Dragon Stones (22 page)

"It did?  With Apperand inside?"

"So I'm told.  I didn't have the pleasure of seeing it myself."  Parillon was silent a moment, then said:  "What are you doing here, anyway?  You should be in Enshenneah."

"I'm not here voluntarily, believe me," Ponn said.

"They sent men to Enshenneah to get you?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, you're being very mysterious, aren't you?"

"If I told you how I came to be here, you would never believe it."

"Really?  You must give me the whole tale, then.  Perhaps it will help pass the time until we reach our destination."

So Ponn recounted his adventures of the last several days, starting from the beginning:  The men and their eagles; Prehn's disappearance, followed by Pord's; the voyage to the dragon islands, his abandonment, encountering T'Sian.  Parillon mostly listened, asking few questions, though he did express surprise that the dragon could assume human form.  "It seems a strange thing, doesn't it, that such a creature would be able to pass as a woman?"

"Believe me," Ponn said, "unless you were half-blind or the light was very poor, she couldn't."  He continued his story, ending with his being locked in the back of the wagon.  "But you were there for that part."

"Yes," Parillon said.  "I remember it like it was only a few hours ago.  But what will this dragon of yours do now, Ponn?  You said she was insistent on your company.  Perhaps she will come after you, and rescue us from this predicament."

"I don't imagine I made myself so useful that she cannot continue on without me," Ponn said.

They traveled on in relative silence for some time after Ponn finished his story, speaking only occasionally; Parillon would curse the driver every time the wagon hit an especially large bump, and complained loudly about having to relieve himself.  If the guards heard any of this, they ignored it.  Neither of them mentioned the likely fate that awaited them in Astilan; but Ponn knew that Parillon must be thinking of it, even as he was.  Smugglers earned the death penalty in Varmot's kingdom.

Suddenly the wagon jerked to a halt.  Ponn slid forward along the floor before being brought up short by his leg irons.  "By the bells on my mother's toes!" Parillon cried.  "Have you never driven a wagon before?  Open your eyes, you blind fool!"

Silence.

Then the carriage began to shake; Ponn could hear the horses whinnying in terror, the guards shouting.  Something smashed into the cart, nearly tipping it over.  It rocked back and forth, sending Ponn tumbling first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again.  The cuff bit painfully into his ankle each time the chain brought him up short.

At last the wagon stabilized; for a few seconds, all was still.  Then Parillon said:  "That was no log in the road.  What's happening?"

"I don't know," Ponn said.

Suddenly wood groaned and splintered, but in the darkness he couldn't see what was making the noise.  A moment later, Ponn felt a wrenching sensation similar to what he'd experienced when T'Sian had snatched him off the ground at the volcano.  She must have swooped down on the wagon and slaughtered or driven off the guards, and now she was carrying the entire thing away.

In a tiny voice, Parillon said:  "Ponn?"

"It's the dragon," he said.

"You mean that absurd story was
true
?"

"Of course it was true.  Did you think I was lying?"

"I thought you were making it up to entertain me!"

Their flight continued for some time, and then they dropped sharply; for a few dizzying seconds Ponn had a sensation of weightlessness, as if he were floating on the end of the chain that attached him to the floor.  They hit the ground with jarring force.  The wagon broke open, revealing the dusky sky above, and the dragon's face as she tore the top off the carriage and peered inside like an inspector examining the contents of a suspect crate.  She smelled of smoke and metal; her eyes flickered like distant bonfires.  Her long tongue snaked out and danced across Ponn's body, dry and rubbery; then it did the same to Parillon, causing him to cry out in fear.

She continued tearing apart the prison compartment, until there was little left of the wagon but floor and wheels.  Then she reached out and touched their chains with her talons.  Hooking two of her claws into the links, she snapped them with no more effort than a man would expend to break a twig.

"
Well, men
,
" she said, "
You are free again.
"  Then she thrust her head into the older man's face.  "
You are the one called Parillon?
"

"Yes," he said, his voice breaking like a boy's.

"
I am searching for some men.  Pyodor Ponn, describe the one called Gelt.
"

"Brown hair, curly.  Brown eyes.  Short beard streaked with white.  Tall and broad.  Walks with a swagger.  He has a scar on his right cheek, long and narrow, from his ear to his chin."

"
Sufficient.
"  The dragon's head swiveled back to Parillon.  "
Have you seen this man?
"

Parillon said:  "Yes, I … I believe I have."

"You have?" Ponn said, startled.

"
Where?
" T'Sian demanded.

"He dined at the inn the day before I was arrested.  He was with Apperand.  Apperand declined to introduce us, but the gentleman did make a point of inquiring how business was."

"Gelt knew about our operation," Ponn said.  "He must have turned us in."

"
Apperand
knew about our operation," Parillon said.  "He profited from it.  Why would he turn us over to King Varmot on Gelt's information?"

"
Perhaps Gelt is an agent of this King Varmot.
"

That possibility had not occurred to Ponn.  "What would Varmot want with the crystals Gelt took from the island?"

"
What would any man want with them?
" T'Sian said.  "
I do not know; but I will find out, and I will have my revenge.
"  She turned her head and breathed a blast of fire that momentarily lit up the night.  "
Where is Astilan?
" she said, turning back to them, smoke accompanying the words.

"Northeast," Parillon said, sounding very much as if he would prefer to be back in the prison wagon, bumping along toward his execution.  "It's on the coast, not far south of Dunshandrin's border."

