Rogue Dragon

IX

Now it was her turn to frown. Perhaps it was his use of her name — although there was no reason for him not to know it by now — or not to use it.

Her voice was low, restrained, husky. She gave her head the immemorially conventional toss, forgetful that her hair was now cropped short. “We picked you up when your shoulder was hurt,” she said. “And brought you here.”

“We?”

She hesitated. “I brought you here.”

“Using the riot for your own purpose…”

Her laugh was brief, scornful. “Who do you think began the riot? Or why?”

He considered this. His shoulder and arm were throbbing. “I can’t remember… anything…”

“You were drugged. It was easier to get you out that way. Everyone thought you were a lunatic.”

“Mmm… And now I’m here…Where is ‘here’? Peramis? At last. Well… What’s to prevent my talking freely?”

He blinked when she told him; nothing prevented it. He had in fact been brought here for that reason, not any other one. There was no longer any purpose in keeping, or trying to keep secret, the work at the Kar-chee castle. It was disrupted, it was known. Another training place would have to be set up in another location, there to teach the dragons how to kill their hunters. But this could not be done in a day and a night — indeed, it was impossible to say how long it would take.

And Hue’s purpose could not be delayed, whatever advantage so far gained dared not be lost—

“You tried to have me killed,” he interrupted her.

She waved this away with her hand. “That was before we realized that there was no point in silencing you. No, we almost made a mistake there. Now we want you to talk, tell everyone, let the whole Galaxy know what we’ve been doing, why we’ve been doing it. And why we intend to keep right on doing it until we win. Maybe it will help us. It’s clear it can’t hurt us any more.

“The only thing we ask you not to talk about is this place here. It’s useful to us, and we think you owe us that.”

For a moment he reflected. Then he nodded. “All right. But answer me this: Has your father anything to do with the dragons in the Bosky? No? Curious. Well. Take me as near to Company House as you can. I won’t say a word about your hide-out here.”

Nor did he. He wasn’t even asked. Jetro Yi’s effusive and almost incredulous pleasure at seeing Jon-Joras return soon vanished on hearing what he had to say.

“Then it’s true? It is true! We’ve heard rumors, we were naturally, P.M., you understand, we were unwilling to credit them. But — Oh, that’s horrible! That’s unbelievable! But… I mean… actually training them to become rogues! That’s worse than anything I could imagine!”

His rubbery features were distended, distorted by shock. He took him to his superior, the Hunt Company’s Chief Agent in Peramis, one Wills H’vor. H’vor was a man of full flesh, he began to tremble, then to shake. Before Jon-Joras was quite finished, the Chief Agent’s heavy face and pendulous cheeks, the slack muscles of his arms revealed by the sleeveless shirt, were wobbling and quivering. His teeth clattered. With a convulsive movement, he steadied himself enough to speak.

“We — we-we-we — we might have all been killed!” he burst out. Clearly, no conceivable detail of that dreadful death was escaping his imagination. “How can we be-be-be sure?” he cried. “From now on—?”

“Whether the dragons are honestly marked or not? And rogues or not? You can’t,” Jon-Joras said. “I suppose that’s part of their purpose, the outlaw Doghunters, that is.” He felt no desire, now, to go into the morals of the matter, to blame the raging hatred of the outlaws any more than the cold, indifferent oppression of the Gentlemen. His injured arm was giving him infinite pain, he felt sick and hungry and weak. “My king’s hunt will have to be put off… canceled… or held elsewhere. It may have to be in The Bosky, Company Yi — still no? Well—” Jon-Joras shrugged, sighed.

“Please get me ConfedBase on the communicator,” he said. “And then… then… I think I’d better see a physician…”

Wills H’vor waved a trembling fat flipper of a hand. Jetro Yi’s instinctive and obsequious reaction lacked much of its usual fulsomeness, but he hastened to comply. Voices came and went behind the blind face of the comspeaker, Jon-Joras wearied of repeating himself over and over again only to be switched on to someone higher up — and then having to begin yet again. Finally—

“Delegate Anse on. Who is this?”

It might have been imagination, but it seemed to Jon-Joras that on his mentioning (for the tenth time, perhaps) the phrase, “… Private Man of King Por-Paulo of M.M. beta…” he heard the voice of the Galactic Delegate undergo a clear but subtle change. But he did not pause to question this, went on with what he had to say. He stumbled, repeated himself, but he kept on talking.

“All right… No more for just now,” Anse’s voice instructed, interrupting him. “We’ll finish this up together. When. Mmmm. See… Today is Thirday… You missed the ferry, won’t be another till next Firsday. I can’t take the time off just now, or I’d come up by special. Should I send a special to bring you here?”

It was decided, finally, that Jon-Joras should rest, under medical care, until the regular weekly ferry trip the following Firsday. There were special facilities at the Lodge; he should take advantage of them.

“Meanwhile,” concluded Delegate Anse, “this information had best remain uncirculated. Does anyone else… Companymen Yi and H’vor? I’ll get on to them. And you, P.M., take it smoothly. Heal well.”

