Knights of the Crown

Chapter 12

The dragon was male and gave his name as Hipparan. Either Tarothin did not have the power to counter whatever protective spells guarded the true name and discover that, or he did not care to offend the dragon.

Pirvan quickly became persuaded that it did not really matter. Hipparan seemed to feel that he had discharged most of his debts to the human race by driving off what he called “a sorry pile of sweepings and scourings of several races.”

Pirvan asserted that if the victory had been so easy, then the dragon owed his rescuers even more. Hipparan replied that it was all very well to say this by human reckoning, but dragons reckoned debts otherwise. Copper dragons reckoned them the most minutely, of all good dragons. Indeed, the only dragons that reckoned profit and loss more tenaciously were the evil white dragons, and everyone knew that they went about feeling superior with very little to justify that opinion.

“It’s useful that Hipparan knows as much about his race as this,” Tarothin said. He and Pirvan were standing out of hearing of even the keenest-eared dragon. The wizard looked as if he’d bitten an unripe fig. “I had hoped I would not need to teach him as well as heal him.”

“Oh, I suspect there are very few things he will need to be taught,” Pirvan said. “Although I begin to wish we’d had to teach him to talk.”

“Consider how much time that would have cost, in readying him to face the black dragon.”

“If it exists.”

“I think Eskaia is right. Both are part of the balance, and I will be surprised if there is no plan for them to meet each other. Also, remember that most human weapons are useless against dragons, and only at a greater cost in lives than we can afford. Or does Golden Cup have a dragonlance stowed away with all the rest of the lumber in her hold?”

Pirvan held his peace. He rather wished Hipparan would do the same. The dragon might need speech to fulfill his purpose, but one could hope that he would not also use it to deafen and madden his rescuers!

It would have averted the next argument with Hipparan if Tarothin had been able to heal his damaged wing. Not that it was a matter of Hipparan’s being unwilling or Tarothin not having the appropriate spells (at least some of them, those which could not harm any living creature even if they might not do it much good).

It was a matter of Karthayan law. This inlet was Karthayan territory (a claim at which most of the Istarians politely raised eyebrows but otherwise held their peace). Therefore, any wizard not licensed in Karthay could not heal dragons or anybody else anywhere around the fort.

Tarothin pointed out with polished phrases that he was an entirely lawful neutral wizard in Istar.

Did he have papers to prove it?

No, but he could cast spells to bring the evidence from Istar.

He could not cast spells. No exceptions or exemptions. But he could certainly send a messenger to Istar and have the messenger bring back the necessary documents, sworn statements, and so forth. The Karthayans would even be happy to provide the messenger and a ship for him, for a suitable consideration.

The Istarians were left wondering whether the Karthayans were trying to prevent the departure of the dragon entirely, or merely make it more profitable. Some of them also said, where no Karthayans could hear it, “If the Karthayans do this when they’re under our rule, how are we going to know when they rebel?”

Tarothin said that he could easily overcome that miserable excuse for a cleric, but it would be like using kittens for archery practice. Also, it would undoubtedly create more delays, more legal complications, and more excuses for the Karthayans to assess fines.

With sarcasm crackling in every word, Eskaia expressed delight that he saw matters so nearly as she did without being commanded.

While some of Golden Cup’s people wielded words, others wielded axes. If Hipparan could not be healed enough to fly until they got to sea, then he would have to be floated out to the ship on a raft and hoisted aboard like the longboat. This presented problems, not the least of which was the dragon’s weight, which required a large raft and might overburden the ship’s lifting gear.

The first notion they had for building the raft was to use the cut logs at the fort. They learned that these were the property of the lords of Karthay and not to be sold, except at a price that took even Lady Eskaia’s breath away.

The next idea was cutting trees. For this, however, they would need a license, the obtaining of which seemed as complicated as obtaining Tarothin’s legal documents from Istar. It also bore an impressive price, roughly equivalent to a small manor.

They next considered sending a boat down the inlet or even outside it, to cut trees and tow them back. That seemed a counsel of desperation, considering the amount of time it would take to build a raft one log at a time and the improbability of the Karthayans ignoring the undertaking for very long.

In fact, one harbor guard galley followed the boat immediately. Once the boat left the inlet, the galley was so close behind that the ram actually gouged the boat’s stern a couple of times.

