Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  “Let her go, then,” a deep voice chimed in.

  “Should mark her just to know,” someone muttered in the crowd.

  “I see them!” the deep voice called. “They’re over there!”

  The crowd surged forward, around Halla, and charged off.

  “Here, let me take her,” the deep voice spoke to Halla’s captor. “She’s scared and needs a rest.”

  “Needs a good thrashing,” Halla’s captor objected and then looked carefully at the owner of the deep voice. “Oh, Harper, I didn’t know.”

  Halla’s arm was thrust into the harper’s grasp.

  “That’s all right,” the harper replied. “I’ll take her now.”

  “I’ll leave her to you, then.”

  Halla waited until the stranger disappeared and then looked up into Tenim’s eyes. She didn’t even wonder where he’d found harper garb.

  Tenim stayed silent, looking around the clearing until he was certain that they wouldn’t be overheard. When he spoke again, it wasn’t in the deep voice he’d used before but in his natural baritone. His tone was deadly. “Where’s Moran?”

  At the far east edge of the river hold, Moran gathered the remains of his band and set off hastily across the path that led east toward Keogh. He could only find six of his original dozen orphans, but he dared not wait longer because Conni had never left his side. Her resemblance to Milera was too close, and only Moran’s quick thinking in throwing a spare cloak over her had kept them both from being caught.

  Moran might have been able to talk his way out of the ensuing unpleasantness, but he was certain that Conni, with the blue “S” of the Shunned so prominent on her forehead, would find herself in mortal peril. Judging by her biting grip on his forearm, Conni felt the same.

  She had played him for a fool, Moran realized. A sideways glance at her features, haggard, hawklike, bitter, confirmed to Moran that it was full proper that Conni had been Shunned—she was a voracious taker, stalker, and menace to all. Worse, she had raised her daughter to copy her ways. Whether Milera would escape the holders today was of no importance; one day she wouldn’t, and then she, too, would wear the blue “S” of the Shunned until her nature finally betrayed her to her death. Just as it would be for Conni.

  “If I’m caught, I’ll see that you get yours, too,” Conni hissed beside him, her hard features showing that she’d guessed at Moran’s thoughts. “I’ll let them know that you’re no harper.”

  Moran nodded and gave her a worried look. Her not knowing that he truly was a harper might be his salvation; he didn’t want to lose that advantage just yet.

  “Whatever you say,” he told her.

  “I say we lose these brats,” Conni replied, scowling at the small children following them.

  Moran’s heart sank as he realized his mistake. Quickly he temporized, “Not here. They won’t survive, and then we’d be wanted for murder, as well.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Conni replied with a bitter laugh.

  “Not children,” Moran said. “Shunned or not, they’ll hunt you to your death if you abandon children.”

  “You’re a fool,” Conni said, lips pursed remorselessly.

  “The next cothold we find,” Moran said. “We can leave them there.”

  “What about the others?” Conni asked. “My daughter?”

  “She’s smart, she’ll survive,” Moran said with a shrug. “The others will manage, too.”

  Conni gave him a sour look and said nothing. Moran accepted his small victory without any outward sign. It was, after all, only a small victory.

  He had to find a way to lose this woman before she got them all Shunned.

  “I’ve found them,” Halla announced proudly to Tenim when they met in the river hold’s main concourse late the next evening. The five missing youngsters crowded close by her, eyes shining with the light of the night’s moons.

  “And I’ve found her,” Tenim said, flicking his head toward the shadow at his side.

  Halla nodded, keeping her expression neutral. It was obvious that Tenim valued the pretty girl more highly than he did the missing youngsters—or herself.

  During the day’s searching, Halla had found herself several times looking in a still pool of water or a shiny pot. Her reflection did not displease her.

  She was still young and the features of her face were still not fully formed, but they were serviceable. Probing brown eyes looked out from behind dark brown hair that could do with a wash. Her nose was straight and thin, her teeth were mostly white and strong, her lips were thin—perhaps they were too thin and that was the trouble, but she liked her smile. She had to admit that her eyes danced mischievously when she smiled, but she didn’t think that was such a horrible thing.

