Dragon's Fire

by Anne McCaffrey

  “What are you doing here?” Tarik asked as Tenim let himself in. The miner was sprawled in a chair, a bottle of wine on the table in front of him and a mug in his hand.

  “I might ask you the same,” Tenim said. “Let’s just say that I’m here to see how we are doing on our investments.

  “Only,” he went on, gesturing toward the mine, “I discover that you’ve been relieved.” He gave Tarik a sour look. “Something about skimping on the wood joists, I hear.”

  Tarik flushed angrily. “Natalon’s a fool. He’d have us use three times as much wood as we need.”

  “So you decided to profit on your own initiative?” Tenim asked, glowering down at the miner. “And, instead, we stand to lose everything.”

  Tarik took an angry breath, caught the murderous look in Tenim’s eyes, and let it out with a deep sigh.

  “I thought you weren’t going to be back until spring,” Tarik said.

  “My plans changed,” Tenim replied, dragging up a chair opposite Tarik. The miner gestured to the bottle on the table, but Tenim shook his head irritably. “One of us needs to keep his head clear enough to think.”

  “Why bother?” Tarik said. “Natalon’s as good as sacked me. I’ll never find work after this.” He shook his head dejectedly. “His own uncle, and he’d throw me out.”

  “You’re no use to me if you’re thrown out,” Tenim said, eyeing Tarik thoughtfully. The older man was too much in his cups to recognize his peril.

  “I should be the master here,” Tarik grumbled, “not him. I’ve Turns more experience in the mine, helped train him, too.”

  Tenim’s murderous look altered subtly as he listened to Tarik.

  “Where’s Natalon now?”

  Tarik quirked an eyebrow at him, saying querulously, “In the mine, my shaft, shoring up the joists, of course.”

  Tenim rose from his seat in one fluid motion, like a bird rising to swoop on its prey.

  “Stay here,” he ordered Tarik. “Don’t let anyone in the mine.”

  Tarik looked up at him in confusion. “I’m not in charge.”

  “Yet,” Tenim replied curtly.

  “Master Zist? Master Zist?” Cristov called at the door to the harper’s cothold.

  The mine had collapsed and Tarik had forbidden anyone to enter it, declaring it too dangerous. He’d even hit Kindan when the lad had insisted on going in with his watch-wher.

  “That dumb animal’s no use now,” Tarik had sworn angrily.

  Someone had to take charge, someone had to do something. Cristov had run down to Zist’s, hoping the harper could restore order.

  “Master Zist?” he called again, inching inside the door. His resolve grew and he walked all through the cottage, calling Zist’s name.

  In the kitchen, on the table, he spied the grisly remains of a brown fire-lizard. The memory of stroking that fire-lizard’s cheek woke an anger in Cristov that he had never before felt. He turned on his heel and strode out of the cottage.

  He was going to get his axe.

  CHAPTER I

  Miners, dig in streets so black,

  Find the coal, bring it back.

  When cold winter comes to stay,

  Your warm coal keeps chills away.

  CAMP NATALON,

  SECOND INTERVAL,

  AFTER LANDING (AL) 494.1

  Toldur gently laid the most injured of the rescued miners down on the floor of the lift. “Let’s go up, Cristov.”

  Cristov grabbed one of the lift’s ropes while Toldur grabbed the other, and together they winched themselves and the lift up from the bottom of the mine.

  At the top, helping hands reached out to grab the injured miner from them and haul him out of the mine. Toldur stepped out behind him only to pause as he noticed Cristov holding back.

  “Are you all right?” Toldur asked, peering intently at the young miner.

  “Yes.”

  “You should be proud of yourself,” Toldur said, clapping one of his huge hands on Cristov’s back. “Though you’ve just turned twelve, today you did a man’s job—and made a man’s decision.”

  They reached the mine entrance and found themselves lost in a throng of torches and milling voices. In the distance, Cristov could make out a number of shining eyes peering down from the hillside—dragons.

