Dragon Mage

by Andre Norton

  Ekurzakir rushed from Arshaka’s apartments, wishing he’d not told the Hand of the girl’s possible whereabouts. If for some reason he was not successful, things would not go well for him.

  “Then I simply must be successful,” he said to himself, racing through the streets and down the Processional Way, where the dozen were gathered. He had a horse waiting for him, and was quickly on it and through the tunnel that led out of Babylon. He prayed to Ishtar, Marduk, and Shamash as he went. “Please let me succeed. My prosperity is tied to the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar.”

  He pushed the guards to a brutal march, his mind churning with the possibilities of his reward. He recalled the crone Sarazel’s words of his riches and power to come, and he drew that notion into his heart. He’d assembled the men shortly after he left her den, ordering supplies to last them three days, which should be more than enough. If the men needed more, they would trade with the village or with herders; he had more gold links in his pocket. But they should not need more. They would reach the village by the following morning, allowing only for a brief stop to rest his horse and for the guards to nap.

  This endeavor would have been easier had they waited for the morning. The men would have been well rested. To leave in the late afternoon drew the attention of people in the courtyard.

  They marched without speaking, the only sound that of their sandals scuffing on the road and the measured clop of the horse’s hooves. He didn’t stop until deep in the evening, and then the noise was the buzz of insects and his men’s snores. Ekurzakir could not sleep.

  They resumed the march earlier than he’d planned, but he noted that his horse was still in reasonable condition, and he desperately wanted to gain the girl.

  Sarazel’s words still hung strong in his mind.

  Ekurzakir was so intent on the journey and reaching Ibinghal as soon as possible that he did not look to the field to the west of the road. Had he done so, or had the sky been a little lighter, he would have noticed an ox pulling a cart, and a young couple setting an equally determined pace. He would have questioned them, as he would have considered it suspicious that they did not use the road. And he might have discovered his prize right there.

  But Ekurzakir did not see them, his eyes fixed on Ibinghal.

  The guards came into the village as everyone was stirring. Ekurzakir was quick to find Ibinghal’s spokesman, the elderly man named Hre-Threndal.

  “Honored one of Ibingbhal…” Ekurzakir began. His tone was silky, copying the manner he’d heard the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar use when trying to exact information or favors. “It is with sadness that I disrupt your fine community. But as the sun rises, so arises the need for your cooperation.”

  Hre-Threndal stood straighter. Guards from Babylon had visited Ibinghal before, when bringing goods to trade for crops or sheep or when wanting water from the well during a long march. But this was something different; the old man could tell it from Ekurzakir’s bearing.

  “How can we of Ibinghal assist the men of King Nebuchadnezzar?” Hre-Threndal tried to sound formal.

  As when Shilo had appeared in the streets, all the villagers had turned out of their homes to be part of the assembly. Whispers filled the air.

  “We humble people are loyal to the great king of the great city.” Hre-Threndal added a slight bow, which a few children in the throng mimicked.

  Ekurzakir slid from his horse and passed the reins to a broad-shouldered young man. “Water for her, please, and brush her if you will.” The horse’s nostrils and lips were flecked with foam. The man obligingly tugged her toward the barn and paid attention to her front leg, which she favored.

  Standing on his toes, Ekurzakir scanned the crowd. Ibinghal was a good-sized village, with nearly two hundred residents. He looked for the pale-skinned girl the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar had carefully described.

  “You harbor a foreigner,” Ekurzakir said. “She is a young woman, about the age of her.” He pointed to one of the taller girls toward the front of the crowd. She giggled and hid her face in her hands. “But she has pale skin.”

  “And spots on her face.” This came from the woman in the green robe. She shifted her gaze from Ekurzakir to the red snake ring on her index finger.

  “Yes, fetch her for me.” He added, “Please,” and smiled.

  No one in the assembly moved, and none spoke.

  Ekurzakir cleared his throat and fixed a stern gaze on the woman. “We mean her no harm, but she must be brought back to Babylon. She stole from one of King Nebuchadnezzar’s most trusted men, and she must be made to answer for that.”

