where the islands are located at this particular moment, and it should tell me within a few menkas where we are.”

“What funny writing!” Bane turned his head nearly upside-down to see. “What is it?”

“It’s elvish. Their navigators were the ones who figured all this out and came up with the magical device that takes the readings.”

The boy frowned. “Why didn’t we use something like that when we flew on the dragon?”

“Because dragons know instinctively where they are. No one’s sure how, but they use all their senses—sight, hearing, smell, touch—plus some we probably don’t even know exist to guide them. Elf magic won’t work on dragons, so they had to build dragonships and they had to make things like this to tell them where they were. That’s why”—Hugh grinned—“elves consider us barbarians.”

“Well, where are we? Do you know?”

“I know,” said Hugh. “And now it’s time, Your Highness, for a nap.” They were on Pitrin’s Exile, probably about 123 menkas backtrack[8] from Winsher. Hugh felt more relaxed, once this was in his mind. It had been unsettling, not being able to tell up from down, so to speak. Now he knew and he could rest. It wouldn’t be full light for another three hours. Rubbing his eyes, yawning, and stretching, like a man who has traveled far and is bone-tired, Hugh—shoulders slumped and feet dragging—marched the prince into the shed. Seeming half-asleep, the assassin gave the door a push to close it. It didn’t shut all the way, but he was, apparently, too tired to notice. Bane took a blanket from his pack, spread it, and lay down. Hugh did the same, shutting his eyes. When he heard the child’s breathing fall into a slow and steady rhythm, he swiftly twisted, catlike, to his feet and crept silently across the floor of the shed.

The prince was already fast asleep. Hugh looked at him closely, but the boy did not appear to be shamming. Curled up in a ball, lying on top of his blanket, he would freeze in the chill predawn air.

Fishing another blanket out of his pack, Hugh tossed it over the kid, then moved silently back to the opposite side of the shed, the side near the door. He slipped off his tall boots and laid them on the floor, carefully arranging them so that they were turned sideways, one resting on top of the other. He dragged his pack over and laid it just above his boots. Removing the fur cloak, he wrapped it in a ball and placed it next to the pack. A blanket, spread over the cape and pack, left the soles of the boots showing. Anyone looking in from the doorway would see the feet of a blanket-wrapped man fast asleep.

Satisfied, Hugh drew his dagger from his boot and squatted down in a dark corner of the shed. Eyes on the door, he waited.

Half an hour passed. The shadow was giving Hugh ample time to fall into deep sleep.

The Hand waited patiently. It wouldn’t be too long now. Day had dawned fully. The sun was shining. The man must fear they would waken and start on their way again. The assassin watched the thin ribbon of gray light streaming in through the partially shut door. When that ribbon began to widen, Hugh’s hand tightened its grip on the dagger.

Slowly, silently, the door swung open.

A head thrust inside. The man looked long and carefully at the supposedly slumbering figure of Hugh beneath the blanket, then turned the same careful scrutiny to the boy. Hugh held his breath. Apparently satisfied, the man entered the shed.

Hugh expected the man to be armed and to immediately attack the dummy of himself. The assassin was disconcerted to see that the man carried no weapon in his hand and was padding soft-footed over to the boy. It was just to be a rescue, then.

Hugh leapt, wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, and put the dagger to his throat.

“Who sent you? Tell me the truth and I’ll reward you with a quick death.” The body in Hugh’s grasp went limp and the assassin saw, in astonishment, that the man had fainted.