Calling on Dragons

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “I don’t think I—”

  “Then there’s straw, first quality, for spinning into gold. I can deliver as much as you want, on a regular schedule. I grow four kinds of grain—oats, barley, millet, and wheat—on the same plants, so it’s harvested premixed. I sell it by the bushel, to people who want to test someone by making them sort out the different kinds. And beans, naturally. I got the kind that jump and the kind that grow giant stalks. I’ve got apples, poisoned or gold, in several varieties; extra-large pumpkins for turning into coaches; and walnuts with anything you want inside, from a miniature dog to a dress as shining as the stars.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” Cimorene said, “but I don’t think I need any of those things.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any invisible dusk-blooming chokevines, would you?” Morwen asked.

  “No, I don’t grow ornamentals,” MacDonald replied. “I stick to vegetables, fruit, and nuts. Farm things. I’m hoping to branch out into livestock soon.”

  Cimorene blinked. “What sort of livestock?”

  “Oh, little dogs that laugh, winged horses, geese that lay golden eggs, that sort of thing. That’s why I’m growing hay.” The farmer waved at the hillside. “I want to have it on hand when the horses arrive.”

  “It’s not enchanted hay, is it?” Morwen asked with sudden misgiving.

  “Not exactly. Why?”

  “Killer tends to react . . . oddly when he’s exposed to new enchantments.” Nothing seemed to have happened yet, though. At least, Morwen hadn’t heard any horrified braying since Killer disappeared over the hill. Perhaps it would be all right.

  MacDonald shrugged. “I use enchanted fertilizer to help it grow, but the hay itself is nothing special. Winged horses eat pretty much the same thing as regular horses, plus a little birdseed.”

  “You sound as if you’ve thought about it quite a bit,” Cimorene said.

  “Had to,” MacDonald said, nodding. “This farm’s been in the family for a long time, but I couldn’t make a living running it the way my dad did. Here a horse, there a pig—that just doesn’t work anymore. These days, you have to have a plan. So I decided to specialize. Sure you don’t need anything?”

  “Not right now,” Cimorene said, “but I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “Thanks.” The farmer hesitated. “About that blue donkey—”

  “He isn’t a donkey,” Morwen reminded him. “He’s an enchanted rabbit.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Pity. He’d make an interesting start at stocking the barnyard.” Fingering his rope thoughtfully, MacDonald stared off in the direction Killer had taken.

  “I don’t think you’d want him,” Cimorene said. “He doesn’t seem to be good for much.”

  “And he eats a great deal,” Morwen added. “Most of it unsuitable, inconvenient, or both. Besides, it’s time we were leaving.”

  “What about my hay?”

  Morwen glanced at the nibbled clover and raised an eyebrow. “Killer hardly touched it. In a couple of days, you won’t be able to tell which part of the patch he got at.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Then that’s settled,” Cimorene said in a tone that somehow reminded everyone that this was the Queen of the Enchanted Forest talking, and if she said it was settled, it had better be settled. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. MacDonald, and I shall certainly mention your special crops to my friends. Now, we really must be going.” She turned and swept off.

  Nodding a brisk farewell to MacDonald, Morwen followed. Halfway around the hill, she glanced back and saw MacDonald frowning uncertainly after them. At least he isn’t chasing after us, she thought. Goodness knows how he’d react if he saw Kazul.

  The same thought had apparently occurred to Cim­orene. “We need to leave right away, if we can,” she said as soon as they reached the others. “Can you manage it, Telemain?”

  “Of course,” the magician said. “But what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing dangerous, but if we stay we’re likely to waste the whole afternoon arguing. I’ll explain later.”

  “Wait a minute,” Morwen said as Telemain climbed to his feet. “Where’s Scorn?”

  “She went after you,” Trouble said.

  “Bother,” said Morwen. “I’m sorry, Cimorene, but—”

  An arrow path of grass stirred and shifted. An instant later, Scorn leapt for Morwen’s back. Her claws dug into the folds of material, and with another brief effort she pulled herself the rest of the way up to Morwen’s shoulder, where she perched, purring smugly.