The hint was explicit; the Istarians took it. They also took more gold from the strongroom and bought enough timber for a raft to support six dragons.

At least that was their intention. Hipparan disagreed. It had to be at least twice its present size.

“Cut the logs for it, and we’ll gladly use them!” Kurulus snarled.

It would have been a considerable understatement about him, or a good many others of the shore party, to say that they were at the end of their patience. In fact, it was so far behind them that it was barely visible on the horizon.

Hipparan stared at the trees, then at Tarothin. Something passed between dragon and wizard that made Tarothin clap his hand to his forehead and turn to speak to his companions.

The dragon made a wordless sound that conveyed indescribable vulgarity. Then he thrust his head toward the base of the nearest tree, closed his eyes, and took three deep breaths.

A glowing copper-hued circle appeared around the base of the tree. A heartbeat later, it vanished in a great gout of mud. Suddenly the tree and several of its neighbors stood in a vast waste of mud, a good spear’s toss wide. Tarothin and Pirvan, closest to the dragon, had to jump back hastily not to be caught in ooze that might be of any depth.

Another heartbeat, and they knew-deep enough to topple the trees, as the weight of their trunks and crowns overbalanced the remaining efforts of their roots. The largest tree was the first to fall, snapping off branches from itself and its neighbors as it came down with a soggy crash, hurling mud and twigs in all directions.

Pirvan and Tarothin jumped back even farther, but not fast enough to keep mud and twigs from splattering them. Wizard and thief wiped mud from their eyes and plucked twigs from their hair, as the rest of the trees subsided with a formidable snapping of branches. Everyone hastily gave still more ground, as splinters the size of arrows flew in all directions.

Hipparan walked as delicately as a cat along one trunk and posed on the pile of toppled trees. “I know not from rafts, they being a human contrivance. I should think that here are at least as many as you have shown me already”

To Pirvan’s eye, admittedly not that of a seasoned timber feller, Hipparan had knocked down enough trees to build a small ship.

Tarothin was the first to find words.

“Why didn’t you do that before?”

“I did not owe you enough to solve your problems for you. At least not before I knew how serious they were.”

“I suppose we now owe you,” Haimya muttered.

Dragons, it appeared, had exceptionally acute hearing. Hipparan waved his one good wing, sending a storm of flying leaves into everybody’s face. If dragons could grin, he would have done so as he spoke.

“Of course, fair warrior. You are swiftly learning the customs observed in dealing with copper dragons.”

Haimya and Pirvan did not dare speak again, but another exchange of glances told of another common thought: I could just as well have remained ignorant of customs and much else about copper dragons.

Then Haimya’s eyes took on a distant look. Pirvan knew she was chiding herself for such selfishness, when Gerik Ginfrayson might even now be courting death close to a black dragon.

He started looking for an axe, saw none, and for a moment was afraid they’d been lost in the bog or smashed under the falling trees. Then he saw the handles of the tools sticking out from the edge of the mud. He hurried forward to grab them, stepped into a deep hole, and went in up to his waist.

He had to count to fifty to avoid an outburst of language that would surely offend the gods and perhaps the dragon, though he was very much in a mood to offend the dragon. Then he held out an axe, handle-first, Haimya and the mate gripped it, and with all three struggling and sweating Pirvan rose from the mire like some hero of legend.

If this is heroism, give me honest night’s work, he thought.

* * * * *

Their troubles were almost over when Hipparan climbed aboard the raft. It had taken all the purchased and spell-toppled logs, as well as lashings that used most of the spare cordage aboard Golden Cup and some scores of feet of vines as well.

“If we needed any more, we’d have to start tearing up our clothes,” Kurulus said. “Although some of us might look better after such work than others,” he added, with a grin at Haimya.

Pirvan kept rude words off his lips with an effort, and knew he’d lost the battle to command his face before it began. Fortunately Haimya was not looking at this display of unseemly jealousy.

She stared at the mate, then smiled. It barely missed being the smile of a cat about to take a mouse by the throat. She did not move a finger, but she somehow managed to look as formidable as if she’d already drawn her sword.

“My apologies, Ma’am,” the mate said, bowing. He tried to doff his hat, but it was glued to his hair with mud. “But only a blind man could fail to notice that you’re more than commonly handsome.”