  Still nothing from the villagers.

  “I said she will not come to harm, will likely be ordered to clean stables and floors, simply made an example of.” Ekurzakir could tell there were doubters in the assembly, and he immediately wished he’d brought half this number of men. Why would a dozen armed and armored guards be required to capture one young woman? Arshaka had been correct; fewer men would have been better.

  “She stole something valuable,” he added, thinking that would serve as a reasonable explanation for the force.

  “Cloth?” This from the woman again.

  “Yes.” Ekurzakir wondered if he had hesitated in answering.

  “This cloth?” She held up a shawl that had already been cut from it.

  “Yes.” Ekurzakir saw the disappointment in the woman’s eyes. “But you can keep the cloth.” He added, “all of it,” when he saw another piece of the material with another woman. “We desire only the girl, not what she stole.”

  Hre-Threndal waggled his fingers, trying to disperse the villagers.

  “She is not here,” he said, turning back to face Ekurzakir. “She was here, though how you know of that so soon is a wonder. She was here only yesterday, and she left during the night.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest and scowled at a group of young men who were standing firm and not returning to their chores.

  “Where did she go, sir?” Ekurzakir stepped toward the elder. He did not try to hide the menace growing in his eyes. “And when in the night did she leave?” Again he raised up on his toes and scanned the villagers, most of whom were returning to their homes.

  Hre-Threndal shrugged his shoulders.

  “I know of that, of the girl and the priest who was with her.” A stoop-shouldered man with a careworn face came to stand behind Hre-Threndal.

  “And you are—”

  “Nurthar, brother of Kuth, son of—”

  “Good meeting, Nurthar.” Ekurzakir returned to his silky tone. “You saw the girl leave?”

  Nurthar shook his head briskly. “Not the girl, but the Shamash priest. He was with a different woman. It was a dark, still night. I could not sleep, my stomach ailing me.” He patted his stomach for emphasis. “I stood by my window and looked to the south, thinking the stars would ease my discomfort.”

  Ekurzakir tapped his foot, but forced himself to be patient. “And the girl—”

  “Not the pale-skinned one. But another one was with Nidintulugal.”

  Ekurzakir’s lips tightened. He remembered the name of the Shamash priest who’d helped the girl flee the city. Two guards he’d met on the road had been coming from Ibinghal and mentioned seeing the priest there, but not the girl.

  “And—”

  “They took my brother’s ox and cart. I thought my brother must have given his permission. Nidintulugal is known to us, a friend to Hre-Threndal. Nidintulugal would never steal.”

  “But I did not give my permission.” A man looking similar to Nurthar shouldered his way to the front. “Nidintulugal took the ox and cart without permission.”

  “You must be Kuth. So the priest stole—”

  “Borrowed,” Kuth corrected. “A priest of Shamash would not steal.”

  Nurthar nodded. “I watched Nidintulugal and a young woman, but not the pale-skinned one with the spots on her face, take the ox and cart down the road to the north. I’d not seen the woman before. She was not from the village
, and I do not know where she came from. In any event, the two of them must be traveling to the village Knarr. There is a shrine to Shamash there.”

  “I will get my ox and cart back.” Kuth glowered at his brother. “And the priest had best provide a gift.”

  Ekurzakir growled softly. “Hre-Threndal, elder, I would speak with you and Nurthar alone.”

  Hre-Threndal appeared surprised, but nodded, turning and inviting Ekurzakir and Nurthar into his small home. Ekurzakir gestured to four guards, who followed. Once inside, Ekurzakir grabbed the elder by the throat and shoved him up against a wall. The guards made certain Nurthar did not interfere.

  “Old man, I have no patience left for this. The girl who left the village in the night … she must be the same one who left with the priest. Disguised, wearing different clothes, I see no other explanation.”

  Hre-Threndal tried to speak, but Ekurzakir gripped him tighter.