"
We will go there.  We will find this Varmot, and make him tell us what he knows.
"  T'Sian leaned forward, reached out with her two front talons.  Parillon cried out and shied away, but the dragon snatched him up in her right claw, and took Ponn in her left.  With a rush of wings they took to the air, leaving the wrecked wagon far below.

Over the sound of the wind, Ponn could hear Parillon screaming.

Adaran lay on his back on the cot, Prehn curled up next to him, and stared at the orange stone ceiling.  Their stomachs were full of bland food that had been brought to them on a wooden tray; any thoughts he'd entertained of trying to escape during the delivery had faded when he saw that the meal had been brought by one of those strange withered creatures and three of its friends.  He suspected Diasa had posted several of them to watch the door of his room and make sure he stayed where she had put him.  Not knowing their capabilities, he was disinclined to challenge them.

What a crashingly dull end to an eventful day.

Adaran glanced over at the sleeping child.  What was he going to do with her?  He was hardly qualified to raise the girl himself, nor was anyone he knew.  The circles in which he moved were hardly parental.  If Redshen were still alive, she may have decided to retire from her thieving ways and taken on the challenge; but Redshen was gone.

Perhaps he could leave her here, with the oracles; but what would her fate be then?  A life of scullery work, perhaps?  The Headmistress appeared to harbor a low opinion of Enshenneah and its inhabitants, but surely Prehn would be better off at Flaurent than living on the dagger's edge of criminality.

He heard a faint rumble, like thunder.  Another storm?  Adaran got up and went to the tiny, square window.  Dust coated the outer surface of the glass, making it like trying to peer through sand; all he could tell was that it was dark outside.  Dusk had arrived while he'd been lying there napping and contemplating the ceiling.

Something was rattling.

He turned and saw that the pitcher and basin on the wall counter, brought earlier by one of the Withered Ones, had begun moving, slowly turning and traveling across the stone as if being toyed with by an unseen hand.  He went to the counter and put his hand on the pitcher, stopping its motion.  He could feel it thrumming beneath his fingers.

Earthquake?

He went to the door.  Locked.  He bent over and peered into the keyhole.  It looked old, and went straight through to the other side, where a piece of leather covered the opening to help keep dust out of the inner workings.  He doubted that this was effective.

They had taken his weapons, but not his tools, which were secreted throughout his clothing in hidden slots and pockets.  For this lock, he would need one of the larger picks.  He reached into his trousers, down to a slit in the inner seam along his right thigh, and pulled out a thin, flexible piece of metal.  During a pat-down such as the one he'd received earlier, the presence of the tool would be concealed by the stitching.  Only someone very thorough, very sensitive, and very well trained would have noticed it; the Withered One had been thorough and well trained, but its stiff fingers apparently were not very sensitive.

He stuck the tool into the lock, jiggered it a bit, and was soon rewarded by the sound of the latch coming undone.  He carefully withdrew the pick and returned it to its hiding place.

The great thief escapes again, he thought.

He woke the little girl, who seemed unfazed by the trembling of the earth.  Perhaps it happened all the time where she came from.  He crept outside into the night, a yawning Prehn toddling along beside him.  Stars sparkled in the cloudless sky; the blowing, drifting salt was still tonight, waiting for the next storm to come.  He didn't think the rumble had been thunder.  They moved away from the building.  He could feel the ground humming beneath his feet; the vibrations seemed to be getting stronger.  Was he the only one who found it disconcerting?

Suddenly a shadow appeared in front of them:  One of Diasa's silent, hooded guards.  The sentinel barred their path, holding its long weapon horizontally like a barricade, though it made no move to engage them.  "Return to room," it said, its voice a thin, raspy whisper, like sand sliding across rock.

He hadn't expected the creature to speak, and it took him a moment to find his voice.  "The ground is shaking," he said.

"Only servant of the college, working under the earth," it said.  "Nothing to fear."

"Working under the earth?"

"Digging mines and wells."

"I don't understand," Adaran said.  "Why would that make the ground shake?"

"Maybe mine collapse.  No danger."  It pointed its weapon in the direction of the dormitory.  "Return to—"

Suddenly a flare from the sky lit up the night, as if someone had thrown a torch to reignite the sun.  The Withered One hissed and covered its eyes with a black-robed arm; Adaran found himself temporarily blinded, the sudden change in illumination physically painful.

This could only be an attack.  Dunshandrin's men, come looking for him with magic.  He remembered passing a copse of stunted trees on his way to the dormitory; it would be to his right, and ahead.  He broke into a run, listening to the ground, moving in the direction where he thought he could find cover.

By the time his vision cleared, he was already there.

Damona said:  "What do you think of our guest?"

"I think he's trouble.  Would you like some more water?"

"Please."

Diasa filled the headmistress's cup and put the pitcher back in the center of the table, between the bowl of steamed vegetables and the platter of meat.  She didn't know what sort of meat it was, exactly; in the Salt Flats, one quickly learned not to ask what one was eating, because the answer seldom pleased.  At least it was tender and well-seasoned; but that only made its origin even more suspect.

"What sort of trouble do you expect?"

"Dunshandrin's people are looking for him.  They may come here and try to take him."

Damona shook her head.  "They will know better.  Flaurent stands above the machinations of lords and kings."

"You give Dunshandrin too much credit.  You heard that story about the dragon's crystals.  He's clearly gone mad, wasting his resources on such foolishness, not to mention risking the ire of a dragon."

"He must think he has something quite significant to gain, to take such a chance."

"I can't imagine what."

"Power.  What else does such a man want?"