Under the ministrations of Physician Tu, graduate therapist of the famous schools of Planet Maimon, Jon-Joras’s injuries soon ceased to vex him. In his quiet room at the far end of one wing of the Lodge, he lay on his couch looking out the transparent wall. Dark and green rose the wooded hills afar off, the great river flowing silvery as it bent in the middle distance. Dimly, like a picture scroll slowly unwinding, images, images passed before his eyes.

The hall at Aëlorix… the young archers at practice… the singing passengers flying to the impromptu dragon hunt… the incredible moments while the great bull-dragon failed to be diverted… the stumbling through the forest… barking dogs… musty tunnel… cyclopean and secret-keeping Kar-chee castle… training the rogue… blood spattering… midnight raid and smoke… free and open, life in the nomad camp… the heat of the fire and Thorm straining to place his knife… gliding down the broad moonlit river… the stinking prison room, the cold, impassive face of the Drogue Chairman, the mob raging…

But gradually these images faded and were gone, were replaced by others: the central lawn at the Collegium, like blue-green velvet… a crowd of boys taunting one of their number, black-haired and white-faced and defiant…

Then, slowly, slowly, this too vanished. He continued to lie on his couch, increasingly tranquil, and the afternoon sank beneath the weight of night. Only when the great red sun hesitated on the horizon he arose. And it was then that the shot pierced the transparent wall and shattered the panel lamp no more than an inch or two over his head.

He gazed at it, more curious than disturbed. It was the second shot which convinced him that while he was visible he was in danger. Unbothered but obedient, he lay down on the thick, soft rug. The vibration of the floor reminded him of what his ears had failed to convince his mind: the thick, unceasing clamor of alarm bells.

The door burst open and many men rushed into his room.

Physician Tu insisted that the health of his patient was paramount; questions, he said, could wait. And over the protests of Senoeorix, Commander of the Peramisian force, he had Jon-Joras removed to a room within the lodge’s central core. The wall was turned to opaque, guards posted, the sick man placed under drugs intended to counteract the shock of his attempted murder.

Senoeorix, claiming that the physician’s interference made his task impossible, engaged in no search of the countryside. But the lodge staff responded to the claim, next day, of a free farmer whose name no one bothered to learn, that he had seen someone fleeing in the dusk a few leagues off at about the time of the attempt. They followed his directions. And there in the woods they found a huntgun and two spent capsules.

“Off hand,” Physician Tu said, reflectively, “I’d say that there’s a huntsman who doesn’t like you.”

Jon-Joras nodded equitably. “Affection cannot be forced,” he said, the last word echoing in his drug-happy mind: forced, forced, forced. His lips moved, obedient to the echo.

The therapist threw him a sharp, appraising look. “I may have given you too much. I’m not certain I’ve ever treated anyone from your world with it before, and, while there appears to be no morphological difference, well… diet… environment… it’s difficult to tell. I — Well.” He dispelled his doubts with brisk directions. Go to bed. Eat your dinner when they bring it. Don’t go out of your room. Don’t go out.

Jon-Joras nodded with a dim smile. Out. Out. Out.

He went back to bed, ate his dinner, didn’t go out. Nevertheless, as he lay back after the tray had gone, he had a definite impression that he was losing consciousness. It was not with the suddenness of shock nor the slower procession of a faint, but he was (slowly, slowly) fading away from the world of the senses.

The opaque wall showed a dim forest scene. If he looked carefully, he thought, he might see what was lurking behind the trees, before the scene ebbed away — might see the mysterious, slouching, chitinous Kar-chees themselves. I will grasp the mil of this bed, he thought, with all my might, and hold on tightly, tightly; if I find my hands anywhere else I will know that I’ve been unconscious…

It seemed, somehow, important that he should know. And so, he did know, when he found his hands clasped on the coverlet, that he had slipped away. It must have been then that the man had entered his room.

“Now, please, Big,” the man said, in a hoarse whisper; “don’t make no noises. Listen to what I got to tell ya, huh.”

Jon-Joras nodded. “Doghunter,” he said, pleased with himself at having made this out.

The man didn’t bother to affirm or deny his class. “They want to kill ya,” he said. “You know who I mean. The bigs. The gents. Before the king gets here. Your—”

“My king?” He struggled against the sweet mists of indifference to understand.

“King… King Paul? He gets here tomorrow. And I can tell you — they’re not going to wait. You stay here, you’ll be dead by then, huh.”

Jon-Joras swung his legs over the side, feeling the railings cold to his flesh. “I won’t wait,” he said. “I have to see him. I’ll go…”

He paused. Go where? Where would he be safe. The man in the darkness thumped his chest. “Go with me,” he offered. “We’ll see you safe. I won’t mention no name, but you know who I mean. Him: tall. Her: young. With me.”

Jon-Joras nodded. Hue and Lora. Naturally they’d want him kept safe — now. If he were to be killed before he could talk, tell of what he knew, they’d have to begin from scratch, find some other safe and far-off den to bring their dragons to and train them there. “I’ll go with you. Just lead me. Just lead.”