“I do not insist that men blind their eyes,” Haimya said, with a real smile now. “Only bind their tongues, at least when there’s work to be done.”

“As indeed there is,” the mate said. It was not quite a groan.

Once the raft was assembled, it took a further while to persuade Hipparan to board it. He was reluctant to wade, no one wanted the lashings tested by his jumping, and the raft drew too much water to let him climb aboard dryshod.

So they had to buy more logs, split them, and make a gangplank long enough to reach from reasonably firm mud to the raft. At least they had the consolation that they’d built the gangplank with steps, so Hipparan might be able to climb aboard. No one dared even think about what hoisting him aboard might do to her laboriously repaired rigging.

By now everyone aboard the ship knew that they were going to be taking a dragon aboard. The fact that it was a good dragon did not ease everyone’s mind, even those who had seen Hipparan fighting ashore. Sailors were notoriously superstitious, and the only one who claimed much knowledge of dragons was Tarothin. Of course, he had saved the ship and done other marvels, but no wizard was infallible.

Most of the crew muttered, frowned, or stared. Three went farther, or at least attempted to. They tried to desert.

Two stole a boat and rowed ashore. The Karthayan soldiers promptly caught them as they blundered about in the jungle, making more noise than twice their number of ogres. The soldiers also returned them to Golden Cup, and the punishment they received was as much for what the Karthayans charged for this service, as it was for the act of desertion.

A third man took more thought-or at least it seemed so at first. He slipped overboard from the seaward side of the ship and swam out into the inlet. Perhaps he intended to reach the watchful galley, throwing himself on the mercy of fellow sailors. Perhaps he merely intended a landfall beyond the reach of the garrison.

Whatever he intended, he never accomplished it. The boat setting out after him by the light of Lunitari saw him swimming strongly. Then he threw up his arms, screamed once as if his soul were being torn apart along with his body, and vanished.

Cramp, current, curse, or something in the water, no one knew, and few cared to speculate aloud. The grumbling became muted, and the desertions ceased.

It did not hurt that the next day Hipparan scrambled up the gangplank from the raft onto the deck without missing a step. In language that seemed to have become more flowery in the few days since his appearance, he thanked the crew for its hospitality and swore not to abuse it. Then he slipped down into the aft hold, which had been cleared for his accommodations, at the price of a good deal of labor made more exhausting by the damp heat of the inlet.

Pirvan watched the hatch cover slide back on, then he sighed.

“It’s not over yet,” Haimya said. “Though I admit I’ve seldom seen a horse go into a strange stable with as little fuss.”

“Did I say it was over?” Pirvan asked.

“That sigh expressed hope at least.”

“Yes. I hope he’ll consider that he now owes us something, for all the work we did. He only cast a spell and knocked down some trees. Or is casting a spell as much work for a dragon as it is for a human wizard?”

“I suppose that it’s different with each dragon, as it is with each wizard.”

“We can always ask Tarothin,” Pirvan said.

“But will he answer?” Haimya asked. Then the sour look left her face. “Wager. Hipparan still considers us in his debt.”

“Accepted. What is the forfeit?”

Haimya grinned. “The loser massages all the winner’s most painful muscles.”

Pirvan could not have replied except in a nod, but that seemed enough. Within, he was wondering how he could possibly lose the wager.

* * * * *

They spent another day at the inlet, loading barrels of fresh water, bundles of firewood, and baskets of fruit and salt fish. Then, that evening, the captain inspected the ship, and they sailed at dawn the next day, riding the ebb tide out past the galleys, to open water, which some had doubted they would ever see again.

Three days later, Haimya stood in a corner of the hold, holding a strip of soft metal. The hold was dimly lit with brass lanterns, and in the pallid light the metal had no sheen to tell her what it might be. She had no intention of testing it by bending or gouging with a thumbnail, even if Tarothin had not warned her firmly against any such thing.

Tarothin stood beside Hipparan, just under the dragon’s hurt wing. The mage wore a loincloth and sandals and held his staff in one hand. In the other he held a brass ewer.

Straddling Hipparan’s half-curled tail was Lady Eskaia. She wore a tunic that left shoulders bare, likewise her legs to past the knee, and nothing on her feet. She was squeezing a sponge on to a ragged gouge in the dragon’s scales. The liquid that dribbled down was bluish and foul-smelling-or was the smell just the hold, after three days of holding a dragon under the northern sun?

