The Dragon Keeper (50 page)

On the morning of the fourth day, Hest’s written invitation to a riding party had arrived. The large dove-gray envelope with his name written on it in a bold hand contained a note in Hest’s hand on a lighter piece of gray paper. His father had been astonished and pleased that he’d made such a socially uplifting connection. His mother had been sent scampering to be sure his jacket and breeches were presentable. His father had loaned him his horse, the only respectable mount the family had. Just before Sedric had left, his father had warned him not to be the first to depart from the gathering, and he urged him to linger if Hest seemed congenial to the idea.

Hest had, indeed, been congenial to the idea of him lingering. Sedric had been the only other member of the “riding party” and they’d gone only as far as a small, deserted farmstead owned by Hest’s family. All the rooms in the rickety little house had been dusty and unkempt, save for a lushly appointed bedchamber and a sidebar well stocked with spirits.

In the weeks that followed, he’d quickly learned that all of Hest’s “riding parties” had little to do with horses. For a time, Hest became his entire world. Light, colors, and sound all seemed more brilliant in his presence. Hest plunged him into a world of temptation and satiation, stripped him of fears and inhibitions, and taught him new hungers to replace the half-formed longings he’d never dared to confront. Sedric found himself smiling fondly as he recalled those days. There had been dinners together, and then evenings out with Hest’s friends. Hest’s friends—now there had been an education for him! Wealthy Traders, some young, some older, some single, some married, but all of them committed to a life that included the greatest pleasures that money could buy for them. He’d been astonished at their self-indulgence and scandalized at their headlong pursuit of all manner of pleasures. When he’d expressed his reservations about them to Hest, the other man had laughed. “We’re Traders, Sedric, born and bred. We make our livings by discovering what other men want most and getting the best prices for it. So of course we discover what is most desirable, and want it for ourselves. And with the money we make, we acquire it. That’s the whole point of all that we do: to make money, and then use it. What is wrong with that? Why do we work so hard if not to enjoy ourselves with what we earn?”

He’d had no answer to that.

Hest had remade Sedric, telling him how to comb his hair, what colors to wear and what cut of jacket, and where to buy his boots. When Sedric’s modest budget could not keep pace with Hest’s tastes, Hest had first gifted him with the required clothing, and then, when Sedric’s father had looked askance at such largesse, Hest had eventually invented employment for him that required Sedric to live with him. Hest had transformed Sedric’s life; no, he had transformed Sedric himself. He had not only learned the pleasures of fine wine and a well-prepared joint of meat, but had come to expect such things at table. A badly cut jacket was not to be tolerated. And now what would become of him? If upon his return, he discovered that Hest had replaced him, what then? Sedric closed his eyes tight and tried to imagine life without Hest. Life without Hest’s fortune and lifestyle, yes, that he could imagine. But life without Hest’s touch?

The barge wallowed unevenly in the current. Sedric let himself become aware of the boat. The crew members were at their sweeps. Possibly they had put up the sail if the wind was favorable. The barge and how it moved was a mystery to him; it seemed impossible that such a large object could be rowed up a river, and yet they were moving steadily along.

As Sedric must.

He would not give up. He’d take Alise’s stubbornness for an example and build on it. She intended to be remorseless about seizing this opportunity for herself. Well, so could he. Let Hest wonder where they were and why they did not return as scheduled. It would do the man good to have some doubt and discomfort in his life. And Sedric didn’t doubt that Hest’s life would be much less comfortable without a wife and a secretary to manage any unpleasant detail he wished to avoid.

As for his own ambitions, well, those could be better fulfilled, too. If he was forced to keep company with the dragon keepers and their charges, he would find opportunities to collect more merchandise. He sat up slowly and then moved to the floor. At the base of his wardrobe trunk, there was a concealed drawer. Hest had had the trunk made especially, so that exceptionally valuable merchandise and their cash would travel safely. He never would have imagined the use to which Sedric now put it.

He pulled it open and peered at the two glass containers he had filled today. In the dim light he could not tell much about them. In the drawer awaited other glass and pottery containers, some empty, some with preservative fluids and salts already in them. He had planned this meticulously from the first moment that he had realized he could turn Hest’s punishment of him to his own advantage.

