Chapter Six

It occurred to Dumery that in all likelihood not a single full-time professional dragon-hunter lived inside the city walls. It was not an occupation that could be practiced in an urban environment, or that would be in great demand on the streets of Ethshar. In order to ply his trade a dragon-hunter would naturally require the presence of wild dragons, and the only dragons in the city were baby ones kept as pets or showpieces by rich eccentrics, or for the Arena by magicians and show people.

No wild dragons lurked in the streets and courtyards, Dumery was sure. Not even in the sewers or the Hundred-Foot Field.

So no dragon-hunter would live in the city.

That meant, Dumery realized, that his father wouldn’t be able to arrange an apprenticeship for him. Doran’s contacts in the city were extensive and varied, but elsewhere, outside the walls, as far as Dumery knew all his contacts were with other merchants.

To the best of his knowledge, the only person Dumery had ever seen, since the day he was born, who might be a dragon-hunter, or at least might know where one could be found, was the man in brown leather, right there in the Dragon’s Tail, pocketing Thetheran’s gold and gloating shamelessly over it.

Furthermore, the odds of Dumery finding another dragon-hunter-if the man in brown actuallywas a hunter, and not just a middleman of some sort-before he was too old to apprentice toany trade except soldiering looked rather poor.

After all, he had gone twelve years without ever noticing a dragon-hunter before; even when looking, he suspected that he might easily go two or three years without seeing another.

This, then, was it, Dumery told himself. This man in brown leather was the key to his entire future, an opportunity he could not afford to waste.

An over-hasty approach might bring disaster; Dumery decided against simply marching up and presenting himself.

As the boy reached that decision, Thetheran rose, haughtily ignoring his supplier. As the mage stalked out of the inn into the sunlit market Dumery ducked back out of sight, behind a wagonload of tanned leather.

Of course, there was no real reason to hide from Thetheran; he had done the wizard no harm, and had no real reason to think the man wished him ill-Dumery didn’t really believe in his own theories of a conspiracy created by Thetheran for the express purpose of preventing one boy, himself, from learning magic.

All the same, Dumery preferred not to be seen.

When the magician had grumbled his way around the corner onto High Street, out of sight and sound, Dumery emerged from behind the wagon and hurried into the Dragon’s Tail. He looked at the corner by the stairs.

The man in brown was gone.

Dumery stared, horribly disappointed, at the empty table where the wizard had bought the flask of dragon’s blood. The boy turned, quickly scanning the rest of the room, but he saw no sign of his target.

How had the man slipped away? Dumery had never turned his gaze from the tavern door for more than a couple of seconds. He looked around the taproom.

There was the hearth, and a door to the kitchens, and a long wall adorned with a strip of scaly green hide-from a genuine dragon’s tail, perhaps? Then came a broad, many-paned window, and the door to the square, and then the stairs.

The stairs. Dumery finished his circuit of the room, past the curtained booths below the stairs and past an open door that appeared to lead to the cellars, and back to the hearth.

Unless there was a way out through the kitchens or the cellars, or behind one of the draperied private booths, none of which seemed like anywhere an ordinary customer would go, the man in brown had probably just gone up to his room.

Of course, if the man in brown thought that Thetheran was angry enough to try some dire revenge, then perhaps hehad gone out through the kitchens or cellars or booths-thoughts of secret passages and ancient crypts and hidden tunnels came to mind.

That didn’t seem very likely; Dumery was old enough to know that most of the more romantic tales he had heard were exaggerated, and that as a general rule everyday life did not include many hairbreadth escapes or mysterious passages.

All the same, this was a man who dealt harshly with wizards. If anyone might anticipate a need for a secret departure, he might.

“Hai!” Dumery called, waving to a young woman in a white apron, carrying a tray under her arm.

She saw him, and sauntered over.

“What is it, boy?” she asked. “Aren’t you a bit young for a traveler?”

“I’m not a traveler,” Dumery said, concocting a lie on the spot. “I’m a messenger. My master heard that there was a man here selling dragon’s blood, and as it happens, he has need of a pint or so.”