  Alarmed, he picked out several dragonriders in the crowds, wondering if he’d have to defend his actions tonight.

  “Is that the last of them, Toldur?” asked Margit, the camp’s healer. She squinted when she noticed Cristov. “I didn’t think he’d be here.”

  “He helped,” Toldur explained, patting Cristov on the back once more. “Without him we wouldn’t have been in time.”

  Margit started to say something but thought better of it, shaking her head and turning away.

  Around him, the noises and the cheering of the rescued and rescuers faded in Cristov’s ears as he imagined what Margit wanted to say. He felt numb, lost.

  And then, across the crowd, his gaze locked with his father’s.

  Instead of smiling at him or giving him any sign of recognition, Tarik turned his head sharply away from his son, as though disowning him.

  Cristov felt his face burn in shame, even though he knew it wasn’t right, that he was the one who should be ashamed of his father.

  As he watched, Masterminer Britell and two miners he didn’t recognize approached his father.

  “Tarik, I think you should come with us,” Britell said. “There will be an investigation.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Tarik growled angrily.

  “Precisely.”

  Cristov was wondering if he should follow when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “You need to drink some of this,” Toldur said, pressing a warm mug into his hands. “And then you’ll need to get some rest.”

  “But my father—”

  “He’ll have to accept the consequences of his actions,” Toldur said, his voice flat.

  Three days later, after Masterminer Britell, his assistant, Master Jannik, and Harper Zist had conducted an extensive investigation, the whole camp was summoned to the great room in Natalon’s house.

  Cristov was familiar with the room; he had taken classes from Harper Zist there. The room was arranged as it usually was when Harper Zist was teaching, with one small table placed at one end and the remaining tables arranged in two long rows perpendicular to it. Cristov and his mother, Dara, sat near the end of their table, closest to the small table where Zist, Britell, and Jannik sat.

  When everyone was seated, Masterminer Britell rose. “We have completed our investigation,” he told the room. “And I have communicated my findings to Lord Holder Fenner.”

  A ripple of surprise spread through the room as people wondered why the Masterminer had needed to communicate with Crom’s Lord Holder.

  Britell gestured to a group of men standing in the doorway and silence fell as Tarik marched into the room, flanked by two guards.

  “Miner Tarik,” Britell said to him. “I have heard evidence that you did purposely steal the wood intended to shore up your mine-shaft and that you did purposely mine the pillars of your shaft. Will you explain what you did with the wood and the coal?”

  “Who said I did any such thing?” Tarik demanded, seeking out Natalon among the crowd and glaring at him. “It’s all lies—”

  “Among others, miners Panit and Kerdal,” Master Zist’s voice cut across Tarik’s outburst.

  A vein bulged in Tarik’s forehead as he tried to jump out of the grasp of his guards, lunging toward Panit and Kerdal.

  “You’re dead!” he shouted to them, struggling against his guards. “Dead!”

  “Silence,” Zist said, his voice not loud but commanding.

  Tarik fell silent, still glowering at Panit and Kerdal.

  “Would you answer our question?” Britell said.

  Tarik looked nervously around the room. He opened his mouth to speak but decided against it, shaking his head.r />
  “Very well,” Britell said. “Miner Tarik, it is our conclusion that your actions did severely endanger the safety of the mine and directly caused the death of two miners. Further, it is our conclusion that you took your actions repeatedly, in full knowledge of the dangers you were creating and against the directions of Camp Natalon’s leader. Your actions were taken, we believe, for your own gain.”

  Beside him, Cristov could see his mother shaking as silent tears wracked her body.

  “Beyond that, when the mine did collapse as a result of your negligence, you purposely refused to allow any rescue attempts to the extent that you struck a child unconscious to prevent him from attempting a rescue,” Britell continued, his voice harsh with repressed rage. “There is also some question as to whether your orders to pump air into the mine after the shaft’s collapse were not an attempt on your part to ensure that there would be no survivors.”