There was even a neatly lettered checklist of the various specimens he hoped to acquire and estimates of their worth. Blood. Teeth. Nail. Scales. Liver. Spleen. Heart. He thought of how queasy he’d felt watching the girl cut the tissue from the dragon’s wound. He’d have to get over that. If one of the animals was injured or died, he’d have to find a way to be close to it quickly. His banishment might prove the foundation of his fortune.

He stored his specimens carefully away and shut the drawer. No regrets, he told himself again. No regrets and no hesitation.

SINTARA HAD FOLLOWED the other dragons down to the banks of the river, and waded right in behind them. Mercor led them. She was surprised that all of the dragons seemed to accept his leadership, but especially Kalo. Hadn’t he been claiming the role by virtue of his size only hours ago? The excitement that had infected them seemed strong enough to inspire them all to action. For now.

They walked all morning in the shallows at the edge of the river. Here the current was gentler and the water offered less resistance. She would have preferred to stay on the shore, but the thick vegetation of the Rain Wild Forest came right to the river’s edge and sometimes ventured into the water in the form of straggling roots or fallen trees. For the most part, the dragons were large enough and strong enough to push past such impediments, but in midafternoon, they had to wade out into deeper water to go around one immense snag that projected into the river.

The trunk of the tree was immense, so large that she couldn’t even see over it. The acid waters of the river were already devouring the fallen giant, but going around it still meant wading out so deep that the water tried to lift her off her feet. That was a disconcerting feeling. The first time it happened, she paddled and floundered, splashing wildly. One of the smaller green dragons, Fente, shrilly trumpeted her distress. The current caught Fente and for a moment she flailed wildly before successfully passing the fallen tree. She hastened for the shallows in a panicky gallop. When she resumed her steady plodding up the river, her breath still came in loud snorts. Sintara was glad she was taller and stronger than Fente. The river had not lifted her. Dragons could swim, but only by necessity.

She thought about swimming, and sluggish memories stirred. One was of a terrifying accident; a cliff ’s edge had given way and a dragon had fallen into a deep, cold fjord. She had had to swim, and the steep cliffs that surrounded the fjord had defied her attempts to clamber out. By the time she had found a place wide enough to emerge from the water, she had been so chilled that she had barely been able to open her wings and flap them dry before flying away.

There were other memories of being underwater, and with a mental hitch and jerk, she connected them with Kelsingra. She pondered that for a moment, trying to put the pieces together. There had been the city on the bank, a beautiful city that sparkled in the sun, and before it, the wide, deep river. The current’s press against her chest seemed to help her remember. Yes. One flew over the city and circled it, once, twice, thrice. It was not just for show, though swooping low or turning a slow roll in flight might win shouts of admiration from the Elderlings who peopled the city. It was to notify everyone, dragon and Elderling, of one’s intent to arrive. It gave the small fishing boats notice to get out of the way. For the best way to land at Kelsingra was to come in low over the water and then clap one’s wings tight, extend the neck, and plunge beneath the surface of the water. The river cushioned the landing. Once in the water, the dragons did not swim, but waded to the bank, up and out, scaled hides glistening and gleaming. Once out of the water, pleasure awaited. There were always Elderlings waiting to greet the dragons, people whose duty it was to—

She stumbled as a large rock in the riverbed turned under her foot, and the fragile thread of memory snapped. She groped desperately after it. It had been such a sweet thing, something wonderful to recall, and now it was gone. All around her, the other dragons waded on, huffing and grunting with the effort of moving against the current. Closer to the bank, the water was shallower and slower, but the mud at the bottom made it hard going. She decided the sticky footing was less annoying than the deeper water. She waded past several of the others and then deliberately increased her speed until she had passed every dragon except Mercor and Ranculos.

The golden dragon was toiling steadfastly along. He was not as big as Kalo and Sestican, but here in the river he seemed longer. Perhaps it was how he strode along, his neck straining, his long tail lifted above the water. “Mercor!” she called to him. She knew he heard her, but he didn’t turn his head or slacken his pace. Scarlet Ranculos was only a pace or two behind him.

