Authors: Margaret Weis
“Yes, kind sir,” Ven replied.
“I’ll be there,” the merchant promised, and turned back to wait upon his
customers.
It was Ven’s task to visit all the merchants with whom they’d done business
in the past, bringing the word that “Master Bell the Fur Trader” was in attendance.
Ven was also tasked with seeking out possible new customers, and he carefully
scrutinized all those merchants dealing in furs. Bellona had taught him how to
judge the merchant’s quality by the quality of the furs he sold and the type of
customers he attracted. Ven watched and appraised and noted down two new
merchants who looked like potential buyers.
Of necessity, such business brought the boy among the crowds of fairegoers.
Walking the fairegrounds was not as bad for Ven as walking the road. The aisles
between the booths were packed with people and everyone was busy—buying and
selling, gaming and drinking. Even with his peculiar gait, he remained
relatively unnoticed. Occasionally someone would stop to stare or make a crude
jest, but, for the most part, people were having too much fun to pay attention
to a crippled child.
As long as Ven did not stray from the fairegrounds and he returned to their
tent by the noon meal to report his success to Bellona, he was free to do as he
pleased. By midday of the first morning, he had made the circuit of the faire
twice, spoken to all their old customers, and taken stock of the new. His work
was done and only half the morning gone. The remainder of the time was his own.
Ven wandered aimlessly, taking in the sights. He paused, enthralled, to
watch a fellow clad in motley (that had seen better days) dance nimbly upon a
rope strung between two trees. He laughed uproariously to see poor Punch being
hounded by his tyrannical wife. He admired the jugglers, but passed by the
minstrels without interest, wondering what people saw in them. To his ears, the
screeching and scrawling and howling was bone-jarring, tooth-grating.
The booths that sold sweetmeats held no interest for him, though the other
children thronged to them. He had no taste for sugared almonds or pastries
sticky with honey. The smell of fresh meat drew his attention, led him to a
fire pit where men were roasting a whole pig on a spit. He sniffed the air
hungrily and looked at the sun to confirm what his growling gut told him— time
to return to the tent for the midday meal.
He loped toward the edge of the faireground, taking his time, for Bellona
would be busy with customers and he’d likely have to wait for his supper
anyway. Passing by the bull-baiting arena, he saw no harm in joining the boys
and men gathered to watch the savage sport.
Inside the arena stood a bull, shaking his horns and snuffling and pawing at
the ground, his beady eyes keeping wary watch on a small, squat dog with an
ugly face, whose metal-studded collar was held fast in the grip of a man on the
far side of the arena. Another man gave a shout and the dog’s owner let loose
the animal. The dog charged across the arena, leaped at the bull, and sank its
sharp teeth into the fleshy part of the bull’s nose.
Roaring in pain, the bull flipped his head back and forth, trying to free
himself of the dog. Though the bulldog was being battered and shaken, it held
on grimly. Blood spurted from the bull’s nose, spattering the spectators, who
yelled in glee and made bets on how long the dog could maintain its grip before
the bull sent it flying.
Ven reached the fence that surrounded the ring just as the bull managed to
fling off the dog, which landed heavily on its side and lay still a moment,
before shaking its head and staggering to its feet. The dog was slathered in
blood. Its owner retrieved it, collected his wagers. The wounded bull was
deemed fit enough to carry on. Another man with another dog took his place at
the end of the arena. Ven climbed onto the bottom rung of the fence, peered
over the railing.
At the signal, the man loosed the second dog. The animal charged at the
bull, then skidded to a halt. Something else had attracted its notice. The dog’s
owner cursed, urging the dog toward the bull. The dog ignored him. Sniffing the
air, the bulldog turned its head and saw Ven. The dog ran straight for him, its
teeth bared.
Ven had no time to react. The dog was on him in seconds, growling and
snarling. The dog seized hold of Yen’s boot and ripped it off his clawed foot.
Grappling with the dog, Ven lost his balance, and tumbled backward off the
fence. The dog dropped the boot and returned to the attack, tearing at Yen’s
woolen leggings and ripping the fabric, trying to sink its sharp teeth into Yen’s
scale-covered hide.