  “No wonder you wear loose robes,” Cimorene said.

  Balancing carefully, Scorn stretched. Then the purring stopped and she said, “That farmer is coming after you, Morwen. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Scorn says MacDonald is on his way,” Morwen said to the rest of them. “If you really want to avoid him, Cimorene, we should go now.”

  “Then let’s go.” Cimorene looked at Telemain.

  “Everyone here? Very well, then.” Eyes narrowed in unwonted concentration, Telemain raised his hands and recited the spell.

  The hillside wavered like a reflection in a suddenly disturbed pool. Reluctantly, it began to melt and shift. Morwen caught a glimpse of MacDonald’s face, too distorted to tell whether his expression was one of astonishment or fear, before the scene became unrecognizable.

  Suddenly, everything froze. For an impossibly long instant, they hung between greenish blurs and brown blobs. Then, with a painful jerk, everything darkened and slammed into proper shapes once more. Morwen dropped two inches into a puddle of mud. The landing jarred her glasses loose and tore Scorn from her shoulder. Morwen managed to catch the cat, but her glasses vanished into the mud. Behind them, there was a squishy thwump as Kazul landed, followed by a yowl from Trouble and various startled noises from Killer and Cimorene.

  “Drat,” Morwen muttered, swallowing hard. “I knew I should have brought a stomach remedy.” The air was damp and smelled like rotten eggs, which didn’t help any.

  “And boots,” Scorn said, relaxing in Morwen’s hands.

  “Definitely boots,” Morwen agreed. The mud was cold, soft, and ankle deep, and between the gloom and her missing glasses she could not spot a better place to step to. Assuming, of course, that there was a better place to stand.

  “Morwen?” Cimorene called. “Where are you?”

  “Where are we, is the question,” Scorn said.

  “Quiet,” said Morwen. “Over here, Cimorene. Scorn, I’m going to hunt for my glasses, and I’ll need both hands. If you don’t want to walk around in this, you’d better climb up on my back.”

  With a disdainful snort, Scorn scrambled out of Morwen’s grasp and back to her shoulder. Slowly, Morwen bent forward, giving Scorn time to adjust her balance. Holding her sleeves out of the way with one hand, she fished in the mud with the other.

  A series of sucking noises and squelches came near. “Morwen, what are you doing?” Cimorene asked. She was muddy to the elbows, and she held her drawn sword in one hand.

  “Looking for my glasses,” Morwen replied. “Unfortunately, I don’t seem to—Wait a minute.” Carefully, she worked her hand free of the mud. “There. Now all I have to do is clean them.”

  “Easier to say than do, in this muck,” Cimorene said. “Didn’t you bring an extra pair?”

  “Chaos broke my extra pair last week.” Morwen squinted at the mud-covered glasses, then shrugged. Pinching a fold of material from her robe, she began wiping the lenses. “The replacements haven’t been delivered yet.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help. I slipped when we landed, and even my handkerchiefs are full of mud. Morwen, where are we? This doesn’t look like the edge of a desert.”

  “No kidding,” said Scorn.

  “Ask Telemain,” Morwen said, putting on her glasses. “He should have some idea where we were when he lost control.” The lenses were still streaky, but at least she could see.

  A worry line appear
ed between Cimorene’s eyebrows, below the mud that smeared her forehead. “I don’t know where Telemain is,” she said. “I was hoping he was over here, with you.”

  12

  Which Is Exceedingly Muddy

  MORWEN LOOKED AROUND. Here and there, tall, thin trees shot upward from the omnipresent mud. High in the air, they suddenly sprouted a wide, dense mat of twisted branches. Long, fuzzy gray-green strips of moss dangled from the branches, shutting out most of the light, and patches of dirty white fog drifted among the trunks. Between the fog and the shadows, it was hard to be sure of seeing anyone. Even Kazul seemed to melt into the gloom. Only Killer’s vivid blue stood out against the muddy colors of the swamp.

  “Is everyone else here?” Morwen said. Her stomach was already settling down, which was a relief. The last time this had happened, it had taken much longer.