Hipparan seemed clean enough in all of his habits, but he was a large animal, and large animals in confined spaces left their mark. Haimya had mucked out worse stables as a girl, however, so she had only to recall her old art of pushing the smell to the back of her mind and getting on with her work.

“Is that the last wound?” Tarothin asked.

“Why don’t you ask me?” Hipparan said before Eskaia could speak.

“I was asking both of you,” Tarothin said, his voice edged.

They were all sweating from the heat of the hold, but Tarothin seemed to have run a race or rowed all day in a galley. He had also drunk three jugs of water and one of wine, and eaten the greater share of a basket of bread, cheese, and sausage let down from the deck an hour ago.

“I’ve doused every wound I could see,” Eskaia said. “Is that every wound you can feel, Hipparan? If not, I have the strength if Tarothin has the potion.”

Eskaia’s voice sounded as warm as it had when she had talked with Jemar the Fair. Then Haimya started, as Eskaia lifted the hem of her tunic to wipe her face. Mercifully, she was wearing reasonably discreet men’s short-drawers in red silk under the tunic. Haimya would not have cared to wager that her mistress wore anything under the tunic above the waist.

Haimya wondered for the tenth time whether her mistress was questing for knowledge of magic and the ransoming of Gerik Ginfrayson. No, that was unjust. Say it, rather, questing only for those things she had admitted.

Was another, unadmitted but real, goal amusing herself as much as she could, in ways that would not be tolerated at home, for once in her life? One-in a man it would be called an escapade-one journey on her own like a kender’s, to prove that she was an adult? Then back to the duties of a daughter of House Encuintras, much more than a single year wiser and more sure of herself?

“Haimya!” Tarothin sounded ready to throw something at her. “This is the third time I’ve asked. The metal strip, please. Hand it to me, and the gods spare you if you drop it!”

Haimya marched up to the wizard as she would have marched up to her company’s commander when reporting for duty. Her hands were sweat-slick but steady as she handed the metal to Tarothin.

The wizard thrust his staff into his belt to free both hands. Then he climbed awkwardly up onto Hipparan’s back and bound the metal around the wounded wing. It seemed to grow longer as Tarothin worked, until it made a dull gray ring three times around the damaged member.

“Stand well back, please,” Tarothin said. “This is the simplest healing magic I think will have any effect, but Hipparan is a dragon, and I am not a god.”

“We will learn how powerful you are sooner if you refrain from stating the obvious,” Hipparan said. Haimya had learned enough of his nuances of speech by now to detect boredom.

Eskaia, on the other hand, was biting her lip to keep from giggling as she came over to join her maid. Both watched as Tarothin stepped back, then touched the tip of his staff to the metal band and began chanting an incantation.

It was not in a language either woman knew, and for all Haimya could have said it did not even contain words. He might have been reciting the multiplication tables in the tongue of some long-lost clan of elves, for all she knew.

Hipparan was feeling something, however. His eyes were shut, and he was stretching his neck, rather like a cat being rubbed in a particularly congenial spot. His crest quivered faintly, like the same cat’s ears.

This went on for some time without any visible change, and Haimya’s mind began to wander to her wager with Pirvan, which was even more of a mystery than Eskaia’s reasons for this voyage.

She was not afraid that he would behave improperly. A more complete gentleman where a woman was concerned could hardly be imagined, let alone found. One might search the menfolk of a large city before finding another such as Pirvan.

No, it was that she feared she was behaving as someone in her position ought not to. She had grown to wonder if she and Gerik would be as they had been when they met again after he was ransomed. She was more than doubtful that the betrothal would survive any great changes, if they were both free to decide.

But they really were not. The line of Leri Ginfrayson (sometimes called Leri the Good) ought to continue-at least Eskaia would see it that way. There was also the matter of Haimya’s position in House Encuintras if she and Gerik parted. She would forfeit the substantial dowry Eskaia’s father had set aside for his daughter’s maid and confidante, and have small choice but to go again for a sellsword.

It was a profession she had followed with better than average success for six years. There would be neither shame nor mystery in taking the field again. But she had seen a whole other world than one saw from a place in a marching column, half choked by dust and thinking mostly of your saddlesores and the rust spot on your sword. She wanted to stay in the new world, and Gerik Ginfrayson was an honorable means to that end.

