Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  “It was easier when it was my own mine I was stealing from,” Tarik muttered darkly.

  “You still would have had it if it hadn’t been for the accident that collapsed the roof,” Tenim replied.

  “Accidents happen,” Tarik said dismissively. “Masterminer Britell’s board of inquiry never accused me of anything.”

  Tenim paused mid-stride and gave Tarik a very piercing look.

  “What?” Tarik demanded, sounding just a bit frightened.

  “Nothing,” Tenim answered with a shrug, gesturing for Tarik to precede him. “Just, as you said, accidents happen.”

  Tarik looked nervously back over his shoulder. “I’ve been good for you.”

  “Indeed you have,” Tenim agreed. “In fact, I think we’ve hauled enough for this evening. Why don’t you go back home before your wife and son begin to wonder where you are?”

  Tarik glared at the young man. Tenim took the glare with no change of expression, merely leaning down to tie his boots tighter, his hand casually brushing the knife hidden at the boot top. Tarik’s anger cooled visibly when he caught sight of the knife hilt and he nodded. “Perhaps I’d better, at that.”

  “Good,” Tenim answered with an unpleasant smile. “You said that there’d be Winter’s End festivities tonight? In Natalon’s big house?” He didn’t wait for Tarik’s answer. “I could do with some diversion. Maybe I’ll attend—”

  “You’d be recognized!”

  “—from a safe distance,” Tenim finished, his eyes flashing in amusement at the other’s blatant terror.

  “Don’t get caught.”

  “Have I ever?”

  “I found you, didn’t I?” Tarik responded.

  “Yes, you did,” Tenim agreed, lowering his eyes. Considering Tenim’s woodcraft, Pellar seriously doubted that Tarik had really found the youth; probably Tenim had let himself be found.

  “So be careful.”

  “And you,” Tenim replied with a wave as the other turned off toward the camp. Tenim waited several minutes before starting off again—toward the camp.

  Pellar followed him cautiously from far behind.

  Tenim passed Zist’s cottage and then went, more slowly, beyond Natalon’s stone “hold.” The Shunned youth passed by the camp’s cemetery before heading up into the hills and circling back toward the camp.

  Pellar waited until he was certain that Tenim was far away before he followed. It took a quarter of an hour of stealthy movement before Pellar reached the top of the cliff and could reinitiate his cautious trailing of the crafty young man.

  A sound from the valley below startled Pellar and he froze. The noise sounded like a small rock hitting something more solid. Carefully, Pellar inched to the edge of the cliff, and peered into the valley below.

  A glint of white fell—no, was thrown!—from the cliff nearby and landed with a clack on the roof of Natalon’s stone house.

  What was Tenim doing?

  Another stone was thrown, landing at the top of the chimney. And another, and another. The stones ricocheted off the roof, landing silently on the soft ground below. A larger stone, big enough to be a rock, was thrown. The impact made a different noise, a sliding noise.

  Tenim was trying to block up the chimney! If he succeeded, the fumes from the great hearth fire would quickly overcome anyone inside, including Natalon. And then Tarik would be able to take over the camp, all because of an “accident.”

  Pellar’s response was instant and unthinking. He launched himself from his hiding place and raced along the cliff edge to hurl himself wordlessly upon Tenim.

  Even though Tenim was a head taller than him, and twenty kilos heavier, Pellar’s mad dive toppled Tenim off balance. They grappled for a moment and then both toppled over the cliff to fall, hard, on the muddy ground behind Natalon’s hold.

  Tenim recovered first, wrapping his fists around Pellar’s throat and squeezing with a manic energy. Pellar, stunned by the fall and the ferocity of Tenim’s attack, responded slowly. He strained to pull Tenim’s hands off his neck, bucked to try to dislodge the heavier youth, tried vainly to twist to one side or the other—but all to no avail.

  Spots appeared before his eyes and his vision turned gray.

  Chitter, Pellar thought desperately, wondering what would happen to the fire-lizard without him. Master Zist! And then he remembered no more.

  CHAPTER 4

  Fire-lizard dance on wing

  To the raucous song I sing.

