Dragon Mage

by Andre Norton

“The guards would have taken you, had you been here, Shilo.”

  She decided not to tell him that she’d seen the guards from her perch on the hill.

  “Why didn’t they take you, Nidin?”

  “I am a priest of Shamash.”

  So that pretty much answered everything, huh? she thought. Perhaps priests in this society were immune to government dictates.

  “They asked you about me?”

  Another nod.

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That I helped you flee the city and that we escaped by hiding in the river, and that we headed toward this village, but that you went away on your own. I did not see where you went.”

  “And they believed you?”

  “Of course. I am—”

  “—a priest of Shamash. I know.”

  “In truth I did not see where you went. And if I’d asked you where you were going, you would have spoken gibberish. Most peculiar that I can understand you now.”

  “Good thing for me, huh? That you couldn’t talk to me then?” Shilo decided not to ask him if he would have given her away. She didn’t think she’d like the answer to that. She was spared more conversation when the woman in the green robe brought her a steaming bowl filled with the stew. There was no spoon, but the woman passed her a large piece of hard bread, which Shilo used to sop up the liquid and shovel in the pieces of meat and vegetables when she tipped the bowl.

  Nidintulugal left her for a few minutes, getting himself a bowl of the stew and talking to the women at the fire pit. He returned with a stoppered gourd.

  “Goat’s milk.” He sat across from her and ate his stew, occasionally answering villagers’ questions about his time with Shilo. “Because the cloth you brought here is so fine, they served you meat. It is used sparingly otherwise in this village.” Then he gestured to an older man who wore a thin skirt and a cloak, the only one in the village wearing a cloak that Shilo noticed.

  “They will wonder about your sandals,” Nidintulugal told her. “But if you take them off, Hre-Threndal will help you.”

  Shilo finished the stew and set the bowl next to her, held what was left of the bread in her mouth and turned on the bench so that her back was to the table. She raised the hem of her robe, half expecting to hear the gasps that filled the building, and unlaced her tennis shoes. She tugged them off and sat them together on the ground under the bench. She watched the people staring at them, and wondered what they would think of her shorts and tank top. A small smile played across her face.

  “Sorely injured,” the old man pronounced when he lifted Shilo’s feet. “Cruel sandals?”

  Shilo frowned. “I hurt them when I was barefoot.”

  He nodded in understanding and reached into a pouch, pulling out a small jar and smearing the ointment in it on the bottoms of her feet. Rising, he grabbed her ankles and turned her, so her legs were on the bench.

  “Stay off your feet for a while.” Then he reached under the bench and retrieved her shoes, feeling the nylon sides and inadvertently smearing some of the ointment on them. He tapped the bottoms and sniffed them, then held them up so everyone could see.

  “Enough, Hre-Threndal,” Nidintulugal said.

  The older man replaced the shoes and left the building.

  “He goes to tell the others about your extraordinary sandals. You could do well trading them.”

  Probably not a good idea, Shilo thought. Be interesting if some archaeologist discovered them in a dig. “I’m rather attached to them, Nidin.”

  Finished with his stew, he pushed the bowl aside and leaned across the table. “Where did you get the fine cloth?”

  “I figured you’d ask me where I went after I left you.”

  “That is precisely what I asked.”

  “I am not a priest of Shamash.”

  “But I do not believe you will lie to me.”

  She lowered her voice so he had to strain to hear her. She didn’t want the others to eavesdrop. “I went to visit a dragon in the hills, the one pictured on the Ishtar Gate.” See if you believe that, she thought.

  Nidintulugal didn’t ask her another question. He sat quietly, sometimes watching her, sometimes looking from one face to the next in the large room. There were probably ninety people inside, a little less than half of what she guessed was the population of this place. They parted when Hre-Threndal, the old man who’d tended to her feet, came back carrying a soft brown robe trimmed near the hem and along the neck with a band of shiny white material. He held it up and looked expectantly at her.

