Dragonborn (6 page)

“If he comes back with a bag of mushrooms and agaric we'll know he's a fraud,” said Khazib, his face darkened more than ever in the lamplight. “Then we can send him packing.”

“That won't happen,” said Eloise.

Caleb leaned back in his chair and looked around the room. “You're so sure,” he said. “Why did Flaxfield live like this?”

“And what is wrong with it?” asked Axestone. “It's clean and sound. Only the finest oak furniture and honest clay pots.”

“A peasant's house,” said Caleb, absently smoothing the fine brocade of his jacket.

“Eloise is right. If we can find his indenture,” said Sandage, who had been silently watching the others till now, “we'll know what to do.”

The others looked to the ancient wizard as though he had some seniority over them, some right to make decisions. He nodded at the desk in the corner. “Where would you keep important papers?” he asked.

The moon had sunk below the line of the trees. Sam had chosen a drovers' road. Not too clear, not too smooth, but wide enough not to let him wander off into the fields and woods. By moonlight it was an easy path to see, but now, in the darkness, it was a false
friend, sometimes seeming to disappear, sometimes seeming to fork where no second road was. Sam sighed and looked around.

“I've never been this far before,” he said.

Starback scrambled up a tree and looked down. His dragon's eyes could see the road as though it were broad daylight. Swooping down, he started off, leading Sam.

“And I'm tired,” said the boy.

Starback waited.

Sam stepped five paces from the road, found cover, and sat down.

Starback stayed in the road.

“Come on. Let's rest here till morning.” Starback walked on.

You can ask a dragon to do something, but you can't tell it. So it was a night alone, or more walking. Sam waited for Starback to turn around and come and sleep next to him. Beech mast gave off night odors. The woods had seemed quiet and deserted as the two of them had walked along; now, in the silence of stopping, the small noises and movements pressed on Sam. Did the branches sway in the breeze, or were they moved by something else? Did foxes and rats rustle in the leaves and mast, or was there a wizard tracking them, circling him, drawing closer, ready to take him back? Did robbers, used to these paths, even now grasp knives and clubs, ready to make away with him? His back pressed against the broad trunk of a beech, Sam stared into the darkness.

What was the use of magic, if you couldn't use it? He grabbed a handful of the forest floor, leaves and dust, twigs and small stones,
beech husks and old nuts. Flicking his arm, he tossed it into the air, and as it rose and sprayed out, every tiny part of it glowed silver, like stardust, lighting the small clearing just long enough for Sam to see around him, to reassure himself he was alone.

But he wasn't.

Caleb undid the sealing spell on the desk.

“It doesn't feel right,” said Eloise. “I never once looked in here when I was Flaxfield's apprentice.”

“He wasn't dead then,” said Caleb, over his shoulder.

Sandage stayed at the kitchen table, running his finger around the rim of his glass.

Khazib watched Caleb closely. “That's not an indenture,” he said.

“But it might be important.”

“It's in Flaxfield's desk,” said Axestone, “so it is important. But it's nothing to do with us. Put it down.”

Caleb's fingers left the papers slowly, his eyes remaining on them longer.

“Here,” said Khazib, leaning across the brocade jacket. He lifted a sheaf of folded parchment, tied with a black ribbon.

As the sparkling debris fell to the ground, Sam kept his eyes on the spot where he had seen the small figure staring at him. He had never seen a roffle before, but he had heard Flaxfield talk of them and had seen pictures in the books. In the half-light of the
spell it was hard to be certain that the man was dressed all in greens and browns, but the strange, twisted hat, the pointy shoes, the bag shaped like a flat barrel, and most of all, the perfect, halfsized figure, all made it clear that this was a roffle. Sam kept his back to the trunk of the tree, crossed his legs at the ankles, and bit his lip. He had used magic for his own comfort, and here, immediately, was a roffle. It had to be a bad thing. It had to be instant revenge for his disobedience.