  “That’s not so,” Tarik protested feebly. He raised his head to look Masterminer Britell in the eyes. “I didn’t know, I swear!”

  Britell glanced down to Masters Zist and Jannik. Master Zist made a dismissive gesture with his hand. Britell shrugged in response and nodded to Zist. With a slight sigh, Master Zist rose and faced Tarik.

  “Are you prepared to hear our judgment?” Master Zist asked him.

  “What about the Lord Holder?” Tarik protested. “Doesn’t he get a say?”

  “He does,” Master Zist agreed. “And he has.” He lifted a small roll of parchment from the table. “I ask again, are you prepared for our judgment?”

  Tarik shuffled on his feet as he nodded.

  “Your actions indicate a disregard for the lives of others,” Zist said. “As such, it is our opinion that you should be released from the company of men.”

  “Shunned?” Tarik cried in disbelief.

  Cristov’s eyes went wide. Beside him, Dara let out a moan.

  “Shunned and Nameless,” Masterminer Britell said.

  Nameless? Cristov thought in despair. His father’s name would be taken away from him, never to be spoken again. Beside him, Dara collapsed.

  “Further, for the rest of your days you will work at the pleasure of Lord Holder Fenner,” Britell continued.

  As Cristov tried desperately to rouse his mother, a voice spoke softly in his ear, “Let’s get her out of here.”

  It was Toldur. Dalor and Zenor stood beside him, faces grave and concerned.

  “It’s all right,” Cristov protested as Toldur lifted Dara’s limp body over his shoulder.

  “We miners take care of our own,” Dalor asserted, patting Cristov on the shoulder.

  But as they left the crowded room with all eyes upon them, Cristov wondered how true that would hold for him and his mother in the Turns to come.

  CHAPTER 2

  Gather, gather, gather!

  Frolic, play, and laughter!

  Juicy bubbly pies to eat—

  Gather day’s the best all week.

  CROM HOLD,

  ALL-WEYR GAMES,

  AL 495.4

  Cristov felt awkward wending his way through the Gather crowd at Crom Hold. There were more people at the Gather than in all of Camp Natalon. It was overwhelming. He was sure that they were all looking at him.

  “They’re not looking at you,” Toldur said from behind him, guessing Cristov’s thoughts from the lad’s hunched shoulders, the way he kept his elbows close to his sides, and his bowed head. “At least, they’re looking at you no more than they’re looking at everyone else.”

  Cristov paused long enough to give Toldur a sour look and then turned his attention back to the crowd.

  “There’s a good crowd this time,” Toldur judged. “I’m surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Telgar Weyr’s won the Games for the past four Turns.”

  “And they’ll win again,” Cristov replied loyally.

  “Over there,” Toldur said, pointing over Cristov’s shoulder toward a raised platform. “The Masterminer will be over there, with Lord Holder Fenner.”

  Cristov changed his course. Again he wondered why the Masterminer had sent for him. Surely if he’d done something wrong, Toldur—or even his Uncle Natalon—would have told him.

  He looks a lot like his father, Moran thought to himself as he watched the gangling youth heading through the crowd toward the Lord Holder’s stand. Same bowed head, same surly look. Yes, he might do, Moran decided. He might do indeed, if it worked out that way.

  Imperiously, Moran raised his arm and beckoned. “There’s your target.”

  “He was Jamal’s friend,” Halla objected when she caught sight of her prey. “I remember him. About three Turns back, just when Jamal broke his leg.”

  “He was, and his father helped us, too,” Moran agreed. “So there’s no reason he shouldn’t be your friend, too.”

  “But—”

  Moran silenced her with a finger to his lips. “Go, if you want to eat tonight,” he told her. When she still looked rebellious, Moran added, “If you want the young ones to eat tonight.”

  Halla glared at him, her jaw set, weighing the alternatives. There were none, and Moran knew it. Moran controlled the food, the wealth, and all the secrets. She had even been relieved when he’d arrived at Keogh to bring the wherhold children back to Aleesa—she’d found it harder than she would have believed to beg enough food to keep them fed. It was natural, afterward, that Halla and Moran continued on to Crom Hold, just as it was natural that Moran had collected a new group of children, orphaned or Shunned.