The woman frowned. “Oh? And who would your master be?”

“Doran of Wizard Street,” Dumery improvised.

“And the name of the man he sent you after?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Dumery admitted. “A tall man in brown leather, I was told. My master said I’d be sure to know him when I saw him. But I’ve looked, and I don’t see anyone here like that. Thisis the Dragon’s Tail, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is!” she snapped. “You saw the signboard, and there’s the skin of the tail itself.” She gestured at the hide stretched on the wall.

Dumery nodded. “Of course. Well, maybe he’s stepped out, then, this man I was sent after?”

“No,” she said, “I know who you mean. He’s upstairs, settling his bill and packing his things; he’s been three days here, and he’s done his business and ready to go. I don’t think he’s got a drop of that stuff left, but if you want to ask him, he should be down again any minute.”

“Oh,” Dumery said. “Thank you.”

Someone called, and the woman turned away, lifting her tray. Dumery sat down on a nearby chair and waited.

While he waited, he tried to figure out just how he wanted to approach the situation.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, when Dumery was beginning to wonder if he’d been tricked, two people came tramping noisily down the stairs. One was a plump, elderly woman wearing a white apron and carrying a plump purse-the innkeeper, presumably-while the other was the familiar man in brown. The man had a large pack slung over one shoulder.

Dumery waited until they had passed him, then got quickly to his feet.

The innkeeper turned left and headed for the kitchens; the man in brown turned right and headed out the door.

Dumery followed the man in brown.

The man marched across the market square, Dumery staying close behind, watching his every step. It appeared he was heading for the south gate-tower once more.

Sure enough, he stopped and exchanged a few words with the guard; Dumery was not close enough to catch the words this time. He worked his way through the crowd, and emerged a pace or so away just as the man in brown turned away and marched on-out through the city gates and into the wide World beyond.

A sudden irrational terror struck Dumery at the thought of following him.

Never, in all his life, had Dumery left the protection of Ethshar’s city wall.

Venturing out of the streets into the wilderness beyond-or at least, comparative wilderness-was truly frightening. Dumery knew that the real wilderness didn’t begin for a hundred leagues or so, butanything that wasn’t city seemed dangerous and alien.

Still, this was his one chance at becoming a dragon-hunter.

“Hai!” he called, running after the man.

Even as he ran, Dumery was surprised to see that the market continued outside the gate. The city did not; to either side of the bare packed dirt of the highway lay open green fields, rather than streets and shops. Even so, wagons lined the sides of the highway, and farmers were selling their wares to a milling crowd of city-folk just as if they were all safely inside Westgate Market.

“Hello,” he called, “dragon’s blood! In the brown leather!”

The man in brown heard him, and stopped. He turned, startled, as Dumery ran up to him.

“Yes, lad?” he asked.

Dumery had to catch his breath. Furthermore, he was disconcerted to find himself actually outside the wall, and the broad expanses of open space, dotted with trees and farmhouses, were so strange that his eyes kept being drawn away from the man’s face. By the time he could gather himself sufficiently to speak impatience showed in the man’s features.

“Please, sir,” Dumery said, “I’m of an age to begin an apprenticeship, and I saw you selling dragon’s blood, and I thought that you must be a dragon-hunter, and I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than to become one. A dragon-hunter, I mean.”

This was not the careful explanation and appeal he had tried to plan out while sitting in the Dragon’s Tail, but rather a rush of words that got out before he could stop them. He shut his mouth, cutting the flow off, and bit his lip nervously, trying to think what he could say or do to improve the impression he was making.

The man stared coldly down at him, and for the first time Dumery really got a good look at him.

The man’s hair and beard were dark brown, almost black, and both were long and thick and not particularly tidy. His eyes were brown and sunken, beneath heavy brows. His nose had obviously been broken at least once, and three scars ran parallel across his right cheek, as if something had clawed him badly once. He was big, well over six feet, probably over six and a half, and he was broad, too-his chest and shoulders looked as if he’d have to turn sideways to fit through most doors. His hands were gnarled and scarred and looked strong enough to crush stone.

