Daughter of Dragons

Chapter 8-3

“It pleases me,” he replied, his voice now muffled by folds of sacking. “Both you and the temple shall have your gold in the morning. Is there anything else I might do for you to alleviate my debt?”

“No.” There was nothing anyone could do now; she had to do it all for herself. By herself. “Leave now.”

“As you wish,” he said, bowing as if to a queen. “But if you are ever in need of a favour, remember Lionel Celeste.”

He and his servants departed then. As soon as they were gone, she locked the door and then collapsed into her rocking chair to await Pieter’s return.

G

The first thing Pieter saw when he came straggling into the kitchen with an armful of packages was Liselle. She was slumped in her rocking chair, fast asleep. Her tiny face was slack and ashen. A frown ridged her brow. He recognized the look immediately—it was the aftermath of serious magic. He didn’t wonder about the sort of sorcery she’d been doing. He didn’t want to know.

He slung his packages onto the table, then tramped over to her chair. He took no pains to be quiet, for he knew from past experience that absolutely nothing could wake Liselle up when she was in this condition. Poor dear, he thought, as he lifted her into his arms. He had never seen her this drained before—back when he had been living here, she’d always made it to bed before collapsing. Then again, he reminded himself sagely, he had left Compara years ago. And none of them were getting any younger.

He carried his aunt into her room and set her down on the bed. As he twitched the coverlet over her, her eyelids fluttered and her frown grew more pronounced. “Pieter?” she mumbled. “Where are you?”

“I’m right here,” he replied.

Her eyes snapped wide open then, and she bolted upright on the bed. Her hands groped at thin air.

“Pieter!” she cried. “Please! You mustn’t go!”

The panic in her voice quickened his pulse even as it raised the hackles on his neck. He seized her hand, then squeezed it.

“All is well, Liselle,” he told her. “I’m right here.”

She continued to stare past him and out into space. It was then that he realized that she was caught in the grips of some dream. A nightmare, he appended, recalling her cry. A nightmare in which he played some vital role. If he had not seen and heard it for himself, he would’ve never guessed how upset she was about his impending departure.

Poor dear, he thought again, beaming down at her with sudden tenderness. Despite her assertions to the contrary, she had not really changed so very much. Moreover, he was glad of it.

Still smiling, he eased her back into a prone position and then gently closed her eyes with a pass of his hand. She starting mumbling again, but the words were all gibberish and quickly tailed off into silence. He stayed by her side until he was sure no other outbursts were forthcoming and then went to take a bath.

It was an arduous process. First he had to drag the tub out of the storage closet and into the kitchen. Then he had to pump the water into a kettle and heat it up. By the time he had the tub filled to his liking, he was keener for a nap than a party. That languid craving grew even stronger as he eased himself into the steaming water.

Maybe he ought to stay home tonight, he mused, as liquid warmth seeped into the spaces between his bones. He did have some packing to do; and there was Liselle to fret about, too. Maybe he should stick around just in case those nightmares of hers returned. But even as he entertained the notion, a part of him rebelled against it. If he backed out of the party at this late moment, Jamus would be furious and rightly so—his newfound friend had gone through a lot of trouble and expense on his behalf. Besides, Liselle was not likely to stir again before tomorrow.

He soaped himself as he debated the matter, then ducked beneath the suds to rinse. When he surfaced again, his mind was made up: he was going to the party.

G

Lathwi stretched to pop the kinks from her spine, then began to pick her teeth with a sliver of bone. The carcass of a yearling buck lay nearby; the moon’s pale light pooled in its wounds. It was a tasty beast. She had eaten fistful after raw fistful, a tactile frenzy that would have no doubt horrified Pieter. And afterward, when she could eat no more, she had curled up in the tall meadow grass and snoozed while her stomach worked and her horse-sore muscles healed.

Now she felt wonderful: full and rested and all sported out. All she needed to do was decide what she wanted to do next. She toyed with the idea of spending the night here in the meadow—it was extremely nice to be alone again, free to do and think as she pleased. She could spend the whole night contemplating the heretofore unappreciated sounds of silence. Tempting as the notion was, though, she rejected it. Staying here tonight meant returning to Compara in the morning, which meant that she’d be riding when she could be learning sorcery from Liselle. And at the moment, she desired knowledge more than the forest’s peace and quiet.

So she slung the carcass across the stallion’s shoulders and set off for the city. Mindful of low-lying branches and other nocturnal hazards, she held her mount to a walk through the woods. As soon as they reached the road, though, she let him have his head—not because she was in any great hurry to get back to Compara, but because she was hungry for speed and the feel of wind in her face. But while the stallion obliged with a headlong run, he could not quench her craving. If she had had the least excuse then, she would’ve Called Shoq. She wanted to soar through the sky with him and tickle the clouds and trumpet her pride as they outraced the wind. But she had no need at the moment, no need at all unless it be a pair of wings; and that was something that her tanglemate could never give her.