  “That will be fine. Thank you.” She reached out and accepted the garment, then wondered if she should ask for another, as the bolt of cloth she’d brought here must be valuable. It would be nice to have more than one change. But before she could ask for it, a second robe was brought in, this one darker and without trim, and with no right shoulder and sleeve. “Thank you again.”

  A few other things followed, including a pair of sandals—real sandals—, which the old man carefully put on her feet. One wooden bracelet, and when the woman in the green robe put it on Shilo’s wrist, she marveled at the rings, the plastic snake in particular.

  Shilo tugged it off and gave it to her, then wished she hadn’t. What about archaeologists digging in this land?

  A gourd filled with goat’s milk was next, and a heavy pouch filled with nuts and dried fruit. Last came a net satchel for her to carry everything in.

  “No more,” Shilo said, getting the attention of the woman in the green robe. “I don’t need anything else.” She decided not to ask for a bath. The villagers smelled pungent, like they did not bathe often, and she figured it could go badly for her if they noticed her tank top and shorts. She eased herself off the bench, careful as she put weight on her feet—not because they still hurt, they didn’t, but because she didn’t want to slip and slide on the ointment.

  “I have to leave.”

  “So soon?” This from the old man.

  “Stay the night.” From the green-robed woman.

  “You must stay. The sun sets, praise Shamash. Soon we all sleep. It is the will of Shamash.”

  “Tell us of your sandals, and of the red ring you gave Elru.”

  A girl of Shilo’s age edged forward. “Tell us why your hair looks like fire and why your skin is the color of clouds.”

  Questions continued to swirl around Shilo as she politely gathered up her new acquisitions and left the fellowship building. “Really, I have to go.” She’d spotted carvings on some of the homes, of lions and suns and half-suns, not one of a dragon. Somehow she doubted the people in this village knew about Ulbanu. There’d been not a hint of recognition in Nidintulugal’s eyes when she mentioned the dragon of the Ishtar Gate. Shock was more like it. Disbelief.

  Could she leave without them seeing her go into the mountains? Should she be concerned about that?

  “I will stay the night,” she said, turning and going back to the doorway. “May I sleep in here?” She pointed to a mat near what she guessed was the stage.

  “As you wish,” Hre-Trendal said.

  Shilo guessed he must have some position of power in the village, like a mayor.

  Everyone seemed to defer to him.

  “Yes, I wish to sleep here. I do not want to trouble anyone.”

  “As you wish,” he repeated.

  A short time later, Shilo was alone. Even Nidintulugal had left her. Someone stood outside the building, not a guard, but a villager assigned to help her should she need assistance. Her bolt of cloth and her odd sandals had marked her as a person to be respected. She waited until the villager was preoccupied with carving a piece of wood. It was getting late, the stars thick on a black field, lights in the village homes burning.

  Then she slipped out, as quietly as she could manage, cutting between homes and quickly reaching the northern field. She padded down a wide row, getting used to the feel of the sandals. It was easy to see with so much starlight, and so she easily avoided r
uts and holes made by burrowing animals. Then she cleared the fields and headed up the closest hill, making it up about fifty feet before something grabbed her ankle.

  She cried out in surprise and spun, kicking furiously and almost striking Nidintulugal in the face.

  “I do not believe you would lie to me, Shilo.” In the starlight, the priest’s face looked stern. “But there are no such things as dragons. So I would see the demon in the hills that gave you the cloth and that you go now to meet. I would see the demon that turned your mind and gave you the image of the dragon on the gate. The demon has corrupted your heart and casts shadows on Shamash. The demon has found a way into your mind and taught you our tongue to befuddle us and put us at ease. I would see and slay this demon.”

  14

  The Hand of the Hand

  Ekurzakir shopped in the southern district on the banks of the Euphrates. The Hand of Nebuchadnezzar had given him a list of oddities not found in most of the districts in Babylon. But this small assortment of shops to the south catered to unusual tastes and often featured things imported from across the sea and from the east. The list should be filled here. Rarely did Arshaka send Ekurzakir on such trivial assignments, and so the “Hand of the Hand” guessed that these requested things were of significant import.