He wore a heavy brown leather tunic, cut longer than was the fashion in Ethshar, and matching breeches that were stuffed into the tops of his heavy brown boots. A wide brown belt held three knives of different sizes, an ordinary purse, and a larger pouch. He carried a pack on one shoulder that was roughly the size of Dumery.

He did not actually look like very pleasant company, but Dumery had committed himself.

“Ah...” the boy said. “My father can pay all your expenses, if you take me on...”

“Boy,” the man said, interrupting him, “I don’t want an apprentice, and if I did, it wouldn’t be a runt like you. Go home and find something else to do.”

Dumery’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Runt?

The man had calledhim a runt?

He wasn’t terribly big for his age, but he was no runt! He was maybe a little over average height, even. Perhaps a little thin, but he’d fill out, he was sure, in a few years.

“I...” he began.

The man held up a silencing hand.

“Forget it, kid,” he said. “I don’t need an apprentice, I don’t want an apprentice, and I won’thave an apprentice, and I certainly won’t haveyou. I don’t care if your father’s the overlord himself and you’re Azrad the Eighth to be, I’m not interested. And quite aside from any apprenticeship, I won’t tell you anything about dragons or hunting or anything else. I don’t want anything to do with you. Don’t argue-just go away.”

Dumery blinked, but could think of nothing to say.

The man in brown-or the dragon-hunter, as Dumery thought of him-turned away and marched on down the road.

At first Dumery simply stood there, watching him go, but something inside him refused to give up that easily.

The man had called him a runt and had refused him-but what if he showed that he wasn’t a runt, wasn’t as scrawny as he might look? What if he proved he could handle the wilderness, and wasn’t just a pampered rich city kid?

Thenmaybe the dragon-hunter would take him on!

After all, even Thetheran had tested him. He had failed that test, of course, but he wasn’t going to fail this one.

Maybe the man in brown was even doing itdeliberately! Maybe he reallywas testing Dumery, to see if Dumery had what it took to hunt dragons.

Dumery had to follow him.

He began to hurry after the man in brown, but then he stopped, considering.

If itwasn’t a deliberate test, and maybe even if it was, he didn’t want to be spotted too easily. He ducked off the highway, cut through the line of farmers’ wagons, and set out, traipsing across a muddy field, paralleling the road, trying very hard to keep the man in brown in sight.

Maybe, he thought, I can find some way to help him out somewhere. Then he’dhave to accept me as an apprentice, if I saved his life from a rampaging dragon or something.

Awash in dreams of glory, Dumery marched on through someone’s cotton field, stumbling over plants and ditches. He kept an eye on the man in brown, but he didn’t try to catch up; instead he deliberately hung back. He didn’t want to be spotted.

Once they were both well past the outermost fringe of the market, though, Dumery did return to the highway. Pushing through the fields was just too much work.

They marched on. Or rather, the dragon-hunter marched, while Dumery kept up as best he could, maintaining the distance between them. He had to run occasionally, to make up for the big man’s much longer legs, and he often thought he was about to collapse from exhaustion-but each time he reached that state the man in brown would settle down for a rest.

When the dragon-hunter rested, Dumery rested, stopping fifty or a hundred yards away, where he wouldn’t be easily recognized. He would sit, massaging his feet and nervously watching the man in brown, and when the dragon-hunter rose, Dumery would snatch his boots back on and leap to his feet and set out anew.

A brief afternoon shower almost discouraged him, but after some initial dismay he hunched his shoulders and resolved to ignore it. The man in brown pulled a hat from his pack and put it on, but other than that he, too, ignored the rain.

The rain ended in less than an hour, and the sun reappeared, clean and bright.

Through it all, Dumery marched on, westward and then northward along the highway as it curved, keeping the leather-clad man in sight, but never drawing near.

Only when the sun finally reddened and sank low in the west, and the skies began to darken again even though the clouds continued to dissipate, did Dumery realize just what an incredibly foolish mistake he had made.

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