The corridors were filled with soft darkness here and there spotted with tiny small lights. A thin thread of very quiet music seeped from hidden speakers. The man was a big man, but he moved silently. It could have been no more than a pair of minutes before he had found a stairwell which led them soon to the cool and safety of the darkness without.

A long while afterwards he reached to grasp the man’s shoulder. “Someone’s behind us,” he whispered.

The man mumbled something, Jon-Joras could not clearly hear the words, but clearly he was neither surprised nor concerned. They kept on going. And by and by a door opened so suddenly that his eyes received the unexpected light almost like a blow. A voice inside was muttering, “—still say the Bosky would be—” It fell suddenly silent. His guide turned and took him by the hand to draw him in. Perhaps Jon-Joras’s light-struck eyes made him hesitate, perhaps they noted nonetheless a sudden change in the man’s expression. However it was, he hesitated, drew back. The hand on his wrist tightened, pulled.

There was not one person who had been behind them in the night, there were three. Jon-Joras not only went in, he went down. The door closed upon his astonished cries.

“I should have killed you when you were on my own grounds,” Aëlorix said. “And buried you beneath the dung of the deer-barn.” His mouth arched like a bow, down at the corners.

Feeling dazed, dull, stupid, Jon-Joras said, “But I saw your son die. He died in my arms. He—”

“He died, at least, with honor. Sooner or later one way or the other, every man meets his dragon. His was a dirty one — a rogue. A man-made rogue!” The aristocrat’s voice clicked in his throat, his face showed a disgust greater than grief or rage.

Protesting, bewildered, “But I had nothing to do with that,” Jon-Joras cried. “I might have been killed there myself. I don’t understand. I don’t understand!” His anguished gaze took in the rough-looking man who had brought him there and his rougher-looking fellows. “And I certainly don’t — You! You are not of the Gentlemen! Why are you doing this?”

The guide gave a short laugh. “Ah, you thought you was so clever, huh. ‘Doghunter,’ you said to me. That’s just one of your mistakes. I’m not a Doghunter, huh, any more than I’m a Gentleman. Maybe you don’t know everything about this place after all. So I’ll tell a few things, make it all clear. What’s it that the old nut-head who digs in ruins calls us? ‘Plebs’? So we’re plebs, huh. But that don’t make us Dog-hunters! Or what’s it they like to call themselves, ‘free farmers,’ we don’t want no farms, dig potatoes, all that. Nah…”

In small mood to appreciate the rude logic of what he heard, Jon-Joras listened nevertheless. It did make sense. Many of the plebs gave full approval to the Hunt system. They did so because of the employment it gave, the trade it brought, the color it afforded their otherwise drab days; they did so from simple habit, too, and also because they held themselves to be superior to the Doghunters — who opposed it. And because it allied them, thus, to the Gentlemen, whom they envied — and with whom, thus, they identified.

It was that complex. And that simple.

In vain Jon-Joras pointed out that to expose the outlaws’ program of mis-marking dragon-chicks and of training some of those thus disfigured to be rogues, must inevitably result — one way or another — in the destruction of the outlaws’ program. Uselessly he declared that he himself was taking no sides, that Hue’s people had captured him once and subsequently tried to have him murdered.

To the first plea Aëlorix said only, grimly, “We know how to take care of that ourselves.” And to the second, “Too bad they didn’t succeed.” Adding, “But we will…”

Why? Why?

But the questions were based on the assumption that reason and fair-play prevailed, and in this situation neither did. The outlaws now wished their outlawry revealed and Jon-Joras had agreed to reveal it. Therefore he was doing their bidding. Therefore he was on their side. Therefore he had made himself the target of the full rage of the Gentlemen and their jackals.

More — When Aëlorix said that he was not dependent on the Hunt Company, he spoke only in the most economic, limited sense. Every single Gentleman was dependent on the Company because the Hunt System was dependent on the outworld trade and the Gentlemen, as a class, were dependent on the System. Even such finite freedom as Aëlorix himself possessed was the exception.

“Do you think I don’t know you for what you are?” he asked, scornfully. “Outworlders? — cowards — the lot of you. One hint of danger, you’d never show yourselves on Earth again. And then what? Grub in the dirt—us? — like Dog-hunters’ brats?”

Then, as he paused, over the sound of his heavy breathing, another sound came in from the night… low. Low, troubled, melancholy… the cry of a questing dragon. Almost for the first time there came to Jon-Joras’s mind, preoccupied as it was with his own fears and his troubles, some thought of dragon qua dragon — poor beast! predestined to torture, agony, death for another species’ sport — when all it wanted was to find a mate, to couple as nature intended it, off there in the cool and ferny darkness.

The eyes of master and men swung in the direction of the cry, then; rested briefly, swung back to the prisoner; met each other. Whatever thoughts were theirs, pity was not one of them. The erstwhile guide began to grin.

“There it is,” he said.

Aëlorix nodded. Jon-Joras felt his flesh prickle. “What—” he began.

“‘Sooner or later,’” Aëlorix quoted himself, “‘one way or the other, every man meets his dragon.’

“Hear it? That’s yours.”