  The first was ink said to be from sea creatures and was blacker than a starless sky. He purchased all he could find and paid for the bottles with small gold links, then moved to another shop and acquired quills made from the feathers of an extinct bird. Other things on the list were more exotic still, and would have most men wondering what they would be used for.

  Ekurzakir did not question a single item or worry at their purpose. It was enough that the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar wanted them—and that he wanted the gathering of them kept secret. Ekurzakir practically worshipped Arshaka; he was well aware that the most amazing improvements to Babylon were the result of the Hand’s plans. Too, Ekurzakir knew that the Hand gave all the credit to King Nebuchadnezzar, and that he told no one where the designs truly came from, letting the king take full credit. Ekurzakir had found out only because he’d inadvertently overheard the Hand and the king talking one day—and had made it a point to overhear other conversations from then on.

  From that first fateful eavesdropping day on, Ekurzakir had secretly sworn fealty to Arshaka, who he thought as wise as Babylon’s lesser gods. Some of that greatness might come Ekurzakir’s way, if he remained loyal, and if he asked no questions and continued to serve the Hand obediently.

  It took him the entire morning and into the afternoon to complete Arshaka’s shopping list.

  There was one other stop to make before returning to Arshaka’s apartments. Ekurzakir carefully picked his way down a black stone-paved street that ran parallel to the city’s south wall. It was called the Street of Dreams in hushed tones, but was known on maps by another name. The vendors here dealt in expensive powders to aid in sleep, delicacies favored by Babylon’s shady element, and fortunes. Ekurzakir was unaware that the greatest seers in the city operated in an unmarked shop in the western section, and that Arshaka sometimes relied on them.

  Ekurzakir paid a gold link to a beggar leaning near a beaded curtain. “Will this buy me knowledge today?”

  The beggar grinned, showing a row of unusually healthy teeth. “It will buy you the way to knowledge.”

  Ekurzakir scowled and cursed himself for giving the man one of the links. The gold he paid here would only buy him an audience; it would cost him more once inside. He thought to argue with the man, who was in truth a guard for the seer. Another time, he decided. The knowledge he sought today was valuable, and so he would meet the price. He nodded, and the guard held back the beads so Ekurzakir could pass.

  The Hand of Nebuchadnezzar would not approve of this course of action; the Hand was above calling on the dark arts for aid, and possibly would have forbade their use. So he would simply not tell Arshaka of this visit or of the cost, instead saying that the ink and other goods were unexpectedly expensive and required more links than anticipated. Ekurzakir had a silky voice and could make his tales believable, even to Arshaka.

  It was stifling inside the narrow building, which unlike the others on this street had no windows. The occupants used candles and lanterns for light, and did not seem to mind the infernal heat and lack of air circulation. He passed by the doorway to his right and climbed a set of stone stairs that were well worn in the middle—a testament to the numerous visitors this place had seen in the decades. There were two doorways at the top, and Ekurzakir squared his shoulders and rolled his neck before choosing the one to his left.

  His eyes watered from the strong incense burning in four ceramic holders in the tiny room.

  “Sarazel,” Ekurzakir said, bowing slightly to the crone sitting on a frayed rug.

  “Hand of the Hand,” she returned without looking up. Her gaze was fixed on a collection of small bones and beads in front of her. “I sensed you would come this day.”

  He rested his purchases next to the doorway and sat opposite her, crossing his legs and placing his calloused hands on his knees, palms up. She reached forward and sprinkled sand in one palm and put a bit of bone and an animal tooth in the other.

  “And do you also sense, Sarazel, what I have come for?”

  The woman finally looked up. Her skin was almost black and was so deeply wrinkled her face looked like a shriveled prune from which tiny white eyes poked out. She might have been blind, but Ekurzakir knew she could find her way around this section of the city; in the past he’d seen her at some of the shops he’d visited today.