  Fire-lizard wheel and turn,

  Show me how the dragons learn.

  CAMP NATALON,

  AL 493.4

  Red eyes whirling, Chitter scratched awkwardly at the blankets covering the old harper. As gently as he could through his terror, the brown fire-lizard clawed the harper’s face. Zist sputtered and twisted, instantly awake.

  “What is it?” he demanded, pushing himself up and swiveling his legs over the side of his bed. “Pellar?”

  The fire-lizard’s whirling red eyes were all that Zist needed to see. He pulled down his nightshirt, slipped a robe around himself, and slid into his slippers.

  He hurried into Kindan’s room. “Get up,” he called, “it’s time to change watch.”

  Certain that it would be a while before the lad would be about and equally certain that Kindan would then rush off in performance of his duty, Zist left the cottage by the back door.

  It was still dark outside. Chitter appeared beside him.

  “Where is he?” Zist asked, looking up at the gray blur of the fire-lizard. Chitter made an uncertain noise. “Go find him, Chitter! Take me to him.”

  The fire-lizard chirped an acknowledgment and blinked between. Zist cautiously looked around to be certain no one had seen their interaction, and then made his way toward Natalon’s hold.

  A rustling sound nearby halted him and Zist turned toward it. Someone was moving down by the old watch-wher shed. He peered through the night, straining to see if the figure was Pellar but it disappeared from his view like a mist.

  Chitter reappeared, diving to Zist’s shoulder and tugging at his robe.

  “You’ve found him?” Zist asked. The fire-lizard chirped and flew off, toward the back of Natalon’s house. Zist spared one last glance toward where he had spotted the interloper and then set off after Chitter.

  Chitter stopped him before he reached the kitchen door and flew off in a different direction. Zist paused, uncertain, but the fire-lizard returned and tugged at him again.

  The reason for Chitter’s uncertainty became apparent as soon as Zist rounded the far western corner of Natalon’s hold. Right next to the back corner of the house was a crumpled figure.

  Pellar. He lay quite still.

  Tears misted Zist’s vision as he raced to the youngster’s body. He paused, swallowing nervously.

  If I’ve killed him, too! Zist thought harshly, remembering his wife and child. Getting a firm grip on his emotions, he knelt down beside Pellar’s body, searching his throat for a pulse.

  Pellar’s neck was red and bruised. It looked like he’d been strangled. Rage thundered through Zist’s heart and fury lit his eyes. He swore vengeance on whoever had done this.

  He bent down to give Pellar one last fatherly kiss—and felt the faintest of breath.

  “You’re alive!” Zist cried out, scooping Pellar up and cradling him in his arms.

  Pellar came awake surrounded by darkness and fought as best he could, only to discover that he was flailing against Master Zist. He stopped suddenly and looked up. Zist’s cheeks were wet with tears.

  “Can you walk?” the harper asked. “It’s not far to the cottage.”

  Pellar nodded and regretted it. His throat hurt, his neck ached, and his head throbbed from lack of oxygen. With Zist’s help he stumbled up to his feet and back to the cottage.

  “In my room,” Zist said, guiding the youngster through the front door, guessing that Kindan would be having a cup of klah before departing from the kitchen.

  After g
etting Pellar settled into his bed and pulling off his muddy boots, he went to the kitchen to grab cold water and warm klah.

  “Fire! Help, help! Fire!” Zist heard Kindan’s shout from the kitchen and rushed out, fearing that Pellar’s attacker had returned and caught the other boy instead.

  “Chitter, stay with Pellar,” Zist ordered as he left.

  Pellar woke to find Chitter resting against his side. The fire-lizard stirred and stared at him warningly. Pellar felt awful and was slow to move. Then he remembered—the chimney! He had to warn the miners. He tried to rise, but Chitter jumped up and sat heavily on his chest. Pellar tried batting the fire-lizard away but he was still too weak and his movements were disjointed and feeble. Chitter nipped at his hand and then grabbed it with his forepaws.

  “How’d you find us?” a voice from the kitchen asked. Pellar recognized the voice—it was Dalor, Natalon’s son.