  No, Halla decided, where she was most lacking was in the curves that Milera and, more so, Conni so proudly displayed. Halla couldn’t quite remember if she had ten or eleven Turns—Moran had insisted on teaching her to read and count, while Tenim had insisted on teaching her to hunt and track—but she was certain that she would have to be older and better fed before she’d develop any curves of her own. Anyway, she wasn’t even sure that she wanted such curves; it seemed to her that they would make running more awkward.

  “Did you find Moran?” Tenim asked.

  “I want my marks,” Milera added darkly from beside him. Halla gave the older girl a careful look; it was obvious that she’d grown more like her mother through the terror of the day’s events.

  “We’ll find them,” Tenim said reassuringly. Halla had never heard Tenim use that tone of voice before—the same soothing tone Moran had used with Conni.

  “Just the marks’ll do,” Milera said.

  For nearly a month, at least three sevendays and more, they trudged along the track that skirted the Crom hills until they finally came to the edge of the Crom River, which flowed westward toward Keogh and then southward past Nabol Hold and into the Bay of Nabol.

  They were lucky to get a ride with some traders. No, Halla admitted, it had not been “luck”—for once again Milera’s simpering looks earned approving glances and sparked a hurried conversation amongst the unattached traders. Halla could not understand why any trader would believe Tenim’s story that he was Milera’s half brother, given the way he hovered near her.

  The traders were a cautious lot; they insisted on checking every one of the children to ensure that none bore the mark of the Shunned. Halla suppressed a shudder at the memory of the holder’s arm-wrenching grasp of her and the crowd’s fierce desire to mark her with the blue “S.” She’d no doubt that if Tenim hadn’t intervened she’d be wearing that mark now; nor did she doubt that if she’d been marked, Tenim would have cast her aside rather than lose his ride with the traders.

  If the traders were disappointed with Milera and her hovering “brother,” they were more than pleased to take advantage of Halla’s good eyes, strong legs, and productive traps.

  The best part of meeting up with the traders was Tarri. Tarri was much older than Halla, outspoken, sharp-eyed, with a ready laugh and smile. What was more, Tarri shared Halla’s opinion of Milera.

  “Looks don’t last,” Tarri told Halla one night as the male traders vied for Milera’s attention. Halla gave her a bland look and Tarri laughed. “You don’t have to worry, you know.”

  “I’ve been told,” Halla replied glumly. Her response set Tarri off into more laughter, but the trader was all the while shaking her head.

  “I’ve seen many people grow up in my time,” Tarri told her. Halla had her doubts and her expression showed it. Tarri nudged Halla playfully, saying, “I’m a trader, I travel; so I see more.”

  She gave Halla a considering look before continuing, “You might even have trader blood. I’ve seen your features before. Or Boll blood—they get swarthy down there.”

  Swarthy? Halla thought to herself. She’d never heard the word before.

  “Your skin tans faster than others,” Tarri continued. “Some find yo
ur dark hair and eyes very attractive. When you get older, your features will sharpen and you’ll be glad you’ve got strong legs to run from all the men chasing you.”

  Halla snorted.

  Tarri shook her head and patted Halla consolingly. “And when you’re old, really old, you’ll still have that great skin, lithe figure, and flashing eyes, while Milera will be a sagging, toothless, lardy mess.”

  Halla could never imagine herself as old, but she could easily imagine Milera as toothless and lardy.

  Tarri took in Halla’s expression and smiled, then rose from the fire.

  “We’d best turn in,” she said. “We’ll be moving early, and they’ll want you to check your traps for breakfast.”

  Halla nodded and stood, too.

  “You can sleep in my wagon, tonight,” Tarri offered. “I’ve got spare sheets and a blanket.”

  “But I’m dirty!” Halla protested, shocked that anyone would consider letting her near sheets.