  “Knowledge, always knowledge, Hand of the Hand.” Sarazel returned to studying the bones and beads, her spindly fingers rearranging them into one pattern after the next. She continued to speak as she worked. “You have not visited me for long months, Ekurzakir. So long that I thought you dead or gone from the great city. Then yesterday I dreamed of you and a more glorious Babylon. You were dressed in the finest robes and jewels danced on your fingers.”

  He smiled. So tying his lot to the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar would gain him prosperity. “And you dreamed I would come here, Sarazel?”

  She nodded. “You want to know about a girl who graced Babylon, but is not from the great city.”

  Ekurzakir did not hide his amazement. “Yes, Sarazel. With pale skin the color of the full moon, the girl speaks a language unknown to me.” He leaned forward, careful not to drop the sand and the bone and tooth. “Have you seen her?”

  “I saw her in a dream, Hand of the Hand. I saw her before she arrived at the Ishtar Gate.”

  The girl is indeed important! Ekurzakir thought. He was certain Arshaka wanted her for something other than pleasure. The rest of the guards might not suspect anything beyond Arshaka’s words, but Ekurzakir had been near the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar long enough to sense when other motives were involved.

  “Is she powerful, Sarazel, this girl? Is she a seer?”

  The crone shook her head. “She is clouded, Ekurzakir. Most odd. It is as if she walks in the fog that clings to the river. She is difficult to understand and to locate.”

  “But you see her?”

  “I see her running from the city guards.”

  “That is the past. They have not yet caught her.”

  “With a priest I see her running.”

  “Nidintulugal, a minor priest of Shamash. He is—”

  “Water surrounds her and covers her.”

  “The guards believe they escaped in the river.”

  Sarazel said nothing else, continuing to move the bones and beads.

  “Did she drown in the river, Sarazel?”

  The crone pulled a few bones to the side of her design.

  “Is she dead?”

  She rearranged more of the beads.

  “What is the girl?”

  “Trouble to you, Ekurzakir, and to the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar. She is not powerful now, but she will be—if she is not stopped.”

&n
bsp; “I must find her.”

  “She is not an evil thing, Ekurzakir. But neither is she a tool for any great good. I hesitate to reveal her, for I’ve no desire to bring about the demise of a young one who is not tainted. That could anger the fates and attract the unwanted attention of a demon. It could blemish my soul.”

  “I will make it worth your while, Sarazel.”

  “Material wealth will not enrich my path beyond this life, Ekurzakir.”

  Ekurzakir considered a threat, but the furrowing of the crone’s brow hinted that she knew what he was thinking. Physical threats were meaningless anyway, he suspected.

  “This is very important to me, old woman.” He tried unsuccessfully to keep the ire out of his voice. “I need to know where the girl is. I need to know—quickly.”

  Sarazel brushed the bones and beads from in front of her and splayed her wrinkled hands flat against the rug, thumbs touching. “She is in darkness, Hand of the Hand, inside the earth.”

  “Dead? Buried?”

  The crone shook her head. “I told you she is trouble to you, and the dead do not trouble the living. She breathes, Ekurzakir, well outside Babylon and near the ridge. There is a village there, of farmers and shepherds.”

  “Ibinghal. I know of it.”

  “Her precise location is masked, Ekurzakir, by something more powerful than I. An art neither dark nor light wraps her in its cloak. But she breathes near all of that.”

  He brushed the sand from his palm and placed the bit of bone and the animal tooth with the rest, stood and bowed again. Then he reached into his pocket and retrieved another gold link.

  “I’ll accept no payment,” Sarazel said. “And you will not come here again.”

  15

  Secrets Shared

  Shilo was exhausted by the time she found the opening to the dragon’s cave. In the end, she closed her eyes in exasperation and prayed to find it. The dragon was her way home, and therefore she had to find the dragon. The cave, oddly, was near a rocky outcropping she’d passed by several times in her searching. Why hadn’t she noticed it before?