  Halla could do what he said or suffer the consequences. When Jamal had been alive, Halla had held hopes that they might escape from Moran somehow. But the fever that had seeped in through his broken leg had sapped him first of strength and then of life.

  She’d been all of eight when he’d died. With Jamal dead, there’d been no one but Moran—she doubted he was a real harper—to look after her. And now, when she was nearing twelve Turns, there were other young ones to look after—and perhaps save.

  Halla knew that Moran had followed the same reasoning, had tied her to him out of her pity for the young ones just as he had tied her brother Jamal to him out of Jamal’s worry for her. And, even so, Halla couldn’t imagine leaving the young ones to deal with Moran alone. She, more than any, knew what that was like—she’d experienced it after Jamal’s death; the harper off at all hours of the evening, her never knowing if the harper would return, and, if he did, whether he would come with enough food for them or none at all and him drunk instead on the marks that he’d begged for their food.

  “Just follow him,” Moran told her. “Listen to what’s said and report back to me.”

  Halla nodded and headed off after her quarry. When she looked back, Moran had disappeared into the crowd. Probably looking for some wine, Halla thought, wondering if she’d have to deal once again with the harper’s drunkenness later that night. She felt herself chill at the thought.

  Cristov found it easier to look at the youngsters scampering about the Gather than the older folk. He stopped and twirled around to follow the antics of a small pair of boys as they raced through the crowd, chattering incessantly. His eye fell on one girl, maybe one or two Turns younger than himself. She looked forlorn and hungry.

  “Toldur, can I borrow a half-mark?”

  “I’m sure we’ll be asked to eat with the Masterminer,” Toldur began, then paused as he followed the lad’s look. “Oh, certainly. You’ve more than that coming to you.”

  The tall miner fished in his pocket and handed the token, branded with the Minercraft mark, over to Cristov.

  “Thanks!” Cristov called back as he walked over to the girl.

  “You look like you could use some bubbly pies,” he said to her. The girl froze for a moment, giving him a frightened look.

  “I’m going to be with the Lord Holder,” Cristov continued, “and I’m not sure if they’ll serve bubbly pies.” He had the girl’s attention now, he could tell.
“You remind me of a friend I knew here many Turns back; his name was Jamal. Would you do me a big favor?”

  The girl’s eyes widened.

  “Please?”

  The girl nodded. Cristov smiled and pressed the half-mark into her palm. “Would you go and see if the bubbly pies are still good? Get as many as this will buy and eat them all for me? Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” the girl said woodenly.

  “Thank you,” Cristov said. “That way at least I’ll know that one of us will get bubbly pies.” He smiled at her. “I’m Cristov, of Camp Natalon.”

  “Halla,” the girl said and then, as if she’d reached the limit of her words, she darted off into the crowd. Cristov tried to follow her progress, but she was soon lost from sight. He turned back to Toldur.

  “Sorry,” he told the older miner, for it was Toldur’s mark he’d given away.

  Toldur clapped him on the back. “There is nothing to be sorry about,” he exclaimed. “You did a good thing there.”

  “Masterminer, how are you?” Toldur called out as he and Cristov climbed up the stands, all eyes upon them. Cristov cringed, wishing he could stay behind. Everyone was looking at him.

  “Toldur!” Masterminer Britell exclaimed as he caught sight of the miner. He gave a cry of surprise when he spotted Cristov. “Is that Cristov?”

  “It is indeed,” Toldur agreed, gesturing for Cristov to stand in front of him.

  “When did you get so tall?” the Masterminer asked in astonishment. “And where did you get all those bulging muscles?”

  “Where else but the mines?” Toldur answered for him. Cristov failed to keep the flush off his face. He didn’t think he was all that tall, and he still felt that he was as “scrawny” as when his father last griped about it.