Servant of the Dragon (34 page)

Sharina waited quietly while Milco carried out the operation. The goldsmith worked without haste but quickly nonetheless; he never wasted a motion. When he'd finished, he took a small knife from his sleeve and with it notched a tallystick of willow.

"I hope you'll not feel insulted if I test the piece for alloys, milady?" he said. He raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes the luster can be deceptive."

"Go ahead," Sharina said. "I have no idea how pure the gold is myself."

Milco took what Sharina had thought was a mixing bowl for wine from the shelf where the steelyard was kept. It was of much higher quality than the pottery Sharina had passed on her way to his booth. It was already about half-full of clear water.

The vessel's interior glaze was decorated with a harpy drawn in remarkable detail. The tips of her spread wings touched the rim so that the trailing edges of the feathers formed a series of minute notches up the sides.

Milco slid the pectoral into the water with great care. Sharina stood so that she could look into the vessel with him, though she didn't have the faintest notion of what she should be looking for.

Milco shook his head in pleased amazement. He pointed to where the water rose against the harpy's wings—precisely on the tip of one feather, while halfway between a pair on the other wing.

"Absolutely pure," he said. "I guessed as much from the greasy feel. I harden my weights with copper. Metal as soft as yours can't be touched without being diminished."

He set the vessel to one side of the table and sat down, gesturing Sharina onto the stool. "This leaves the question of how you choose to proceed," Milco said. "As you clearly surmised, there are elements in our society which would be offended by the object you've brought me. Offended enough to do violence against the owner."

With minute grin, Milco added, "At least to attempt violence. I wouldn't choose to be the person who attacked you, milady. But that's only one side of the matter. There are others who might very well pay a considerable sum to gain an object of this sort, regardless of the material of which it was made."

"Collectors?" Sharina asked. She didn't think Milco meant collectors.

"Of a sort," Milco replied. "As you noted, the item has religious significance. I could make discreet inquiries if you like; some of them would be within the palace itself. The amount you could realize on the sale would be potentially much greater than the object's bullion value."

Sharina shrugged in turn. "No thank you," she said. "I'll sell it to you as a weight of metal."

Milco nodded. He unhooked the first steelyard and replaced it with another whose counterweight arm was much longer than that for the pan holding the objects being weighed.

The goldsmith would probably advance her something for food, but Sharina didn't have time to wait for him to make cautious inquiries to those with secret interests in demon worship. At least she didn't think she had time. Conceivably she'd have to stay in Valhocca for months or years before the Dragon sent her on the next stage of her journey—or until her friends rescued her. She thought of Cashel, striding toward her through whatever happened to be in his way.

As she waited, Sharina smiled to imagine Valhoccans secretly worshipping the Dragon. He wasn't a God or even a demon—though she wouldn't be surprised to learn that the Dragon had demonic powers. Sharina doubted prayer would be a very good way to get him to help, though.

"Because you're a stranger," Milco said as he set the three gold demons in the pan of his counterweight, "I'll mention that we exchange twenty weights of silver for one gold, and twelve copper for one weight of silver. Iron is ten to one against copper."

"What sort of coins do you use here?" Sharina said. She'd seen the little iron wedges tossed to the street entertainers and once she'd noticed a lump of copper being offered in exchange in a shop she'd passed, but she hadn't seen real money.

"Coins?" Milco said, repeating a word that obviously had no meaning for him.

Sharina realized her mistake. Well, the goldsmith already knew that she'd come from far away—though he probably thought the distance was in space rather than time and space both.

"In my country," Sharina said, "the ruler stamps his face on metal of a given weight and purity so that it doesn't have to be weighed for every transaction."

Milco smiled thinly. "You're a very trusting people," he said as he began counting small ingots of silver into the pan of the steelyard. "If I were offered silver by one of my colleagues here, I would be certain that their weight was correct—but I'd reweigh the piece nonetheless. And if Lord Mutums were to offer the ingot, I'd first nick it to be sure that it wasn't lead under a silver wash."

Sharina laughed. "The custom of the country," she said. "Though you should recall that the ruler's face tells a merchant what the metal
is
; what value the merchant puts on that is another matter. Historians say that the coinage of some rulers has passed at the value of lead."

Milco displayed the steelyard; the counterweight hung slightly lower than the pan of silver. The goldsmith took down a third, much smaller, balance and set it on the table. He put the tiny silver image of a pig in the counterweight and set copper strips in the pan to be weighed.