“Starback,” he called, softly.

The dragon had disappeared, far up the road, perhaps.

“What's that?”

The roffle's voice was deeper than Sam had imagined.

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? I know a nothing. Starback's a something. What's a Starback?”

The roffle moved toward Sam, his pointy shoes picking up leaves and breaking twigs.

Khazib untied the ribbon. The folded parchments tumbled onto the glowing oak of the table.

“Here's mine,” said Caleb.

“Mine, too.” Eloise took hers.

One by one, each found his or her indenture, signed by Flaxfield in his strong hand, and then by them, in a childish hand, very different from the accomplished script each used now.

“It's as though I'm six again,” said Eloise.

Sandage held his, turned it over and over in his dark hands, spotted with brown marks of age. He had been six once.

“Nothing for that boy,” said Caleb. “I knew it.”

Axestone, who had been holding his breath, sighed deeply.

“We'll make him fast when he comes back,” said Caleb, “and take him first thing tomorrow to the mines. Get him lodgings and a job.”

“He'll never survive,” said Eloise. “Not after living here, with Flaxfield.”

“They start them in the mines at twelve. He'll survive. Some old woman, glad of the money, will lodge him. Plenty of poor widows where the mines are.”

Sandage pondered the reason why there were so many widows, and nodded. “There will be better work than that for him,” he said.

“He's too old to go apprentice to any other trade,” said Khazib.

“And too dangerous,” said Caleb, “after what he's seen here. Who knows what Flaxfield let him share? He was getting forgetful in his age. Some time down the mines will make him forget all this.”

“They don't last long down there,” said Khazib.

Caleb grinned. “I'll lock him in under the stairs when he gets back.”

“He's not coming back,” said Axestone. “There's enough wizard in him already to know when to run.”

They looked at each other, knowing Axestone was right.

“Then we must find him,” said Caleb. “Before he does damage to us all.”

 

TAILORS AND TAILORING. Tailors are best avoided, except when you need a new suit of clothes or a waistcoat. They present themselves as soft as cloth, but they are as sharp as needles. Never trust a tailor. A tailor's job is to disguise his customer: to make a fat man slim; to make a weak man look strong; to take a peasant who has found a fortune and transform him into a landowner or a merchant, at least until he opens his mouth. Tailors are deceivers—and worse.

A tailor's shop is a very pleasant place to spend time, and a good tailor's shop is a joy to the eyes as well as to the touch. Bolts of worsted wool, linen, and silk. Bobbins and shears. A wide window set in a thick stone wall, to let the customers see the true color of the cloth before they order the tailor to cut it to shape. And, most important of all, the table. A real tailor's table is made of cedar wood, as are all the shelves and the cupboards. Moths do not like
cedar, so it protects the cloth from them. The table is long, at least three times as long as its width, and it must be wide enough to take a bolt of cloth.

The tailor's table has three purposes, but it is never used for food or eating at. Even a small amount of food or drink is enough to ruin a length of cloth worth a year's pay for a working man.

First, the table is for display. Watch a tailor seize bolts from the shelves and throw them onto the table, letting them unroll, ablaze with color and rippling with rich folds. One, two, three, more and more lengths fill the table, until the customer thinks himself a king or a merchant prince. How people will respect him when he appears dressed in this! How they will listen to him when the tailor's shears and needles have worked their magic, snipping and tucking, lining and turning, hemming and cording!

The second use of the table is for the tailor to sit on. Slipping off his shoes, the tailor jumps onto the table, crosses his legs, picks up the cut pieces, and, turned toward the big window for light, begins to sew. It would be foolish to sew away from the light. The thread tangles, the needle misses its mark so that the seam is crooked or the tuck is in the wrong place, the natural grain of the cloth is ignored and the coat seems twisted. Now, anyone with a thick needle can stitch a shroud or fasten a sack, even by lamplight, but that isn't sewing. The tailor's needles are thin and sharp and nimble and fast. And the finest tailors of all sew the cloth so that all the stitches are folded inside, hidden, and the garment looks as though a needle has never touched it, as though
it grew from the earth, like an ear of wheat or an orchid, complex, detailed, with shades and hues that blend and complement each other, never betraying a maker's hand. This is the sorcery of the tailor. This is what he conjures up, cross-legged on his cedar table.