Ven beat at the animal with his fists, but the dog was used to fighting
bulls, and the blows of a child, even an exceptionally strong child, could not
halt the animal’s furious attack.
The dog snapped at Yen’s scaled flesh, trying to find purchase. Its sharp
teeth finally managed to pierce the scales. Getting a good grip, the dog shook
Yen’s leg back and forth in its strong jaws.
The stupefied spectators were at first too shocked to do anything; then some
began to laugh and call out wagers, while others hovered ineffectually over the
child and the savage dog, arguing over how to handle the situation. Someone
grabbed a club to hit the dog, but the owner of the animal cried out that his
trained dog was worth more than a beggar boy. The man with the club persisted.
The dog’s owner attacked the man with the club and a general scuffle ensued.
An ear-piercing shriek brought everything to a halt. “Demon! A child of the
devil! A hell-child!”
Bright sun gleamed brilliantly off blue scales, shone on white claws. Each
man staring at the boy realized he was seeing something that should not be.
Eyes widened, mouths gaped.
Leering, horrid faces thrust themselves at Ven. The pain of the dog bite was
minimal; the animal could not harm the hard scales of his leg. Fear made him
sick and dizzy.
They will call you a demon,
Bellona had often told him.
They
will burn you at the stake.
Someone shouted for a priest. Someone else for the sheriff.
Rough hands seized hold of him. Ven fought and bit and scratched.
“Let him go!” said a commanding voice. “Clear off!”
Few would have obeyed, but the order was accompanied by thwacking sounds—a
staff thumping heads, necks, and backsides.
The hands let go of Ven. The myriad faces disappeared. Ven stared up at blue
sky and a man’s face, dark-avised, with cool, dispassionate eyes. The man stood
protectively over Ven, gripping his staff in his hands, waiting to see if the
crowd was minded to have another go at him. No one was, apparently. Someone
again suggested summoning the sheriff and several ran off to do just that. The
others backed away, though there were still cries of “Demon spawn!” All the
while, the dog continued to worry Yen’s leg, snapping and snarling and
slavering.
The man rested his staff on the ground within easy reach. Keeping one eye on
Ven and another on the crowd, the man seized hold of the dog. He prized the dog’s
jaws apart, forced the frenzied animal to release its grip, and flung it aside.
The dog stood panting, considering another run at Ven. The man lifted his staff.
The owner surged in, grabbed hold of the dog, and carried the squirming animal
away.
Ven raised himself up.
The man lowered the staff, rested his hand on Yen’s leg.
“Lie still,” he said in a low, calm voice. “No one’s going to hurt you.”
Ven knew better. He knew what would happen and he was right. They could see
his beast’s legs. They believed him to be a demon or perhaps the devil himself.
The cries for a priest increased. Someone suggested slaying him on the spot.
“Here!” a man shouted. “Here is a holy sister!”
“Save us, sister!” a woman screamed, hysterical, falling onto her knees. “Save
us from Satan!”
The black fabric of the sister’s wimple lifted in the wind. Her hands
tightly clasped, her gaze fixed on him, she started walking toward him.
“I said lie still,” the man’s voice ordered, sharp as a whip-crack. His grip
on Yen’s leg tightened, and Ven had no choice but to obey. “Let’s have a good
look at that wound.”
The man moved so that the crowd could get a good view of Yen’s leg. Shrieks
and cries dwindled to mumbles that tailed off in bewilderment. Those standing
around Ven shook their heads and muttered and eyed his leg askance.
Ven looked back at his leg and saw flesh—pink flesh—ripped and torn from the
dog’s mauling. Blood, oozing from the wound, soaked through the tatters of his
wool pants.
The man with the staff picked it up and turned to face the crowd.
“Go along now,” he said in a pleasant tone. “The boy is not much harmed, as
you can plainly see. This show has ended. There’s no demon child here. Go watch
the actors. I hear they have a man who can eat fire.”
“I seen what I seen,” insisted an old man with all of three teeth in his
head. “He had the legs of a lizard. Covered in scales they was.”
“Here, sister, come and look!” another cried. But the holy sister was
nowhere to be found. Someone suggested stripping the boy to see for certain.
Ven’s protector reached into his purse. Drawing out some coins, he tossed
them in the dirt.