Sharina frowned. The silver weighed at least four pounds and was of considerable bulk besides. The sturdy leather wallet that had come with the Pewle knife's harness would hold that amount, but it was going to be an unpleasant burden to walk around with.

Not as unpleasant as going hungry, though. She grinned, wondering what the price of a meal in Valhocca was.

Milco took the silver from the hanging steelyard, added three strips of copper, and laid four iron wedges on top. The silver and copper had been stamped, sometimes scores of times, with the hallmark of each goldsmith through whose hands it had passed and—each time—a series of circles and dots to indicate the weight.

Milco reached into his strongbox again and came out with two more silver ingots, a large one and a piece of about a fifth the size of the first. He added them to the end of the pile.

"I'm giving you a premium over the bullion value," the goldsmith said. His mouth and eyes both smiled—minutely. "If I can sell the artifact in its present form, my profit will still be considerable."

Instead of taking the metal at once, Sharina said, "You don't have to do that. We made a bargain."

"So we did," Milco agreed. "Perhaps the Gods will favor me in the future because I didn't take advantage of a stranger, do you think?"

He laughed. With something more than humor in his voice, though, he added, "And there's also the fact that I believe you when you say that the owner of the object—"

The pectoral had vanished into his strongbox as soon as he removed it from the steelyard.

"—gave it to you to sell. I worship the Shepherd, as I said. But I wouldn't willingly offend the personage whose object that was."

"I see," said Sharina. She began placing the silver in the leather wallet. The copper and iron would fit in the brocade purse she kept in her left sleeve.

She remembered the Dragon's tone when he spoke of those who were using his body for purposes of their own wizardry. She gave Milco a tight smile and said, "Yes, I think that shows good judgment on your part."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"
Into the nursery crept we in secret
," sang Elfin. His fingers plucked the paired strings of his lyre with spare precision. Instead of playing the full melody, the lyre touched the musical high spots while the youth's silver voice carried the burden of the tune.
"There as she slept did we fall on the nurse."

The People laughed like the tinkle of brooks, chatting among themselves as they led Cashel through the great trees. Occasionally one would look back over a shoulder at their guest; then they'd all laugh louder.

"Silver the wires we used, sewing her lips shut,
" Elfin sang.
"Golden the nails that we drove through her wrists.'

He had a lovely voice, as high and pure as the singers Cashel had heard perform the first time Garric gave a banquet in the palace. When Garric learned how it was that grown men could sing that way, he'd sent them away with a pension... not that anything was going to grow back just because Prince Garric didn't want to hear geldings sing any more.

Cashel glanced sideways surreptitiously at Elfin. The fabric of the youth's tunic was flowing but you couldn't see through it. Elfin seemed pretty normal, though, except for his voice.

"Out of their sockets plucked we her eyes twain,"
Elfin sang.
"Nacred and gilded we wear them as jewels."

"Do you like our music, Master Cashel?" Wella asked. When the king of the People smiled, the tip of his tongue licked out quick as a fly's wing.

"Elfin's great," Cashel said. "My friend Garric plays the pipes, but this is even better."

A further thought struck him and he frowned. "I don't know how the sheep would take to it, though," he added. "Garric can pipe them to sleep in the middle of a thunderstorm, or he used to anyway."

Wella blinked, but it wasn't the regular lids that moved: a clear membrane wiped over each eye side to side. Cashel had never seen that before, except on snakes.

"Into her nose did we winkle our pincers,"
Elfin sang.
"Pincers of gold for to seize on her brain."

The People had led Cashel over the river on a bridge woven from osiers. The wood was still growing; narrow green leaves half-concealed the latticework. The trees on this side of the water were all big, broad about as well as tall, but the white oak directly ahead was the biggest tree Cashel had ever seen in his life. It was like walking into a clearing, though the branches formed a roof overhead.

Cashel frowned slightly. The oak was a wolf tree, hogging ground that could have supported a dozen ordinary trees. In the borough it would have been cut down generations ago and a dozen acorns planted in its stead.

Well, this wasn't the common wood attached to Barca's Hamlet. The People had nothing
but
forest here, so Cashel guessed they didn't have to think about how best to use their woods.

"Welcome to the King of the Forest, Master Cashel," Wella said over his shoulder. "This is the home of the People. We will provide you with fitting entertainment, dear guest."