  “No more than I am,” Tarri said, grabbing Halla’s hand and dragging her along. “But we’ll solve that.

  “Come on—up,” Tarri said, pointing to the stairs leading up into one of the nicer wagons. “Through the curtains.”

  Halla obeyed and gave a startled gasp as she parted the curtains and entered the wagon proper. It was beautiful.

  Tarri stepped up beside her and started rummaging. She carefully folded back the plush carpet that lined the floor and pulled down a large pan and a smaller bucket.

  “There’s towels and clothes down there,” Tarri said, pointing to one of the many doors that lined the lower half of the wagon. “Pull out two, no, four of each while I see about this.”

  Halla turned in time to see Tarri disappear back under the curtain with the bucket dangling from one hand. Mystified, Halla opened the indicated door and found herself staring at large fluffy towels. She hadn’t thought that anyone except maybe a Lord Holder knew such luxury!

  She had just pulled out the towels and smaller clothes—shirts and pants—and was wondering what to do with them when Tarri returned, carefully moving the heavy bucket so as not to jostle it.

  She eyed Halla appraisingly and said, “There should just about be enough.”

  Enough for what? Halla thought.

  “That is, if you’re willing to let me show you,” Tarri said, dimples appearing on her cheeks. Her voice sounded odd, shy. “Then we could sleep in the good sheets.”

  “Show me what?” Halla asked.

  “It’s not a proper bath,” Tarri continued quickly, “but it gets the job done all the same.”

  “Bath?” Halla repeated blankly. The big pan was way too small for a bath, even for Halla but the thought of a bath, of getting properly clean, was appealing beyond all reason. “Can we start now?”

  “Certainly!” Tarri replied, grinning at Halla’s fervor. “You first,” she said, pulling a curtain from one side to give Halla some privacy.

  Halla splashed happily for several minutes and then stopped, pushing the bucket back out with a foot and poking her head out from around the curtain.

  “I could do your hair, too, if you’d like,” Tarri offered, quickly dampening a washcloth in the bucket. Halla accepted the offer with a huge grin.

  While Tarri worked the soapy water into Halla’s hair, Halla closed her eyes and reveled in the feeling of Tarri’s fingers running through her hair and across her scalp. A pleasured sigh escaped her lips and Tarri’s fingers stopped moving.

  “When’s the last time someone did this for you?” Tarri asked her.

  “Never.”

  Tarri smiled and gently tweaked Halla’s nose. “Then I’ll be sure to do an extra special job.”

  Halla smiled back, thrilled that the trader liked her so much. As she drifted off in the sensual luxury of having her hair washed, Halla’s last thought was of hanging upside down from a trap with a pair of bright blue eyes peering back up at her. Whatever had happened to that trapper? she wondered.

  “If you decide to sleep in,” Tarri said, “I might be able to give your tunic a wash and have it dry by the time you wake up.”

  “Sleep in?” Halla repeated. She was always up with the first light or sooner, either to deal with traps or a cratchety youngster.

  “Yes, sleep in,” Tarri replied. She gave Halla an appraising look, adding, “I thought the concept was only foreign to traders.”

  “But the traps—”

  “—can wait until the sun’s properly up, I’m sure,” Tarri cut her protest short.

  Before Halla could reply, Tarri pulled out a large multicolored blanket and some soft sheets, and produced a bed that was nearly the width and length of the wagon. She flicked back one corner, and with a flourish and smile, gestured for Halla to precede her. “Ladies first.”

  Halla smiled back and crawled into the bed. Tarri crawled in next to her and Halla moved over to give her room, amazed to find herself with a whole half of a bed. She was asleep in an instant.

  When she awoke, the wagon was moving. It took a few moments before Halla’s sense of time informed her that it was past noon. She’d never slept that late before.

  She heard voices coming from the front of the wagon. One was Tarri’s, the other was a deeper voice—a man’s. Halla couldn’t make out the words they were saying because of the noise the wheels of the wagon and the rest of the caravan were making, but she could tell from the tone that the man was angry and Tarri was trying to soothe him.