  Cimorene nodded.

  “Then I’ll look for Telemain. There’s bound to be some residue from the transportation spell for me to trace. The rest of you stay together so I can find you again. If we split up in this mess, we’re likely to lose someone permanently.”

  “I suppose that’s best,” Cimorene said, but she did not sound happy.

  Morwen was not very happy about the arrangement, either, but she did not say anything more as Cimorene squelched back to Kazul. Then, with a resigned sigh, she reached into her left sleeve and pulled out a ball of red yarn and a shiny metal plate three inches across with a small hole near the rim. Focusing her attention on her most recent memories of Telemain’s magic, she tied the yarn to the plate. She bent and breathed on the metal, clouding it over, then said quickly,

  “Green and growing, show me.

  Swift and silent, show me.

  Damp and dingy, show me.

  Deep and shining, show me what I would see.”

  With her last words, she released the plate so that it hung free. It spun wildly on the end of the yarn, and she felt it tug lightly to the right, well away from the others. Carefully, she turned, letting the faint pull guide her. It took considerable concentration to follow the spell while slogging through the cold, sticky mud.

  “I thought something smelled different over this way,” Scorn said.

  Morwen spared a moment for a glance at the cat. “You might have told me.”

  “You were busy.”

  “True. Next time, tell me anyway.” The tug was growing stronger. Morwen dodged around a tree trunk and almost stepped on Telemain. He lay face up in the mud, his eyes closed and his skin an unhealthy grayish white. Morwen had to look twice to be sure that he was still breathing.

  Stuffing her yarn and the metal plate back into her sleeve, Morwen shouted for Cimorene to come at once and bring the others. Then she crouched next to Telemain to see what she could do for him. Unfortunately, what he needed most was to be warm, dry, and somewhere he could sleep in comfort.

  He must have been even more tired than I thought he was, or the backshock wouldn’t have affected him this badly, Morwen thought. He should have said something.

  “Stubborn fool,” she said aloud.

  “This comes as a surprise?” Scorn said.

  “Morwen, what—oh, my.” Cimorene squished over as quickly as she could, followed by Killer and Kazul. Trouble, somewhat muddy and damp looking, was clinging with grim determination to a spot high on Kazul’s back. The moment the dragon stopped moving, Trouble extended a rear leg and began washing it vigorously. Killer looked unusually pleased with himself, probably because floating six inches off the ground had kept him the only completely dry and unmuddy member of the group.

  “What happened?” Kazul asked as Cimorene joined Morwen. “That was not one of the most enjoyable experiences I’ve ever had.”

  “I’m not completely sure.” Morwen reached into her right sleeve and began fishing around. “I’m a witch, not a magician. But I think it’s backshock from that transportation spell.”

  “Backshock?” said Killer.

  “If you pull a rubber band too hard, it breaks and snaps your fingers,” Cimorene explained. “The same sort of thing can happen when someone loses control of a spell, only it’s usually more serious than stinging fingers.”

  “Oh.” Killer looked at Morwen. “Rubber band?”

  “Never mind,” Morwen said. “Ah, there it is.” She pulled her heavy-duty wool camping blanket out of her sleeve, glanced around for a dry spot to put it, and ended by draping it across Killer’s back. “Cimorene, we have to get Telemain out of this mud. Help me lift him onto Killer.”

  “What? Wait a minute!” said Killer, taking two hasty steps backwards. “I’m not supposed to do things like this. I’m a rabbit.”

  “You used to be,” said Morwen. “Now you’re a six-foot floating blue donkey. Hold still.”

  “But you’ll get mud all over me!”

  Trouble glanced up from his washing. “Good idea. Can I help?”

  “If you do, you’ll get muddy, too,” Scorn said. She looked at Trouble. “Muddier.”

  “The mud will get on my blanket,” Morwen said. “And I can tell you already that Mendanbar is going to get a really enormous cleaning bill when this is all over.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue,” Kazul said to the donkey. “I’m feeling cross enough already, and my stomach is bothering me.”