Her mouth chasmed into an inspired ‛O’. Shoq could not give her wings, but perhaps Liselle could! The sorceress was smart, she might know of a magic which could make Lathwi fly. She would be a true dragon then, sky-dancer and cloud-teaser. There could be no greater fortune!

Excitement turned the road into a featureless blur, and when the gates of Compara finally loomed out of the darkness, she rode through them and on with no hesitation. The streets were nearly deserted now, but that inn where Pieter had taken her to eat was still quite lively. Laughter broke out as she went riding by its courtyard. Someone shouted. Uninterested in the commotion, she continued on to the stables. Raffi was shovelling dung out of a stall when she got there.

“Lucky for you I be extra busy today,” he said, as she dismounted. “Otherwise, your devil-horse would have had ta spend da night wit you.” Then, as she hauled her kill down from the stallion, a hint of benign envy crept into his eyes. “I wish I had time ta hunt. Meat from da butcher don’t taste the same.”

She shrugged, then began to remove the stallion’s tack. He sighed, then pitched in. A moment later, he started to scold.

“You bring dis fella back in some kind of a mess,” he said. “Look—he covered all over with burrs and sweat and blood. Take hours ta clean him up. You want, I do for you. I no can sleep anyway.”

“Thank you,” she said, acknowledging the favour.

“Go home,” he replied gruffly, and then took off for the tackroom with her saddle.

She shouldered the yearling’s carcass and headed for the door. Three steps later, she decided that she didn’t want to haul so much dead weight all the way back to the house and so began to hack off a hindquarter for herself. Just as she was finishing the job, Raffi came ambling back from the tackroom.

“Why you still here?” he demanded.

“You want, you keep,” she said, glancing at the rest of the buck’s remains.

Raffi’s jaw dropped open, then clicked shut again. His eyes were twin moons of disbelief.

“You too generous!” he exclaimed. “I can’t eat dat much meat.”

She shrugged, for that was his problem, then shouldered the haunch she had claimed for herself and started on her way again. He babbled thank-you’s in her wake, but the words had no effect on her.

Three streets down from the stable, the sound of booted feet on the run erupted behind her. As she turned to see who was chasing her, someone slammed into her blind side. Caught off-balance, she staggered to the right and into the mouth of an alley. There, someone blind-sided her again, driving her deeper into the darkness. Then six broad-shouldered figures materialized in the alleyway with her. Although it was hard for her to discern details in the dark, she noticed that each of these figures bore a stout length of wood.

“Oy, lads,” a vaguely familiar voice intoned. “Look at who we have here.” One of the figures stepped closer—close enough for her to see its tangled beard and hunchbacked nose. “It’s the thief.” Then he twitched his piece of wood at the haunch which was resting on her shoulder. “Where’d you steal that, thief?” Recognition flared within her—this was the dull-witted man from the inn. She did not understand his interest in the meat. Did he mean to challenge her for it?

“What you want?” she asked.

He spat as if galled, then snarled, “I want my diamond, b***h. And I want it now.”

She scorned him as a fool. Did he actually believe that she was stupid enough to keep such an auspicious stone on her person? Or that she would surrender it simply because he now regretted its giving?

“Mine,” she reminded him, which was an insult in and of itself. “You give, I take.”

“You were supposed to give me something in return. You were supposed to come to my room and do what women do best.”

Step by deliberate step, he closed in on her. His five companions followed.

“Do you know what we do to thieves in the southland?” he asked, as he advanced. “We beat ’em b****y. And do you know what we do to thieving w****s? We beat ’em b****y, then cut off their noses.”

Now that was the most peculiar practice she had heard of yet, she thought. What possible use could somebody have for somebody else’s nose?

“So if you know what’s good for you,” the man went on, “you’ll hand over my diamond, then spread your legs for me and the lads. Who knows? We might even let you enjoy it.”

“Go away,” she told him. “Or you get hurt again.”

His eyes narrowed. He wrung his length of wood as if it were her neck, then said, “I’m not drunk tonight, b***h. And that lucky punch you landed the other night is another reason you’re going to suffer.”

He lunged forward then and rammed his club into her gut. She stagger-stepped backward and into a wall. As she gasped for air, the other men came rushing toward her, all swinging wood. One slammed into her left thigh; another collided with her hip. Pain bloomed beneath her scales. Fury detonated in her head. With a roar, she threw herself into the fray.

She struck out with the hindquarter, swinging it like an oversized cudgel. One man went flying backward; another fell to his knees while still in range. That one she hit again—a vicious clout to the face. He pitched forward with a moan. Someone clubbed her knees then. The pain was explosive, like a streaks of lightning down her legs, but she remained on her feet and kept on swinging until somebody tore the haunch from her grip.

That gave her a chance to uncinch a dragon claw.

Moments later, a man cried out in surprise and pain. As he limped away from the fight, his viscera gleaming darkly in his hands, the rest of Lathwi’s attackers turned savage. One of them dealt her a brain-rattling blow to the skull; another pummelled her ribs. She battled on like a creature possessed, but could not rout this cowardly pack of jackals. They were too quick for her now, too canny. More often than not, they anticipated her strokes or deftly turned them aside.