Elfin had stopped singing; he held his lyre under his arm. He met Cashel's eyes with a nervous, angry glare. Cashel couldn't imagine what the boy had against him. Elfin acted like a dog whose master beat it when he was drunk.

"Ah, I'm glad to be here," Cashel said because his hosts expected him to say something. They twittered like flock of swallows as they led him toward a split in the side of the oak tree.

Cashel couldn't complain that they were unfriendly, any except maybe Elfin, but they'd get on his nerves if he had to stay around them any length of time. He'd rather be back in the court at Valles. Though in truth there was a lot of similarity between the People and the way courtiers acted.

Cashel raised his left fist to his cheek like he was rubbing his jaw and muttered, "Krias, is this on the way where we want to go?"

Elfin stared at Cashel with an expression of... well, something other than hatred. Longing? Envy, certainly.

"It's on the way to where you're going, fool that you are," the demon said. "As to it being on the way to Landure's mansion—it would be, sheep-boy, if you got beyond it."

Krias' spiky little voice was as different as could be from Elfin's singing. The funny thing was that Cashel found himself
liking
to hear the demon. It was like a bite of salt meat after too many mouthfuls of honey.

The People knew about Krias, that was certain. One by one they slipped through the opening in the great trunk. Each before he did so glanced back at the ring. They had narrow, double-pointed eyes, except for Elfin.

It bothered Cashel—sort of an itch in his mind—that the ring demon had quit squeaking his usual litany of insults and complaints when Cashel went off with the People. Cashel didn't like to be insulted, but neither did it bother him a lot. It never had; which was a good thing, since he'd had plenty of it from growing up poor and being, well, not as bright as most folks.

The truth was, he'd gotten used to Krias grumbling. There was a lot going on around Cashel that was new and worrisome; he'd just as soon that the demon, at least, had stayed the same. Well, he still had his iron-shod quarterstaff....

"Enter, honored guest," Wella said, gesturing toward the split in the treebark. "Enter the home of the People, dear Cashel."

"It's not big enough for...," Cashel said; and paused, because it
was
big enough now. It'd be a tight fit for him, even sideways; but the opening had been glove tight on the People who'd preceded Cashel, and none of them were half his girth or as tall either.

"Enter, that the People may entertain you," Wella said. Cashel thrust his staff out in front of him and, behind it, entered the hollow of the King of the Forest.

Whatever there was beyond the crack in the bark, it wasn't the insides of a tree. The oak was huge, sure, but this room was bigger yet and its walls seemed to have been dripped from colored wax. Stepping sideways to clear the entrance, Cashel patted the surface with his left hand. It was warm but stone-hard.

The room's greenish illumination came from inside the walls. It wasn't bright to look at, but Cashel could see bones through the flesh of his fingers when he touched the wall. The ring was a sharp black emptiness.

Under the peak of the light-vaulted hall stood a table shaped like a horseshoe with high-backed chairs around the outside. The only seat on the interior of the horseshoe was a stool facing the throne of gold and ivory in the center of the other side.

Wella slipped in behind Cashel, the last of the People to enter the chamber. A look of triumph transfigured the king's face. "Elfin," he said, "lead our guest to the seat of honor."

Elfin took Cashel by the left hand. "Come," he said. "Come."

The youth's voice sounded like distant wind-chimes. As he led Cashel to the stool across from King Wella's throne, his fingers crept down Cashel's palm toward—but not quite to—the ring. Elfin looked sidelong at Cashel the way a rabbit views a snake.

The People seated themselves on the outside of the arc, moving like thistledown on a light breeze. Their garments rippled the way a creek falls over rocks, each now with its own color instead of taking that of the light from the walls. Gold, beige, blue—all sorts of colors. All of them shifted, except Wella's robe stayed a fierce fiery red with the gleam of metal.

A high sound filled the hall, though it was almost too faint to hear. Cashel couldn't tell where it was coming from, or whether he was really hearing music rather than the thin calls of insects.

It was like sitting at the edge of a wood during late spring, when the meadow and trees were in flower and glittering bees buzzed between the blossoms. Elfin alone was plain; his garment was green, and the light threw the same sickly hue over the youth's face.

Cashel sat. The stool held his weight, though he heard it creak. It wasn't bleached oak like he'd thought. Somebody had carved it out of bones. The carpenter had fitted small pieces together with only the different textures of rib and shoulderblade and marrowbone to show the joins.