Also, he was in many ways a better man than Pirvan. He had served Istar honorably in the fleet, if not much at sea. He was more filled out; his beard might be scant, but his hair was long and fine; and his nose was more in proportion to his face.

Pirvan was all bone and sinew, like an alley cat that has foraged for every meal. His hair was a dubious mouse color and showed signs of departing before long, and his nose would make kissing him a somewhat uncertain manner.

His eyes, though, and the way he moved, and the gentleness of his speech (except when he was angry at things that would infuriate the least worldly cleric) and those hands that had found so much unlawful employment but were so fascinating to watch in movement. Fascinating, too, when the time came for them to touch her-or her them …

“Done!” Tarothin said. He sagged backward, and without the help of his staff and Eskaia, he would have fallen to the deck. Instead he sat down and rummaged in the basket for a few extra crumbs.

Haimya looked at Hipparan. At first she saw no difference. His eyes were still closed, and his crest still quivered faintly. Both wings now stretched out across the straw-covered bottom of the hold, as limp as candy held over a fire and turning soft.

Then she saw that the wound on Hipparan’s tail was gone. She looked for other wounds that she’d seen, and saw none of them. She turned her gaze back to the wings, saw them twitch-then Hipparan opened his eyes and let out his familiar warbling cry.

It seemed different now. The bone was out of the bird’s throat. Instead the call rose like a chorus of the greatest singers of some race known to neither gods nor men. It filled the hold, and Haimya wanted to hold her hands over her ears.

She did not, partly because the others weren’t, and partly because it would have seemed cowardly, even impious.

“Open the hatch,” Hipparan said. He did not raise his voice, nor did it sound as different as his call. But it was clearly a command, from one who thought he had every right to give it.

Haimya was not going to argue. She scrambled up the ladder and pounded on the hatch cover.

“Open!” she shouted. “Open, for the dragon!” That was nearly a scream. She would be hoarse if she had to call again.

Chains clanked, canvas hissed, and the hatch cover slid aside, pulled by a dozen sailors. Haimya wondered how long they had been waiting there, and what they were expecting. She would be happy to tell them, if she knew herself.

Hipparan reared up on his hind legs. His forelegs caught the rim of the hatch, the claws scoring deep furrows in the wood. Splinters pattered down on Eskaia and Tarothin, and one sailor cursed briefly at the damage to the ship.

He fell silent as Hipparan turned his great, dark eyes on the man. Then the dragon warbled again, and the sailors scattered as he half sprang, half climbed out of the hold. Haimya hurled herself up the last few rungs of the ladder, stumbled, and went to her hands and knees.

She was still there when Hipparan took three steps, then flung himself over the side. He dropped from sight for a moment, but then ropes snapped and sails bellied in the blast of wind as he snapped his wings to full extension and rose into view again. Legs and belly were dripping, but he continued to rise.

Then he no longer rose, but soared. The great wings beat strongly, carrying him up to the base of the nearest cloud. He vanished into the cloud, men groaned, then he dived out of it and they groaned louder as he continued his dive straight for the sea.

Groans turned to gasps as he came out of his dive with his claws above the wave tops. Then he flew straight at the ship, wings thundering. A long bowshot from Golden Cup, he climbed again, turned upside down, and flew over the ship with his crest pointed down at the deck and his feet at the clouds.

The Encuintras banner stood out as rigid as a board from the wind of Hipparan’s passage.

The dragon climbed again, and called. It was not his warbling cry again, but something harsher, less musical, almost a roar. It still sounded like something that one god might have used in place of words to speak to another. Haimya expected the whole world to be silent until the sea and the sky swallowed that cry.

It almost was, except for Eskaia’s quiet sobbing. She and Tarothin had reached the deck and stood close together. The lady’s head was not quite on the wizard’s shoulder, but it would certainly be allowed there.

Tarothin looked as close as a wizard ever could to being humble, even awed. But then he had healed a creature of the race that was closer to the gods than any other created beings.

It began to seem to Haimya that frivolity and pleasure had lost any place in this quest.