  “The stomachache is a side effect of snapping the transportation spell,” Morwen said. “The bad temper is probably from waking up too early. Ready, Cim­orene?”

  Killer did argue, of course. It took nearly as long to convince him as it took to pry Telemain’s unconscious body out of the mud, wrap him in Morwen’s blanket, and hoist him onto the donkey’s back.

  “There,” Cimorene panted, steadying Telemain with one hand. “That’s done.”

  “And it looks pretty useless to me,” Scorn said. She had joined Trouble on top of Kazul and was watching the whole procedure with an expression of disapproval. “Now that you’ve got him there, what are you going to do with him?”

  Killer shifted his feet in evident unease. “This is really uncomfortable. Isn’t there somewhere else you could put him?”

  “He doesn’t care much for riding on you, either,” Morwen said. “Don’t worry, we’ll try to keep it short. Kazul, can you see anything that looks like a way out of here?”

  Stretching up to her full height, Kazul peered into the fog. “No. The fog’s getting thicker, and the trees all look the same.”

  “Hey, warn me before you do that,” Trouble said reproachfully. “I almost fell off.”

  Kazul lowered her forelegs and glanced over her shoulder. “That can be arranged.”

  “It wouldn’t matter,” Scorn said to Trouble. “All that washing hasn’t done much good. You still look like something the dog dragged in.”

  “You’ve got wings,” Killer said to Kazul. “Why don’t you fly up and look around?”

  “Because there isn’t enough room between these trees for a proper takeoff, because flying in a fog is dangerous, and because I probably couldn’t find you again once I got up above the treetops,” Kazul said. “The tops of forests all look the same.”

  “Oh.”

  “You found Telemain,” Cimorene said to Morwen. “Can’t you use the same method to find a way out of here?”

  “I could if there were any magic left to trace,” Morwen said. “Unfortunately, there isn’t. Pick a direction.”

  “That way,” said Cimorene, and they started off.

  Walking through the swamp was hard work. With every step, the ankle-deep mud sucked at their feet. Twice, Cimorene almost lost one of her short leather boots, and even Kazul had difficulty making headway. The only one who had no problem was Killer. Telemain’s added weight did not pull him down at all; his hooves stayed a dry six inches above the muck no matter what. Morwen found herself wondering a little sourly whether the donkey could walk across water the same way he did across the endless mud.

  Around noon, Morwen passed out chicken
-salad sandwiches to everyone. Her sleeves had protected them from the mud, which was doubly fortunate since Cimorene’s pack had leaked and the remains of breakfast were inedible. Unexpectedly, no one complained of a stomachache (though Killer complained about the taste of the lettuce and the bread), and the sandwiches disappeared rapidly.

  When they finished eating, they went on. Morwen kept a close but unobtrusive eye on Telemain. Though he did not stir, he did not appear to grow any worse, either, which surprised her a little. She kept both her surprise and her worries to herself.

  On and on they waded, until the shadows began to thicken as did the fog. Beads of moisture glistened on Kazul’s scales, and the cats complained loudly of the damp. Morwen gave up trying to keep her glasses from clouding over. Telemain remained unconscious, and the worry line between Cimorene’s eyebrows grew deeper.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” Cimorene said at last. “We should find somewhere to camp. If there is anywhere. We haven’t seen a dry spot since we got here. Killer, where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m hungry,” Killer said. “If you’re going to make me haul people around, the least you could do is let me eat. It’s been a long time since lunch.”

  “There isn’t anything to eat,” Cimorene said.

  “Not for you, maybe, but those things over there look edible to me.”

  “What things?” Feeling slightly annoyed, Morwen took off her glasses and began hunting for a clean patch of robe to wipe them on.

  “Those things wrapped around the trees,” Killer said, cocking a bright blue ear to his left. “The viney things with the silver leaves. There was one patch of clover back home that had silver leaves sometimes, and it was especially good. Sweet and tart at the same time, and quite strong.”

  “You’re seeing things,” Cimorene said. “There aren’t any vines on those trees.”

  “There are, too. You must be looking in the wrong place. Here, I’ll show—”