  The man’s voice reminded Halla of the holder who had wanted her Shunned. She got up as quietly as she could and searched in the dim light for her tunic. She found it and was surprised at how clean it smelled. She forced herself not to dwell on that for long; the man’s voice made her nervous.

  When she tried the wagon’s back door she found it was locked. Were they keeping her prisoner? Was there no escape? Halla looked at the small windows gaily clad with curtains still closed to keep the light out—the windows were clearly too small.

  There was no way out but through the curtains leading to the front of the wagon and the angry man.

  Halla overcame her fearful shuddering with a deep, slow breath. If she came out on the far side of Tarri, she might be able to avoid the man and run away before anyone knew what had happened. None of the traders had any fleet-footed animals, and she was as good at hiding as she was at tracking. She stood a better chance at running than she did trying to deal with such anger.

  She strained to distinguish the conversation over the noise of the wagon.

  “For the last time, Veran, she didn’t have anything to do with it,” Halla heard Tarri say. “She was asleep here with me.”

  “If you say so,” Veran replied. “But what’s to say that she wasn’t hoping to steal from you, too?”

  “She wasn’t.”

  “And what makes you so sure?”

  “Because I asked if she’d like bangs,” Tarri replied.

  “Bangs?”

  “You know, hair cut across her forehead,” Tarri said with a hint of exacerbation.

  “But she didn’t have the mark of the Shunned,” Veran replied. “Why would it worry her?”

  “That’s not the point,” Tarri said. “If she were living with people who were Shunned she would have known immediately what I meant and would have reacted differently.”

  “So you’ve reached your judgment on a hunch,” Veran declared.

  “As have you,” Tarri responded, her tone gently chiding.

  “Hmmph,” Veran muttered thoughtfully. There was a moment’s silence while the trader reflected on Tarri’s point. “So why do you want to let her go?”

  “She could lead us to the others,” Tarri said.

  Halla pushed her head through the gap in the thick curtains and said, “I can track them if they’ve stolen from you.”

  Tarri glanced back at her and smiled. Before Tarri could utter a greeting, Halla’s face clouded and she asked anxiously, “My traps?”

  “Checked, cleared, rem
oved, or recovered before we set out,” Tarri told her, adding with a grin, “We’ve got breakfast and lunch thanks to you.”

  Halla sighed deeply, and said with relief, “I’d hate the thought of leaving trapped animals to die.”

  Veran, who was a good ten Turns older than Tarri, gave her a startled look, which settled into one of keen appraisal.

  “Why would you track the others?” he asked in a deep rumble.

  “Because I don’t like walking, I like running even less, and I hate the thought of spending all my time worrying that someone might brand me Shunned,” Halla told him honestly.

  “How did you come to be with the others?”

  “I don’t know who my parents were,” Halla said. In fact, she had only dim memories of a sad-faced but smiling mother, and none of her father. “Moran says he found my brother and me wandering around a Gather Turns ago—”

  “Where’s your brother?” Tarri asked, her forehead creased in a frown.

  “Dead,” Halla said. “He broke his leg and the wound festered.” She was surprised that she hadn’t thought of Jamal in so long, and ashamed that his memory had faded so much from her thoughts.

  “But—” Veran started to protest and then cut himself off. “Was he Shunned, then, that he couldn’t get to a healer?”

  “No,” Halla said. “But to see a healer you’ve got to be known to the holders or the crafters.

  “If they don’t know you,” she continued, shrugging, “they don’t even ask if you’re Shunned.”

  “A trader, then—”

  “Traders want marks,” Halla said. “Or trade.” Her tone when she said “trade” made Tarri blush.

  Veran blustered at her words. “We traders—”

  “—were happy enough to see that girl yesterday,” Tarri interjected. “At least the men.”

  Veran weighed her words; from his expression it was obvious that he couldn’t argue with them but he didn’t like the way they set on his mind either. He peered critically at Halla and demanded, “So tell me that you’ve never stolen, then.”