The customer thinks he has bought a coat, as he would buy a horse or a cupboard, but it is not like that. For the coat, or the cloak, the worsted suit or the breeches, have been made for him and him alone. Anyone can ride the horse, anyone can put his dishes in the cupboard as well as anyone else—but the clothes will only properly fit one man. The tailor has entered into a pact to transform him into whatever the clothes will make him. And it doesn't end when the customer walks out of the shop.

That's two of the three uses.

Memmonts don't like tailors. And tailors are frightened of memmonts. Memmonts are straightforward beasts, and they do not trust the skill of the tailor to transform the customer.

Tailors sometimes work at night, with the shutters closed. At two or three in the morning, there is a blade of light around the edge of the tailor's window, as he sews a special garment for a particular customer who needs it in a hurry, perhaps, or who has made a special request. This is sewing that does not need daylight.

Now, dressmakers are a different thing altogether. And weavers are another yet...

but the dragon had disappeared.

The roffle slipped his bag from his back and sat on it.

“Start at the beginning, but be quick about it,” he said. “What's a Starback?”

Sam forgot about being punished for using his magic and shook his head.

“Is it a book?”

Shake.

“A snake?”

Shake.

“A cake?”

Shake.

“Is it a long piece of string with a bottle on the end of it?”

“Why would it be that?” asked Sam.

“Why would it be anything?”

“It would be something sensible.”

The roffle wriggled on his bag. “Ah, but why? You don't look sensible. You look lost and dirty.”

“Stop calling me dirty,” said Sam.

“I've only just started. You see, you're not very sensible. I'm not going to bother with you.”

He stood up, dusted the back of his trousers, and picked up his bag.

“Please stay.”

“Why?”

“I'm alone. And I've never been here before. And it's dark.”

“Three sensible things,” said the roffle with a frown. He sat down again. “What's your name?”

“Sam. What's yours?”

“Megatorine.”

“Are you looking for a memmont?”

Megatorine crinkled his forehead.

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone knows that's what roffles do.”

“No they don't. They think we come up for food.”

Sam shook his head. “No, you've got lots of food. You look for memmonts.”

“So,” said Megatorine, “you're a wizard, then?”

“Who sealed this door?” asked Khazib.

They had each tried their strongest spells to open the study door, but all had failed.

Caleb had started, grabbing the handle without thinking to
unlock it first, and he pulled his hand back, screaming in pain as the handle glowed red to his grasp, burning him.

Axestone smiled.

Caleb swore and said bad things about Flaxfield that an apprentice should never even think about his old master.

Sandage was more cautious, but used his best magic, and the door remained firm against him.

Khazib straightened his shoulders, held his head erect, and pretended not to know that this was a trial of power between the five of them. Now it was a challenge, and the one who won would gain in authority. He ran his fingers along exactly the same line that Sam had followed, moved his lips in a language none of the others knew, and commanded the door to open.

He bore his failure with dignity. Axestone allowed a time for magic to settle before he stepped forward to try. His face was not one that permitted the thought of failure. He braced himself, and asked the others to stand back. “This will be violent,” he warned them.

Eloise hung back, waited for Axestone to fail, which he did.

Her magic was softer, more intimate. She seemed to beguile the door into being one with her in the desire to open, and, for a moment, it yielded a little, then slammed shut, fast as ever, locked against them.

Her eyes were wide and her breathing deep, but she gave no other sign of the great expense that the attempt had cost her.

“He had lost none of his power in his age,” said Khazib.