  “You were late for watch,” Kindan replied. Pellar listened intently as Kindan explained how he’d realized the chimney was blocked, had shouted out the alarm, had opened all the doors and windows to the large hold, and had gone in search of Dalor.

  Pellar gave a silent sigh of relief and relaxed. Chitter gave him a satisfied look and curled back into his resting spot, clearly convinced that Pellar was going to rest as well. He was right: In moments, Pellar fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Pellar woke hungry. The room smelled of cooling soup. He sat up carefully and—as his sore muscles registered—slowly. The room was dark. A small glow was uncovered near the table, its light reflected by the two faceted eyes of Chitter, perched on the back of Zist’s chair, keeping vigil.

  Pellar’s slate was on the table beside the bed. Beside it was a small bowl of soup and a spoon. Written on Pellar’s slate in Zist’s hand was a note: “Winter’s End festivities. Eat slowly.”

  Winter’s End. Pellar’s ears picked up the sound of music coming from Natalon’s hold. Whoever was playing the pipes was quite good, he decided after listening for a moment. Chitter cocked his head warningly and Pellar ducked his head in wry acknowledgment of the fire-lizard’s nursemaiding. Obediently, he picked up the spoon and fed himself.

  Swallowing was misery but he was too hungry not to finish the entire bowl. When he had, Chitter flew off his perch and nestled onto the bed in an unmistakable intimation of his expectations for Pellar. Pellar was too tired to argue, and the rich soup was already settling in his stomach. He lay back down and was asleep in minutes.

  Pellar woke in the middle of the night to the sound of a commotion.

  “Master Zist! Master Zist!” Dalor shouted. Nervously, Pellar wondered if Tenim had returned to finish his job.

  Zist snorted and stirred from the chair in which he’d fallen asleep.

  “Eh? What is it?” he called out.

  “It’s my mother,” Dalor replied. “The baby’s coming early.”

  Zist wagged a finger at Pellar, ordering him to remain, then shucked on his robe and slippers and left the room.

  Pellar heard his muffled order to Kindan: “Go run to Margit’s and get her up here.” To Dalor he promised, “I’ll be along as soon as I get some clothes on. You get on back. Start the cook boiling water, if she hasn’t already.” He continued a softer tone. “It’ll be all right, lad. Now off with you!”

  Pellar looked around the room for Zist’s clothes, wondering what the harper would need, and rose from his bed, assembling a kit for him, dimly aware that Zist and Kindan were conferring outside the door.

  “Get off, now! We’ll cope!” Zist called as he opened the door to his room. His eyes lit as he saw Pellar standing and the clothes laid out, ready for him to put on.

  “You’ll have to stay here,” he told Pellar as he quickly donned his clothes. He gave the boy a warm, worried look. “Lad…”

  Pellar shook his head and put a hand, palm flat, over his head, then brought it next to Zist’s—he was nearly as tall as the harper.

  Zist shook his head and grabbed Pellar into a tight hug.

  “Man or lad, if I’d lost you…” Zist broke off. Pellar patted Zist’s back and then broke out of the embrace, firmly steering the harper to the door and gesturing for him to hurry.

  “You stay here,” Zist called back from the doorway. “Send Chitter if you need.”

  Pellar nodded firmly and made a brushing motion to hurry Zist along. But the harper had to have the last word. “Chitter, I’m counting on you to keep him from overtaxing himself.”

  Pellar was miffed that the harper had let him sleep through until morning, but he couldn’t deny that he’d needed it. As it was, he was much relieved to hear that the baby had been born healthy and without undue complications.

  “I’ll keep watch tonight,” Pellar wrote by way of apology.

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Zist told him emphatically. “You’ll need at least a sevenday to recover. Anyway, there’s a trader caravan due soon and among the apprentices there’s supposed to be one with a watch-wher.”

  Pellar gave him a questioning look.

  “With a watch-wher, the miners will be able to start a full night shift again,” Zist explained. “With a crew bustling about at night, I suspect it’ll be much harder for your friend Tenim to try anything.”

  “Not my friend,” Pellar wrote, pointing to his throat for emphasis.

  “And you’re to stay away from him.”