  “Sh-sh-she might have been the same one, she could have been.” This came from Nurthar. Visibly shaken, he looked back and forth between Ekurzakir and the four guards. “She traded in the village for clothes. It was dark when I looked out the window. She could have been wearing one of the robes she traded for. In the darkness, I might not have seen her pale skin.” He swallowed hard. “Indeed, as dark as it was, I could not have seen her pale skin.”

  “And they traveled north?”

  Hre-Threndal made a gagging sound and Ekurzakir loosened his grip.

  “Y-y-yes,” Nurthar said. “There are other villages to the north, but I thought they might go to a Shamash shrine.”

  “Because of the priest Nidintulugal?” Ekurzakir hissed.

  “Y-y-yes.” Nurthar directed his full attention to Ekurzakir now. “Why so much worry over a girl with sore feet and pale skin? Why so many guards? Why—”

  “Why do you ask so many questions?” Ekurzakir indicated that two of the guards should leave. “Get my horse, we leave for the north immediately. Tell Ipqu-Aya to search for wagon and ox tracks.” Ekurzakir had included the expert tracker in the dozen guards.

  “Elder, describe the garments she traded for.” Ekurzakir pressed his face against the old man’s. “Describe them very precisely.” He turned to Nurthar. “And you supply any information this one leaves out.”

  Ekurzakir again grabbed his throat. “This one’s tongue,” he hissed to the two guards. “He doesn’t need it anymore.” He gestured with his head to indicate Nurthar. “And he can do without his as well.” Ekurzakir shoved the old man to the ground. “Make sure neither of them screams too loudly. And be quick to join me on the road.”

  Ekurzakir had not ordered such violence in a long while, but did not want the men telling the villagers and other visitors about his interrogation.

  This girl, he had come to believe, was very important.

  Gaining her for the Hand of Nebuchadnezzar might do more than insure his own prosperity.

  18

  To Save Dragonkind

  Shilo had expected Nidintulugal to ask her plenty of questions: about magic—since he’d admitted he hadn’t believed in it, and about where she had come from, and what she intended to do.

  “It has to be possible,” she whispered.

  As they made their way toward Babylon, she kept turning over various answers in her mind: that magic was new to her, too, and that a part of her was excited by it; that she came from this world, but not this time or place; and that she wanted to go home, even if she didn’t like Wisconsin. The more she played with the answers, the more disconcerted she got that Nidintulugal didn’t ask her about anything.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Nidin.”

  “Pardon?”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “This,” he said, waving an arm to indicate the fields. “This dryness is typical of this time of year. But Babylonia is not always like this. Much of the year the land north of the great city is marshy, which is why the crops flourish, such as in the village of Ibinghal.”

  “You’re thinking about the weather.” She shook her head.

  “The heavy rains should start within a few weeks, making irrigation unnecessary. Wheat, barley, sesame, flax, vegetables, fruits. All grow tall and plump in Babylonia because of the seasonal rains. The heat of summer will remain once they start, but the ground will be soggy. In the mornings, fog, like steam, will hover around the stalks.”

  The weather, Shilo groaned to herself. Leave it to someone to avoid all the important topics by talking about the weather. Barley and flax and rain. Lovely.

  “The great city itself is dryer, rarely seeing the rain that this land to the north enjoys. It is as if a line has been drawn, and foul weather not permitted beyond that point.”

  “I see,” Shilo said.

  “The river is down along its banks now, but still there is plenty of it to irrigate the fields north of the great city and to supply the Hanging Gardens with enough to keep everything beautiful and green. In a few weeks, the river will flood its banks, and the Gardens will grow wild. The heat and the rain make Babylon lush. In the Gardens, I try to stand in the shade of the weeping trees every few days. Through their branches the sun shines at me in patterns. I try to read the play of light and see if Shamash is sending me messages.”

  Shilo had nothing to add to that monologue, and so after a while said: “I’m used to it being hot.” I’m also used to taking a shower once in a while, she added to herself, sniffing at her armpits and wrinkling her nose.

  When they were several miles south of Ibinghal, they led the ox back onto the road. Nidintulugal did not want the ox and cart to damage the irrigated fields any more than necessary.