It was a nice piece of work, but Cashel didn't much like it. Sheep bones, he figured. They just about had to be sheep bones.

The People had hung their weapons on pegs about the walls when they entered. There were shields there already, curved things like crescent moons, that seemed to be made of metal, and golden spears too.

Elfin moved back against the wall. There wasn't a seat on the other side for him. Cashel wasn't sure how many of the People were present. Two double handfuls, he thought, but the number of chairs and people seemed different every time he looked across at them.

One of the People stepped from the wall itself, carrying a tray of steaming meat. Cashel didn't know whether this servant was someone he'd seen before or if there were more of the People than he was seeing. Their robes changed color, though never exactly
when
he was looking at one of his hosts.

The servant set the tray before Wella and stepped back—into the wall again or to sit around the table with his fellows, Cashel couldn't be sure. The king rose to his feet. He took a strip of braised flesh, held it high, and nipped off the lower portion with his teeth. When Wella swallowed, Cashel realized that the throats of the People didn't swell for their voice boxes.

Wella reached across the table, holding out the rest of the piece of meat. "Eat with us, dear Cashel," he said.

Cashel had his quarterstaff upright between his legs, but it got in the way like that. He set it crossways on his knees, taking care that he didn't bang against the table that curved around him from either side.

He took the meat. It was still hot but only slightly greasy. Another of the People—a woman this time—came out of the wall, holding an ivory cup with gold and silver mountings.

"Thank you," Cashel said. He didn't trust his teeth to cut the strip as cleanly as the king's had, so he dropped the whole piece into his mouth. He chewed carefully to keep from burning himself.

Wella raised the cup and drank. He smiled at Cashel. The cup wasn't ivory. There was a human skull under all that gold and silver filigree.

"Have you figured out what the meat is, sheep-boy?" Krias said.

Cashel spat out the meat, then spit again to clear his mouth of as much juice as he hadn't already swallowed. He rose to his feet, bringing up the quarterstaff, but the People were already standing.

Their mouths opened so wide their faces seemed to split. They had teeth like glittering needles, three rows of them interlocking when the jaws closed. Wella's tongue licked out like a whiplash and wrapped about Cashel's right wrist. It was sticky and as strong as braided silk.

Cashel jerked back, pulling the king across the table toward him. The cup and tray clattered to the floor, each in its own crazy arc. Another tongue snaked about Cashel's neck. A third caught his left thigh—a handful, a double handful, the tongues of all the People, surrounding Cashel and pulling him in all directions at once.

Cashel shouted. A tongue wrapped around his head, covering his eyes. He dropped the quarterstaff and gripped the tongue that was blinding him despite the tug of others trying to drag his arms down.

Cashel pulled with all his strength against the cool, gummy appendage. He freed his eyes, but even his strength wasn't enough to rip the tongue in two. The People hissed through their open mouths, and in the sound Cashel heard laughter.

"Now a lot of people who were lucky enough to own a ring of power," Krias said in a voice like a mosquito's wings, "would want to use it. Obviously you prefer to be eaten instead,
master
."

"Do something, then!" Cashel said. The tongue wrapping his throat began to tighten. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his staff spin away, licked by another creature. A ferrule struck the wall with a flash of blue fire. It left a patch of blackness on the green, like mold on a rose leaf.

"You have to use my name!" the demon cried. "You can't command me without using my name!"

"Do something, Krias!" Cashel said, twisting his torso to take some of the strain off his neck. It didn't help. At least three of the People were choking him while others strained to pull his arms and legs out like those of a squashed roach. "Do something, or by Duzi I'll grind you to powder!"

Cashel's skin tingled. He tried to get a hand around the triple noose of flesh that was choking him, wondering if the burning sensation meant the People's touch was poisoning him as well. Right now that seemed pretty unnecessary, though Cashel wasn't about to give up.

His skin
burned
. The tongues that gripped him were shrivelling like slugs caught on a hot stone. The People screamed with the high horror of axles rubbing their hubs. Wella's eyes bulged at Cashel like a frog on the tines of a gig. The king's skin blackened and his back arched as all his muscles contracted in death.

The spasm of heat passed. Cashel felt dizzy. He was sitting on the floor; he must have fallen while he struggled with the People. He started to get up, then settled again and plucked the tongues from him the way he'd have cleaned himself of cobwebs after walking through a spider-festooned woodland at evening.