“Mercor!” she called again, and despite how he ignored her, she demanded, “What do you remember about the Elderlings greeting us when we reached Kelsingra? I know that we circled the city three times, to let them know that we were arriving—”

“I remember how they would sound trumpets from the city towers when they saw us. Trumpets of silver and horns of brass, to warn the fishing vessels to clear the depths of the river.” This came not from Mercor, but from Ranculos. The red dragon’s silvery eyes spun with sudden pleasure. “That just now came to me, when you spoke of circling the city three times.”

“I remember that!” Veras surged through the water suddenly, struggling to catch up with them. The gold stippling on her green body, so often obscured by mud and dust, shone now.

“I didn’t,” Sintara admitted quietly. “But I remember landing in the river, and going down into the water until it was dark. The bottom was sandy. And I remember wading out, up onto the bank. There were always some Elderlings waiting for us when we arrived.”

She halted, hoping someone else would say something. But no one did, and Mercor trudged stoically on.

“I remember that something pleasant came next. Some special welcome . . .” She let the thought trail away invitingly. No one spoke. The only sounds were the eternal hiss of the river’s motion, and the splashes of the dragons and their heavy breathing as they moved against it. Another snag, not quite as large as the first, loomed ahead of them. Sintara knew a moment of deep discouragement. She was already tired.

Suddenly Mercor lifted his head. His nostrils flared, and then he halted in midstride. He looked all around himself, surveying the wide expanse of river to his right and the dense forest to his left. Then he gave a sudden huff of breath. An abbreviated ruff of toxic quills around his neck stood out, blue white against the gold of his body.

“What is it?” Veras demanded. Then she, too, halted and looked around.

“Riverpig,” Sestican said. “I smell riverpig dung.”

As if by naming them he had summoned them, the creatures suddenly burst from the water. Their hides were gray as the river water, their hair long and straggling as roots. They had been clustered in the lee of the snag, their hairy, rounded backs in the sun, sheltered from the current’s push by the fallen trunk.

Sintara made no conscious decision. Some other dragon, ancient beyond reckoning, prompted her. Her head shot out on the end of her neck, mouth wide. She’d targeted the largest one she could reach. The riverpig reacted an instant before her teeth sank into him. He tried to dive under the water. Her teeth sank into him and her jaws latched shut, but she had not bitten him as deeply as she’d meant to. A correct bite would have sent her teeth sinking into his vertebrae, paralyzing him. Instead, she gripped a layer of fat, thick hide, and hair. The heady succulence of fresh, hot blood in her mouth nearly dazed her.

Then the riverpig in her jaws erupted in a savage struggle for his life.

All around her, other dragons were similarly engaged. Some still pursued pigs, trumpeting as they darted their heads after the squealing prey. Fast in the water, the round-bellied creatures were less agile in the shallows and up on the foliage-tangled riverbank. Dragons slammed against her as they sought prey of their own, and she was nearly knocked off her feet when three riverpigs rammed into her, trying to get past her to deeper water.

Those events barely registered on her mind. Never before had she gripped live prey in her jaws. Her ancestral memories of hunting were mostly of diving onto cattle or other prey, slamming them to the earth so they were half stunned when she darted her head in for the killing bite. The creature in her jaws was desperate, very alive, and in his home element. He struggled madly so that her head whipped side to side on the end of her long neck. The weight of his body dragged her head into the water. She instinctively closed her nostrils and lidded her eyes. She braced her front feet in the mucky river bottom and struggled to lift her prey out of the water. For an instant, she succeeded. He dangled from her jaws, squealing wildly, his sharp cloven hooves striking out wildly at her. He waved his head with its diminutive tusks at her, but couldn’t reach her. She caught a breath.

But she could barely hold him up.

She should have been stronger. Her neck should have been thick with the developed muscles of a hunting predator, her shoulders heavy. Instead, she thought with disgust, she was as slack-muscled as a grain-fed cow. She should not have any problem with prey of this size. But if she opened her jaws for a better grip, he would break free of her, and while she gripped him as she did, he was battering her with his struggles. She needed to stun him. He pulled her head under the river’s surface, and she was not quick enough to close her nostrils. She snorted in water.