  “The friggin’ weather.” Shilo decided if he wasn’t going to ask her anything pertinent, she’d politely badger him. “Nidin, will you return to the Temple of Shamash if we manage to escape with the eggs?”

  He shrugged.

  “Can you return?” Though sounding similar, Shilo knew it was a different question.

  He shrugged again.

  “Because you helped me? The priests at your temple can’t be mad at you for that.”

  “Shilo, I do not know if I can return … to the only home I have known. The priests are forgiving, but they have no real power in the city. If I have angered those in power by helping you, I will cast shadows on the Temple of Shamash with my presence.”

  “And shadows in the sun god’s place probably aren’t welcomed,” Shilo said.

  “Not shadows of a human sort. Perhaps I will have to test just how much of a shadow I cast.”

  They rested late in the afternoon, to the east side of the road this time. The ox made it plain he was tired. Nidintulugal gathered grasses for the beast and emptied one of the nut bowls, filling it with water from one of the irrigation pipes, and letting the ox drink before either Shilo or himself.

  Shilo nearly complained at that, but knew she’d caused Nidintulugal well more than enough grief. Besides, she was so thirsty that she didn’t care who or what she drank after. She dozed with her back against a wheel, finding it uncomfortable, but not so bad that she wasn’t able to catch a little sleep. And to think that I grumbled about the mattress in my room at Meemaw’s, she thought.

  Nidintulugal leaned up against the wheel on the other side. Shilo figured he kept his distance so he wouldn’t have to answer any more of her questions … a priest of Shamash, he wouldn’t duck them once asked. But if he could avoid them in the first place …

  No need for an alarm clock. Shilo knew if the ox decided to stir, taking the cart with it, she and Nidintulugal would wake up. She listened to it snort, and to the grass rustling in the warm breeze, and she tried to remember the Wynton Marsalis tune, “Thick in the South,” that had been playing on Big Mick’s jukebox some nights past.

  She finally drifted off, seeing her father’s face, then seeing him in the casket at the funeral home, seeing the faces of his friends and coworkers who had come to pay their respects. What would her father think of h
er adventure? she wondered. He probably would have been envious, she decided. And he probably wouldn’t have needed a huge silvery-gold dragon to send him home.

  She was still tired when the ox moved and woke them up. The breeze had vanished and a cloud of flies had gathered, biting and annoying the ox. Her neck was stiff and her back a little sore from sleeping sitting up—probably feeling a little like the stagecoach passengers who had passed the night on the third floor of the antique store once upon a time.

  Nidintulugal swatted the flies while Shilo led the ox back onto the road. She retrieved a small handful of nuts from the cart, held them in her hand and concentrated, pleased when they quickly turned into a brown paste. Some of the dye had streaked on her feet and fingers, and she applied enough of the new mixture to cover the patches of pale skin. Nidintulugal gently pointed to the soft hollows beneath her eyes and the skin just under her lips, and she spread the rest of the paste there.

  Then without a word, he started toward Babylon again, his pace fast but tolerable, Shilo easily keeping up, her feet no longer aching.

  They neared the city the following afternoon, just before Shilo applied one more handful of nut dye to her skin.

  “What’s our cover story, Nidin?”

  Nidintulugal gave her his perturbed look.

  “You know, our story. If someone asks us why we’re in the city with an ox and a cart, a couple of bowls of nuts, and two spare robes, what do we tell them?”

  “We will hope that they ask you and not me.”

  Because you are a priest of Shamash and will not lie, she thought. “Do you know how to get beneath the Hanging Gardens?”

  “No.” He nodded to a pair of middle-aged men leaving the city. When they had passed, he said, “They are priests of Marduk, on a pilgrimage to the villages to the north. Today is Akitu, the festival of the House Where the Goddess Temporarily Dwells in Babylon. Akitu honors the mother goddess, and so only a few Marduk priests will leave. It is the month of Tashritu, the barley harvested two months past, and so a good month for bringing brides into homes.”

  “Excuse me?”