by Robin Hobb
But they had not. They had not, and the vial of blood that he now held in his hand was his prize for all he had gone through. He stared at it, at the slow shifting and tangling of the trapped red stuff inside it. Like serpents twining round one another, he thought, and a ghostly image of sea serpents wrapping one another in the dim blue of an undersea world invaded his thoughts. He shook his head clear of the fancy, and he resisted the sudden urge to uncap the flask and smell the contents. He had sealing wax in his case. He should melt some over the neck of the flask to seal it securely. He should. He’d do it later.
The sight of his treasure left him oddly calmed. He put the flask back into the secret drawer and took up a small shallow box made from cedar. He opened the sliding lid and looked inside. The scales rested there on a shallow bed of salt. They were slightly iridescent in the dim light of the cabin. He closed the lid, replaced the box in the secret drawer, and shut and locked it. They’d probably find the brown dragon dead. They wouldn’t suspect him, he suddenly knew. He’d covered his tracks well. He’d smeared the blood away, and the wound from his knife was so tiny that no one would find it. He hadn’t killed the beast, not really. Everyone saw that it was nearly ready to die anyway. If his bleeding of the dragon had hastened its death, well, that didn’t mean he’d killed it. It was only an animal anyway, despite how Alise might moon over it. A dragon was only an animal, just like a cow or a chicken, to be used by a man in any way he saw fit.
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Exactly the opposite, really.
The intrusion of that thought was so sudden and foreign that it shocked him. The opposite? That man was to be exploited by dragons as they saw fit? Preposterous. Where had such a silly idea come from?
He straightened his jacket, unlatched his door, and stepped out onto the Tarman’s deck.