  Pellar gave him a stubborn look.

  “You’ve learned what I wanted to know,” Zist responded.

  “He might try something else,” Pellar wrote.

  “He might,” Zist agreed. “And we’ll have to be careful.” He looked sternly at Pellar. “But you would have died if Chitter hadn’t alerted me.” He took a deep breath and admitted, “And I don’t think I could live with that on my conscience.”

  Pellar looked at the old harper for a long time. Finally, he nodded, realizing that further argument would be pointless; it would only cause the harper further pain and worry.

  The traders came that afternoon, only there was no watch-wher with them.

  “Apparently someone scared the apprentice off,” Zist explained as he prepared for the second celebratory Gather in two days, donning fresh clothes in harper blue and quickly buffing up his boots.

  “Tenim,” Pellar wrote, cocking an eyebrow at the harper.

  “It could be,” Zist answered. “But probably not.”

  Pellar looked surprised.

  “The first time anyone noticed that the lad was missing was yesterday, although he might have left sooner; Trader Tarri said he kept to himself.”

  “Moran?” Pellar wrote.

  Zist frowned as he read the slate. “I hope not,” Zist said. “It could be, but then why would he not want the watch-wher to come to the mine?”

  “Same reason,” Pellar wrote.

  “I’m not sure that Moran and Tenim have the same reasons,” Zist said.

  Pellar gave him a questioning look.

  “Moran was very worried about the Shunned,” Zist explained. “That’s why Murenny and I agreed to let him try to make contact.” He shook his head. “From what you’ve described of this Tenim character, I don’t think he cares for anyone but himself.”

  As it was obvious to Pellar that Master Zist didn’t want to entertain dark thoughts about his old apprentice, Pellar decided to drop the matter.

  “Still need a watch-wher,” Pellar wrote, changing the subject.

  “Yes, we do,” Zist agreed.

  “Where do we get one?” Pellar wrote.

  “I shall have to think on that,” Zist replied, turning to the door. “If you’re still awake when the Gather’s through, we can talk some more.”

  Pellar nodded and Zist gave him a probing look. The harper wagged his finger at the youngster. “Stay here. We’ll be all right.”

  Pellar waited until he was certain that everyone had entered the large hall in Natalon’s hold. Then he carefully dressed himself in bright clothes, grabbed a well-use
d cloak, and went out through the cothold’s front door. Regardless of Zist’s warnings or even how sore his raw throat still felt, Pellar was going to make sure that there were no more accidents.

  Rather than gliding silently past the entrance to Natalon’s stone hold, Pellar strode purposely beyond it, looking exactly like someone who was lost but unwilling to ask for directions.

  He headed toward the camp’s graveyard, planning to find a place beyond it where he could climb to the cliff above and backtrack to a good vantage point near Natalon’s hold but away from any possible sighting by the camp’s lookouts.

  He was just past the graveyard when Chitter appeared from between. Pellar gave the brown fire-lizard a fierce admonishing look. He thought he had made it clear that the fire-lizard was to stay in the harper’s cothold. Chitter hovered in front of him, wings beating slowly until Pellar understood that, as far as Chitter was concerned, if Pellar felt no compulsion to obey orders, neither would Chitter.

  Pellar sighed in reluctant acceptance. Just before Pellar started off again, a noise startled him. Pellar froze. Someone was coming.

  He sank to the ground in a crouch, hoping that the cloak would cover him sufficiently.

  It did. The person, a small boy, passed him by, moving quickly and purposefully but without taking any particular pains to move quietly.

  From the short-cropped blond hair, Pellar reckoned that the boy was either Dalor or Cristov. More likely it was Cristov, he decided, as Dalor would have a difficult time getting away from the evening’s festivities.

  But what was Cristov doing here?

  Pellar followed him quietly from a safe distance. The blond boy made his way to the graveyard, where he stopped in front of one of the graves. Pellar wasn’t certain, but he guessed that it was Kaylek’s grave.

  “Miners look after each other.” Cristov’s words drifted softly across the night air to Pellar.

  Was he making a promise or repeating something he’d been told? Pellar wondered. Or both?