* * * * *

Six days later, land was far behind Golden Cup. The captain had laid their course straight north out of the Gulf of Karthay, then north. They were staying well clear of North Cape, to avoid any ships of Synsaga’s that might be disposed to board first and negotiate afterward.

There was also the matter of the dragon. The fewer eyes outside Golden Cup that saw Hipparan, the better.

Pirvan was turning to descend the ladder from the forecastle when the dragon broke out of a low-lying cloud-bank far off toward the sunset. The ship was rolling gently eastward under easy sail with a steady breeze from almost dead astern.

Hipparan spread his wings and glided in for a landing before Pirvan was halfway down the ladder. As he reached the deck, the dragon folded his wings and landed on his hind legs, slipping in between the shrouds as if he’d been practicing for years.

From ports and hatches bearded faces thrust themselves forward. The sailors were now only wary of Hipparan, not frightened. He had done no harm, some of them appreciated his grace and splendor, and all appreciated a fine haul of fish to which he had guided them two days ago.

They still preferred to leave dealing with the dragon to their officers, among whom Pirvan and Haimya now ranked. As Grimsoar One-Eye put it, “The feeling is, the dragon’s done no harm so far. But why risk being too close when he changes his mind?”

This, Tarothin said, denied the basic concepts of good and evil. Grimsoar replied that the wizard might know a great deal about good and evil, even if he was neutral himself, but how much did he know about dragons? Or sailors, for that matter?

Tarothin departed in something of a temper, after this setdown at the hands of someone he had to force himself to respect. When matters seemed well with Haimya, Pirvan had tried to change the wizard’s mind, but lately he had no time to spare for this.

Haimya had returned to her old distance. Pirvan did not unreasonably regret the lost laying on of hands, and indeed was not sure who had won the bet. Nor did the warrior-maid return to the chilly manner that had made it hard for them to work together.

But their friendship seemed part of a distant past, like the elves’ Kinslayer Wars, a thing of legend. This worried Eskaia, and Pirvan had no idea how much Haimya had told her mistress and how much the young lady had guessed. Not much and quite a lot were Pirvan’s own guesses.

Unfortunately, he and Eskaia could not safely put their heads together and combine their knowledge in the hope of finding a solution. He had no such rights over Haimya, and neither did Eskaia, even if she might think otherwise. Such a well-meant conspiracy would most likely end with Haimya sundered from her mistress and disposed to geld Pirvan with a dull blade.

“Hoha, Pirvan Thief,” Hipparan said. “I have sighted a storm to the northwest. Its course seems toward this ship.”

That brought one of the faces, the mate of the deck, out in plain sight. “Can you tell us more?”

Hipparan described a storm fierce enough to make everyone within hearing look dubiously at one another, then up at the rigging. Golden Cup’s hull and belowdecks were sound enough to weather anything short of the end of the world, but its deck gear and rigging still had scars and weaknesses from the first blow. They would not have to worry much about shoals and reefs this far north, but Pirvan had heard that the storms blew longer and harder.

“Any magic in it?” Haimya asked. Pirvan saw eyes and mouths open, wanted to snap at her for her indiscretion, then realized that such discretion would require Hipparan’s cooperation. Haimya could whisper her question in the dark of the nightwatch, and still have it shouted from the masthead the next day if Hipparan was in the mood.

Besides, Pirvan wanted the question answered himself.

“How should I know?” Hipparan said. He sounded testy. “I flew along the storm front close enough to see clearly. At that distance, I sensed no spells. But if I had flown close enough to sense them, they might have caught me. Then where would we all be?”

Hipparan’s strength had improved. His manners had not. But everyone seemed to know the answer to his final question, and none seemed to like it.

Hipparan left his audience standing, and scrambled down into the hold. A party of sailors began dragging the hatch cover back into place.

“I hope our scaly friend doesn’t mind being a little stuffy when the gale hits,” the mate of the deck said. “I won’t have leaking hatches for all the dragons on Krynn.”

Pirvan wondered how many they might be now. He also wondered where Jemar was. Even Jemar’s own ship might make a difference to the quest; his whole squadron would almost ensure its success. Synsaga could not afford to lose the men and ships that a fight with Jemar would eat.

Haimya merely stared through him. The thief wandered to the railing and looked to the north. Faint and far off, riding high above the crimson sunset glow, he could see the wispy clouds that were so often the vanguard of a storm.