“You’re drunk, Father, but not drunk enough, apparently,” he said, still
pleasant. “Take that money and go finish the job. Here, look at the boy’s leg.
What do you see? Flesh and blood and bone. Feel it, if you don’t believe me.”
The old man was stubborn enough to do just that. As the others gathered
around watching, he gave Ven’s leg a poke with a bony finger. The old man
grunted, snatched up a coin, and walked off. Seeing their spokesman depart, the
others fell on the coins, grappling and clawing in the dirt. The mob that had
gathered dwindled away to the ale tents or went back to the bull-baiting.
“We had best get you to the abbey infirmary,” said the man. He picked up the
maltreated boot, stuffed it into his belt, then picked up Ven.
“No!” Ven gasped. “Not an abbey—”
“Shut up,” the man growled in Ven’s ear. “We’re not out of danger yet. Let
me do the talking.”
The man lifted Ven in strong arms and slung him over his shoulder. They
headed for the edge of the fairegrounds.
“Sir,” said Ven, “if you’ll just take me home—”
“Keep silent,” the man ordered.
Ven did as he was told, more because he was still too confused by what had
happened to talk, than because he felt compelled to obey a stranger, even one
who had saved his life.
The man did not take Ven to the abbey or go anywhere near it. As soon as
they were out of sight of the crowd, the man left the road that led to the city
and struck out over the open fields, heading for the forest. A few people
stared at them, but, seeing nothing more interesting than a man carrying a
blood-smeared child, they went on their way.
The cool and familiar shadows of the forest closed over Ven and he breathed
easier, relaxed. The man stopped to peer about to make certain they were alone.
Seeing and hearing nothing, he eased Ven down onto a bed of dead leaves. The
man held his hand over Ven’s flesh-and-blood leg.
A narrow, shifting band of sunlight filtering
through the green leaves of the walnut tree shone on blue, glittering scales.
The man lifted Ven’s leg, examined the scales minutely, then nodded in
satisfaction.
“The dog tore a few of them loose, but no serious harm done. You were lucky
I happened to be keeping my eye on you,” the man added, his voice grim. “Tell
Bellona she must take better care of you—”
Ven jumped to his feet and ran. The man shouted something. Ven ignored him.
He ran as fast as he could, giving his beast’s legs their freedom, loping over
the rough, uneven ground; springing off his clawed toes. He heard the man give
chase, crashing through the underbrush. Ven was small and he was agile. He
dodged in and out among the tree trunks, slithered under tangles of brush and
vines, crawled beneath fallen logs, and splashed through streams. He ran until
his legs ached and he was forced to halt to ease the pain. Gasping for breath,
he listened for pursuit. He could no longer hear the man’s shouts or his
crashing footfalls and he knew he’d lost him.
Ven had lost himself, too, in the woods, but that wasn’t a worry. He knew
his way around a forest. Far off in the distance came the faint cries of the
hawkers, shrill laughter, hoarse calls and shouts— the sounds of the faire. He
had only to follow the sounds and he would find his way out. He didn’t intend
to go out, not for a long while. He wanted to remain here in the forest, in the
silence, away from the staring eyes and the gaping mouths and the human voices.
He would be in trouble with Bellona, but he would deal with that.
He stared at the jagged hole in his breeches, at the blue scales glistening
in the sunlight. He closed his eyes and saw what he had seen back at the
bull-baiting ring: torn pink flesh; fresh, bright blood. For one wild,
irrational moment, Ven had known a miracle. He’d known joy.
He opened his eyes. The scales were back. There was no miracle. The joy was
gone and the despair that came now was worse for having known it.
Ven curled up in a ball, his beast’s legs pressed tight against his human
chest, and he lay quite still and listened to the howling silence.
AFTER HE’D FINISHED MENTALLY KICKING HIMSELF, DRAconas stood at the edge of
the woods and wondered what to do. He knew better than to try to continue
chasing after the dragon’s son. With Ven’s sharp senses able to detect Draconas’s
every move, the boy would play at hide-and-seek until Draconas gave up the
game. He took back what he’d said about Bellona. She’d done her job well. She’d
raised the boy to be able to take care of himself, at least under ordinary
conditions.
Conditions were no longer ordinary.